Emma Holly

PROLOGUE

London, 1873

"A footman!" Edward raged. "You were caught in your bedroom with a footman?'

Anger had pulled him to his feet behind the study desk. Now he gripped the edge of the carved bog oak
as if pressure alone could will his brother's confession away.

Freddie was slumped in the red morocco chair, one foot propped on his knee while he examined his well-buffed nails. The nonchalant pose suited his lanky frame. In blazing white shirt and tastefully embroidered waistcoat, he was the golden boy at rest: his graceful limbs asprawl, bis beauty a stylish disarray.

His face, however, was patently miserable.

"It's the calves," he said in a weak attempt at humor. "Never could resist a man with a good pair of legs."

Something strained in Edward's chest. He sat, abruptly weak in the knees. "Freddie, if I believed for an instant you meant that, I'd slit my bloody wrists."

Freddie's head came up, clearly startled by his brother's tone. He opened his mouth, then shut it. Alert now, he dropped his boot to the floor and dried his palms on the front of his trousers.

Edward covered his face. Freddie's light response could not disguise his inner turmoil. Edward never should have sent him to Eton. Never mind the generations of Burbrooke males who had gone before them. He should have known a sensitive boy like Freddie wouldn't survive that pit of adolescent anarchy. Edward had been seventeen when he made the decision, his parents newly dead, his twelve-year-old brother left solely in his care. He'd thought Freddie needed Eton. He'd thought he couldn't take his
rightful place in society without it.

A warm hand settled on the back of his neck. Freddie had perched on the corner of his desk.
"Here now," he said, gently squeezing Edward's nape. "It isn't your fault. You weren't even there."

Edward let out his breath and looked up. His face hardened. "Who found you?"

Freddie winced. His finger drew a circle on the shiny black desk. "There's the rub, I'm afraid. It was
the local squire, invited to the house party because Farringdon's in debt to him up to his eyeballs."

"What's his name?" Edward persisted, determined to turn to the business of cleaning this up.

"Samuel Stokes."

"The brewing magnate?"

Freddie pulled a face. "The very same. Bought his way into the neighborhood after he got knighted.
Bit of a mushroom, according to Farringdon."

"But that just makes it worse! If one of our own set had found you, they might make you the latest on-dit, but they wouldn't threaten to inform on you. Do you have any idea what would happen if this went to court? You'd be ruined!"

"Actually"—Freddie cleared his throat—"Stokes did threaten to take me before the magistrate. Said
I was setting a bad example for the lower orders."

"Oh, Lord."

"But he backed off when he found out whose brother I was." Freddie wagged his brows. "Seems
you're well respected among the manufacturing set, despite being a useless toff."

"Wonderful," Edward groaned. He pushed out of his chair and closed his eyes. His temples throbbed under the weight of Freddie's hopes.

"Maybe you could throw him a sop," Freddie suggested. "Sponsor him to join your club."

"I'll meet him," Edward said, pinning Freddie with his sternest gaze, "and if he's suitable, I'll consider putting his name forward at White's."

"But Edward—"

Edward silenced him by laying a hand on his broad young shoulder. Freddie had been a champion rower at school, captain of the team, admired by everyone who met him. He still was admired. Edward knew he'd give his right arm to keep that from changing. His little brother would never be society's laughingstock.

"Freddie," he said, "I'm going to give Stokes my word this won't happen again, and I'm going to rely
on you to make it true."

Freddie didn't drop his gaze, didn't in fact say a word. But his lips were pressed so tightly together
they'd gone white.

"You can do this," Edward said, letting the love he felt for his brother soften his voice. "You've only
to set your mind to it. Remember when you took that first in Maths? Remember when you learned
to swim?"

Freddie choked out a laugh. "I learned to swim out of terror."

"Then be afraid," Edward said, softer yet. "People won't overlook this sort of lark, not if you rub their noses in it."

Freddie's sunny blue eyes welled with unshed tears. He bowed his head. "I didn't mean to rub anyone's nose in it, least of all yours."

Edward pulled him into a hug. "I know you didn't. But it's time to put these games behind you." He pushed back and braced Freddie's shoulder. "Why not settle on one of those debutantes who's always mooning in your wake?"

"Don't know who'll have me once this gets around."

Freddie ventured a crooked grin. "The husband-hunting mamas steer clear of me already, me being a younger son and all."

"Idiots," Edward said, echoing Freddie's smile. "They ought to know I'd never see you short of blunt."

Freddie sighed, his expression wistful. Edward had tried to prevent his brother's financial dependence from chafing. Other than a small property their mother had set aside for her younger son, control of the Burbrooke estate was entirely in Edward's hands. He made sure Freddie never had to beg for money and Freddie, while not a pinchpenny, was careful to live within his allowance. That very care told Edward his pride must occasionally sting. But the restrictions of primogeniture were not, apparently, the cause of Freddie's sigh.

"Choosing a wife who's good enough to be your sister-in-law won't be easy," he said.

Edward laughed and slapped his back, but inside, where his love for Freddie lived, he knew the danger had not passed.

With stern face and trembling hands, Miss Florence Fairleigh stepped from the stuffy railway carriage
and into a scene from Bedlam. A dizzying population of males— workmen, clerks, and here and there
a gentleman in top hat—jostled each other in haste to reach the train she had lately vacated. Above her the roof of Euston Station yawned in two baralike peaks, its smutted glass filtering a watery species of sunshine more appropriate to dusk than noon. Beneath her... well, beneath her the ground did not yet seem quite solid.

Frowning, she smoothed her crumpled black bombazine skirts. None of these observations were to the purpose. Her purpose was her future and her future would not wait on missish fears. She turned to her companion. Lizzie, the Fairleighs' maid-of-all-work, still clung to the carriage door, its grime putting her mistress's best white gloves at risk. Florence's old pink day dress, another loan, hung on Lizzie's slender frame. Though sixteen, and nearly grown, the maid looked all of twelve.

Truly, Florence thought, the only advantage to traveling with a person more timid than oneself was that
it served to stiffen up one's spine. She stiffened it now and gestured for Lizzie to come down.

"It is safe," she said with all the firmness she could muster.

Face filled with trepidation, Lizzie tottered down the steps as if the train were a dragon that had momentarily, and perhaps not reliably, agreed to cough her out.

This was the fiction they had agreed upon, since Florence could not travel without a chaperone, and a
less imposing chaperone than Lizzie Thomas could hardly be imagined. In her dull black gown, Florence thought she looked very much a governess, though not—due to the width of her sleeves and the lumpishness of her bustle—a particularly fashionable one. The ruse had worked well in the dimness of
the carriage. When they disembarked at the various watering stations between Lancashire and London, however, Florence had been the subject of interested stares.

Even a governess, it seemed, was not immune to male attention.

"Oh, miss," said Lizzie, calling Florence to the present, "I mean, Miss Fairleigh. However shall we find our way?"

"We shall follow these others," said Florence. "They must be heading towards the street."

A brief argument was required to convince Lizzie she was not to carry Florence's portmanteau. That settled, they soon found themselves under the station's monumental Doric entry arch. To Florence's dismay, the bedlam inside the station merely increased in the out-of-doors. Here the confusion was multiplied by carriages and drays, by coster-mongers shouting their wares, and by a pungent smell which was half stableyard, half day-old fire. Florence did not have the least idea how to fight through the snarl.

"Need a cab?" he offered. "I'll call one for a penny."

"A penny!" Lizzie exclaimed, her temper restored by this proposed raid on their resources. "You'll do
it for a farthing, you scamp."

Florence smiled at her outrage. "A penny is fine," she said, "but we'll pay you after we get in."

This was agreeable to the young man, who proved capable at his task. Within minutes she and Lizzie were climbing into a smart black hansom cab. Florence gave their direction to the driver, which fortunately he knew. After another delay to ease into traffic, they joined the stream of broughams and carts and rumbling double-decked omnibuses. Since the cabbie sat on a high seat at the back of the two-wheeled carriage, his passengers had a clear view of all they passed.

Florence tried to maintain her dignity, but Lizzie was openly agog.

"Look, miss!" she exclaimed, pointing at the distinguished terraces of Bedford Square. "Look at that nursemaid in her apron! Isn't she the grandest thing you've ever seen!"

For her part, Florence took careful note of the classical, columned bulk of the British Museum. If she accomplished nothing else on this terrible trip, she vowed she'd see the Elgin marbles.

The cab continued to the Strand. Florence found the business district crowded and dirty, but strangely exciting nonetheless. Tiny shivers prickled over her scalp as she looked around. Everyone here had an
air of purpose. They seemed not to see St. Paul's golden dome, rising behind the sooty haze like a fairy apparition. They were intent on their business, she supposed, and accustomed to the city's marvels. Perhaps someday she would be, too.

At that singular thought, they clopped onto a cobbled side street and stopped before a narrow building with a soot-stained brick face.

"Here you be, miss," said the cabbie.

Florence's heart, which had settled during the ride, resumed its former gallop. She pressed one dampened glove to her stays. This was the moment that would decide her future, the place at which her dreams would be met or dashed. Blowing out a careful breath, she counted a shocking number of coins from her reticule, and helped her supposed mistress to alight.

A small plaque declared the building that of "Mr. Mowbry, Solicitor," so Florence squared her shoulders and tugged the bell. The door was opened by a solid-looking man of middle years who stroked his beard and squinted. His brown tweed frock coat hung open around his belly. From the thick gold fob mat gleamed on his matching waistcoat, Florence judged he must be Mr. Mowbry.

"Miss Fairleigh?" he said, peering dubiously from one woman to the other.

Florence flushed, knowing by his expression that they must look quite disreputable.

"I am Miss Fairleigh," she said and offered her hand. The solicitor took it with an air of bemusement. "Please forgive our appearance. We come to you straight from the train. I know such haste is irregular, but we wish to conclude our business quickly."

Her consciousness of the need to obtain a favorable outcome was so great her voice cracked on the final word. At the telltale sound, Mr. Mowbry flashed a kindly smile.

"Of course," he said, ushering her gently before him. "I'm sure I would be pleased to do anything I may for the daughter of my old friend."

Once inside, Florence looked about with interest. Mr. Mowbry's office was small but well kept. The paneling shone with a recent polish, the shelves were filled with heavy vellum tomes, and the dark Turkish carpet showed not the slightest sign of wear—all of which boded well for Florence's hopes.
The tightness in her shoulders eased as tea was brought and condolences offered. Lizzie being settled
with the charwoman in a little room off the hall, and knowing she should delay no longer, Florence
came to the point of her visit.

"As my father's solicitor," she began, "you know he left me a small independence."

Mr. Mowbry nodded. "Indeed. I have been impressed by the conservative manner in which you have drawn upon it. Many young ladies would not have been so sensible."

"Yes," said Florence, and twisted her gloves in her lap. She feared when he heard her plan he would not think her sensible at all. With difficulty, she continued. "I have been careful in the six months since my father's death, but have come to realize the money will not keep me very long. I do not blame my father. He was a genial man and his position as vicar obliged him to entertain. Indeed, not realizing the expense of this little luxury or that, he believed I was able to set something aside from my housekeeping monies.
I allowed him to continue in this belief because he was kind and loving and I did not wish him to worry. But now I have forgone everything I can forgo, except for Lizzie, who I dare not discharge even if I would because she is an orphan like myself and I don't know what would become of her!"

"I see," said Mr. Mowbry. The smile that hovered on his lips belied his serious tone. Spreading his arms, he tapped the corners of his desk. "Forgive me for being so bold, Miss Fairleigh, but you are a handsome young woman. Don't you think you might marry before the money runs out?"

"That is my intent," she said, struggling to steady her voice. "Only I should like ... Perhaps it is selfish of me, but I should like to marry decently. There is only one gentleman at home who could be considered
an appropriate suitor, and he wishes me to give Papa's money to a Society and join him on a ministry to Africa. I'm sure this is a worthy occupation and if it were any other man I might consider it, but he is—
he is—"

"A sanctimonious prig?" suggested Mr. Mowbry.

"Quite," she agreed, blushing furiously at his frankness but unwilling to contradict him.

"So you have come to London where the gentlemen are many and various."

Mr. Mowbry opened his mouth to speak, but for the first time in her adult life, Florence cut a gentleman off. This was the crux of the matter and Mr. Mowbry must understand what she wished, before he entered into the scheme. "I am not aiming high," she assured him. "A younger son will do. Even a tradesman. I know I am not particularly accomplished. A little music and a bit of French is all I claim.  But I am, as you say, attractive, and no one has ever complained about my manners. I do not hope for love but only to be treated kindly. Most of all, I wish not to be afraid, to know I shall always have a roof over my head and that it shall be my roof, not that of an indifferent employer or a pitying friend.

"I wish," she concluded, hiding her shaking hands among her skirts, "for a bit of security."

To all this, Mr. Mowbry had listened with an expression of intense concentration. Indeed, it had been
so intense Florence had been hard-pressed to hold his gaze.

"Hm," he said now, tapping his lips with folded hands. "I think, Miss Fairleigh, that you underestimate your charms. Of course, your modesty does you credit, as much credit as your looks." Standing, he
began to pace back and forth before the glass-fronted bookcase.

His vigor impressed her, as did his obvious seriousness of thought. He was muttering under his breath, saying things like "yes," and "she'd do," and "most delicate, but if it were brought forward in the proper way..." Watching him, Florence knew her father had been right to call him Clever Mr. Mowbry. If any man could launch Florence's future, it was this one.

Finally, he stopped in the center of his path and turned to face her.

"Oh, no, Mr. Mowbry." Florence shook her head emphatically. "I've no need of fortunes, only a small—"

"Hush," ordered the solicitor. "If I am correct in my surmise, you shall have precisely what you wish:
an impeccable sponsor, an amiable husband, and the best possible roof above your head. First, however, we must see to your wardrobe. You cannot call upon anyone in that gown."

Though Florence had known this would be necessary, she could not forbear an inward groan. Ladies' dresses were very dear, and her little account could scarcely bear the drain. But she knew she must be brave. She must risk all in order to gain any. If the worst came to pass and her money was wasted, she would find a new position for Lizzie, and herself become a governess. Other women had done it, women gentler bred than she. Surely some had faced fears as great as hers. Florence could do no less. She might be shy but she was not, in the end, a coward.

Thus resolved, her hands were almost steady by the time she accepted a hastily scribbled letter from
Mr. Mowbry. The red wax seal was warm beneath her thumb. These days most people used envelopes, but perhaps the old gentlemanly habit was one that appealed to a lawyer. Like vicars' daughters, most were neither here nor there in the eyes of society.

"This is an introduction to a friend of mine," he said. "A talented dressmaker, newly arrived from Paris, who is building her clientele. I have instructed her to put what you need on my account. No." He pressed a quieting finger to his lips. "Do not protest. Your father was good to me at Oxford and stood me many dinners when I had not two shillings to rub together. You must consider this repayment of the debt."

"With interest," Florence said, tears springing to her eyes at his kindness.

"With interest," Mr. Mowbry agreed, and called his clerk to hail a cab.

Mr. Mowbry's friend, Madame Victoire, worked out of a pretty little house near the fancy shops of
Bond Street. Bright red geraniums spilled from the ledges of the windows, all of which were open and
one of which revealed the slumbering form of an orange cat.

Florence, who had been known to have difficulties with cats, hoped its nap would be a long one.

A parlormaid in black dress and white apron ushered them into the parlor. Though small, the room was lofty, its ceilings molded in the graceful Georgian style. Such light as there was poured through the casement windows. The furniture was old-fashioned and delicate, a medley of gold and cream—a more pleasant room by far than any Florence had lived in, despite her father's love of comfort. The only sign that the parlor figured in its owner's business was the bare dressmaker's form that stood in a pool of
pallid sun, and the ell of purple velvet that lay folded in a chair.

On joining them, Madame Victoire bubbled with excitement. Like many of her countrywomen, she was slender and dark, with twinkling gestures and a wide red mouth.

"Oh, la la," she exclaimed, taking Florence's hands to pull her into the silvery light. "Who have we here come to visit my humble shop?"

Florence had no chance to reply for Madame Victoire immediately turned her around and began clucking over her dress. "Quelle horreur," she said, touching the lumpish bustle. "And black! Mademoiselle, you must never wear black. She is not for you, this color."

"B-but I'm in mourning," Florence stammered. "I take you out of it," Madame Victoire pronounced. "Immediatement. It is a crime to put such a beautiful woman in such an ugly dress." She gestured to
the watching parlormaid. "Regardez her bosoms, Marie. Look at her glowing cheeks!" With a gasp of excitement, she removed Florence's worn kid gloves. "Her hands are as small as a child's. They are
white and—"

Abruptly, Madame Victoire fixed Florence with a deadly glare. Her fingertips had found the calluses
on her palms.

"Mademoiselle," she said in a tone of deep affront, "this must be remedied. No more floor-scrubbing
for you. You are too perfect to suffer a single flaw."

"I—" said Florence, but the Frenchwoman did not allow her to explain.

"Such beauty is a grave responsabilite. Not only to yourself, but to me. You, mademoiselle, are going
to be a walking advertisement for the skills of Madame Victoire. Better than the sandwich board man.
Mr. Worth will eat the crow when he hears of my triumph."

"Mr. Worth?" Florence said weakly. If the dressmaker meant who she thought, Florence could not, in good conscience, impose on Mr. Mowbry's generosity.

"Yes, yes," said Madame Victoire. "Mr. Charles Worth, with whom I worked in Paris. That is why you are here, is it not?"

Florence dried her hands on her much-abused dress. "Actually, I am here on the recommendation of
Mr. Alastair Mowbry. But I'm afraid I cannot afford the services of an associate of Mr. Worth."

"Pah," said Madame Victoire. "Mr. Worth is no associate of me. And you are a friend of Monsieur Mowbry. We will come to the arrangement."

Florence's cheeks burned with the heat of the blood that rushed beneath them. She feared Madame Victoire had jumped to the wrong conclusion.

"Forgive me, madame," she said, "but I am not that sort of friend to Mr. Mowbry."

To Florence's amazement, Madame Victoire burst into peals of laughter. "But of course you are not,
little chou. I know this because I am 'that sort of friend' to him. Granted, he is a gentleman Of great strength, but no man is strong enough to require more woman than Amalie Victoire."

"Pretty!" he declared with three-year-old directness. "You come play!"

Florence needed a surprising amount of strength to resist his pull.

"Goodness," said Madame Victoire. "He does not usually behave this way with strangers."

If it had been possible, Florence would have sunk through the floor. She patted the boy's hand in the
hope he would loosen his grip.

"Children ... like me," she explained.

"Children and cats," Lizzie qualified, as if this were cause for pride.

"Well," said Madame Victoire, her lips twitching with amusement, "perhaps Marie should lock Kitty in
the bedroom before you suffer more attacks."

"Yes," Florence said faintly. "That would probably be wise."

Once Marie had left to secure the cat, Florence gathered herself sufficiently to remember Mr. Mowbry's note. Madame Victoire took longer to read it than she expected, the message being two pages instead of one. Whatever the solicitor had written inspired much raising of the Frenchwoman's brows. When Madame Victoire had finished, she tapped the missive against her chin. She seemed not to hear the
distant rumble of thunder outside her home.

"Hm," she said in precisely the tone Mr. Mowbry had used.

Her "hm" troubled Florence even more than the solicitor's.

He had put something in that letter which he meant to keep from Florence, and for a deeper reason than not wanting to raise her hopes. Oh, how she hated trusting her fate to anyone else's hands! Life with her father, dear as he was, had taught her to rely on no one but herself. How could it be otherwise when one's sole guardian was likelier to forget one's name than remember to pay a bill? Short of giving up her dream, however, she did not see what choice she had. She had to trust the lawyer and his friend. She could only pray his hidden agenda was not a danger to her own.

Edward Burbrooke, earl of Greystowe was spattered all over with mud. Too tired to ring the bell, he pushed into his Belgravia town house and collapsed on the marble bench inside the door. For a
moment, all he could do was stare at his ruined boots.

He straightened when he heard footsteps: Grimby, no doubt, coming to see who'd entered the hall.

"My lord!" he said, obviously shocked by his master's appearance. "You're wet."

Edward snorted at this statement of the obvious and handed the butler his soggy top hat. He should have turned back when it started raining, but the horse had been eager and the park for once uncrowded and Edward's temper too black to miss his daily ride.

This morning there'd been a limerick in the Illustrated Times:

Everyone who knew Freddie would recognize the scandal to whom it referred. Edward wished he
could strangle the supposed wit who'd sent it in, not to mention the editor who'd printed it. That being impractical, he'd vented his frustration on the turf in Hyde Park.

The plop of water from his hat told Edward the butler was still there.

"Sir?" said Grimby. "Shall I call Mr. Lewis to pull your bootsr

"Yes," said Edward, "and have him draw a hot bath."

The knocker sounded just as Grimby disappeared into the servants' hall. Edward heaved to his feet
with a weary laugh. Hell, he thought, I can open a blasted door.

The individual behind it, caught digging in his pocket for a card, was so surprised he could only gawk.

"Mr. Mowbry?" Edward said, recognizing the broad, bearded figure of his London solicitor. The man
had been his father's lawyer: then a member of a larger firm, now striking out on his own. He was, so
far as Edward knew, utterly reliable. But Edward could not imagine why he was calling on him at home.

"My lord," said Mowbry, recovering his composure. "Forgive me for arriving unannounced, but an opportunity has arisen of which I thought you'd want to be apprised."

"An investment opportunity?"

If a man could squirm without moving, Mowbry did so. "No, your lordship. The opportunity regards Viscount Burbrooke."

A chill joined the water that had run down Edward's neck. After this morning's nastiness in the Times,
he did not want to think what Mowbry's business might entail. He pushed the door ajar. "Come inside. We'll talk in the library." He was halfway there when he noticed he was tracking mud across the cabbage roses of the Brussels carpet. "Blast," he muttered, and stood where he was while Lewis, his valet, rushed towards him in consternation.

This was not how he'd intended to spend his day.

"A vicar's daughter?" Edward said.

Edward propped his slippers on the fender. "Fresh from the country?"

"As fresh as can be, but gently bred and exceedingly good-natured. What novel writers like to call a womanly Little soul."

Edward balanced his saucer on his thigh. "How womanly?"

Mowbry's white-flecked whiskers lifted in a smile. "Imagine, my lord, if a dewy English rose were to wear Delilah's form. Miss Fairleigh is poor, it is true, but more than enough of a beauty to be considered
a catch. Were young Lord Burbrooke to display a partiality to her, no one would think it amiss. And, sir, if you'll forgive me for speaking frankly, I doubt she'd understand the gossip surrounding your brother even if she heard it,"

Edward's brows rose. Such innocence was hard to conceive. More to the point, if she were that innocent, would she be able to bring a skittish stallion like Freddie to stud? Still— he rubbed one finger across his lips—the matter was worth investigating. A girl in Miss Fairleigh's position would have few options beyond marriage. Seamstressing or working as a governess could not match the security of wedded life. Certainly, she could do worse than a kind young man like Freddie, who neither drank nor gambled nor cursed in die presence of ladies. As clever Mr. Mowbry had divined, Edward was determined that
Freddie marry. In fairness, however, he could not wish Freddie to be the sole beneficiary of the match.

Of course, if Mowbry had exaggerated Florence Fairleigh's charms, the entire matter might be moot.
He came to a decision.

"I shall wish to look her over," he said. "Without her knowledge."

The solicitor set his cup and saucer on the tea table. "If you would be amenable to a short ride, my lord,
I believe I could arrange for you to see her today."

Edward narrowed his eyes. The lawyer seemed to have been expecting the request. His expression was mild, and suspiciously complacent. Edward could not be certain, but he thought he'd just been managed.

* * *

If Edward had known what he was going to see, he never would have called for his carriage. The
oddities began when Mowbry directed him to the servants' entrance of the house. A tiny housemaid,
quiet as a nun, glided before him through the basement and up the back stairs, which were so narrow
his elbows brushed the walls at every turn. On the second floor, they passed a large, well-lighted room where four women bent over sewing machines. Their feet worked busily on the treadles while their
hands fed lengths of cloth beneath the needles. Three more machines stood empty. All were black and painted with yellow roses.

This house, he concluded, must be a dressmaker's establishment.

"Almost there," whispered his diminutive guide. Her accent was French and very pretty, but Edward
had no time to consider why she was whispering because she soon led him into a small room. The presence of a secretaire and settee suggested it was sometimes used as a sitting room, but for now the space was cramped with bolts of cloth.

A spindly chair had been pulled between two towers of jewel-bright satin. By gesture, the maid directed him to sit, then hushed his questions with a finger to her mouth.

Feeling somewhat ridiculous, Edward sat, then stiffened when her arm brushed his shoulder. People simply did not touch the earl of Greystowe without permission.

"Pardon," she murmured and pressed a latch that had been hidden among the birds and foliage of the wallpaper. A small aperture opened in the wall.

"Watch," she said. "You will see all you wish to know."

His face warmed with anger, but then he calmed. He'd said he wanted to look the girl over without her knowledge. What better means than this? Besides, for all he knew, she and the dressmaker were merely talking in the other room, fully clothed, with none of their womanly attributes hanging out.

Despite this assurance, his mouth was dry as he pressed his eye against the wall.

The room into which he gazed was small and bright, the gloom outside cast away by the light of a dozen bull's-eye lamps. A tall cheval glass reflected the figures of two dark-haired women.

Heat flashed over his body. The dressmaker was clothed in a smart gold gown, but Miss Fairleigh wore only her chemise and drawers. She was everything Mowbry claimed: lush and rosy with a mass of
shining chestnut hair rolled and braided on the crown of her head. The dressmaker had just peeled away her corset. Even without the restraint, her waist dipped in like an hourglass.

Edward swallowed, but did not pull away. No more than medium height, the woman's legs seemed disproportionately long. He could see the shadow of her bottom through the fine linen drawers. A mended patch rested atop one shapely buttock, an endearing imperfection which could not detract from the charm of her derriere. Her flesh was full and well rifted. A man would find a pleasurable handhold should he coax this paragon beneath him. Indeed, he'd find many pleasurable grips. Her breasts were a bounty, her arms both soft and graceful. Her feet— He tugged a sudden tightness at his collar. Her feet were small and white, feet he'd thought only a painter could create, with tiny curled toes and ankles a man could circle with his hand.

A lucky man.

When he released his bated breath, he realized he could hear as well as see. What struck his ears first
was the rumbling purr of an orange cat that had curled adoringly at Miss Fairchild's feet. Clever cat, he thought, in total sympathy with its instincts.

"We must order three French corsets," the dressmaker was saying as she stretched a measuring tape around Miss Fairleigh's admirable waist. "Two for ordinary wear and one cut low for evening. With
one of the new spoon busks, I think. They are tres elegante. You will like them very much."

Miss Fairleigh opened her mouth, then blushed as the tape moved to circle her bosom. The dressmaker's fingers met at the center of her cleavage, pressing it slightly together. In the glow of the lamps, Edward watched as hectic color spread enchantingly over her chest.

Miss Fairleigh cleared her throat. "I really think one new corset would be enough—if, as you say, I must have a French one."

"As I say?" tutted the dressmaker, kneeling down to measure the length of Miss Fairleigh's legs. The cat mewed with displeasure as she elbowed it aside. "As I know, mademoiselle. You must marshal your weapons. A good set of corsets is a powerful weapon indeed."

"But my finances..." said Miss Fairleigh, her voice faint. The dressmaker ignored her.

"Stop wiggling," she ordered. "You would think no one but me had ever seen your ankles." With a sigh
of satisfaction, she stood and wiped a single curl from her narrow forehead. "It is good. Your measurements are very close to a dress I have on hand today. A snip here, a tuck mere, and you shall
at once be decent."

Miss Fairleigh's dovelike hands fluttered to her trembling breast. "Oh, no, Madame Victoire. I can't take someone else's dress."

"Claret?" Miss Fairleigh's tone was rife with dread.

"Non, non," scolded the dressmaker, briskly lacing her into her reputedly inferior English corset. "Do
not worry yourself. Your father would want you to go on with your life, would he not?"

"Yes, but—"

"There are no buts. You do what you must. A man will not marry a crow!"

The exchange had Edward smiling, despite the pounding weight between his legs. This woman was so
shy and self-effacing that Madame Victoire's attempts to exhort her to femme-fatale-dom could only be amusing. Miss Fairleigh was a peach, he decided, a juicy country peach whose sweetness tempted one
to bite.

Of course, he reminded himself, his teeth would not be doing the biting.

Unfortunately, this caution did not quell his fascination as the dressmaker arrayed Miss Fairleigh in the frock. Had he ever watched his mistresses being dressed? If he had, he could not recall it. Surely, few sights could be more seductive than that of a woman tying another woman's petticoats, or steadying a bustle, or dropping a rustling silk skirt over two submissively raised white arms.

Miss Fairleigh herself seemed conscious of the erotic charge. Edward doubted she'd ever had a lady's maid; doubted she'd ever been intimately touched by another human being. Her creamy, broad-boned cheeks were once again pink as Madame Victoire hooked the separate bodice. The fit over her breasts was snug, but the dressmaker seemed more satisfied than otherwise when she returned to consider her front.

"With a French corset," she said, "this would lie perfectly." As if in demonstration, she ran her hands from Miss Fairleigh's shoulders to her waist. Her palms swept the tips of her client's breasts. Edward
did not think Miss Fairleigh could feel much pressure through the layers of cloth, but what she did feel had her ears turning scarlet.

He experienced a nearly uncontrollable urge to rush into the room and cuddle her against his chest. Madame Victoire should not tease the girl this way. She was an innocent. She deserved protection!

Which did not change the fact that watching the Frenchwoman touch her had aroused him. His hands were fisted on his thighs, sweat prickled his linen, and the wall beneath his cheek was growing damp.
He could not recall a desire this urgent His body shook with the force of it His breath came in long,
hard pulls. If he hadn't known the house was full of people, he'd have opened his trousers and eased himself. He wasn't prone to self-indulgence, but it would have been a business of moments. As it was,
he was heartbeats from exploding.

But Madame Victoire had finished arranging the pleated muslin fraise that framed the dress's neckline. She turned her client to face the mirror. Edward's jaw dropped at the same time Miss Fairleigh's did.

In her chemise and drawers, Miss Fairleigh had been a schoolboy's naughty dream. In the elegant claret dress, she stopped the heart.

She looked a grand London lady, every inch, from her stiff stand-up collar to the train of her polonaise. The complicated draping of her bustle seemed to echo the piquant flesh he knew it hid. Only her expression, wondering and unsure, betrayed her country roots.

"There," said Madame Victoire, her hands on Miss Fairleigh's shoulders. "How does that make you feel?"

Miss Fairleigh touched the waist of the figure-hugging gown as if the silk might burn. "I think it frightens me."

Madame smiled and smoothed a fallen lock into her customer's coiffure. Miss Fairleigh's hair was ruler straight and, if the dressmaker's expression was a guide, quite pleasant to touch. Again he felt that dark frisson of the forbidden. The girl did not know what Madame was doing. The girl could not guess what such gestures conveyed.

"You are seeing your feminine power," said the dressmaker, "without that ugly black dress to dim its light."

Miss Fairleigh lifted her chin in the first hint of stubbornness Edward had seen her display. "A woman shouldn't be powerful just because she's pretty."

"Shouldn't she?" The dressmaker clucked in her droll French way. "Why do you worry about 'shouldn't'? This is the way things are, cherie. Women walk a hard road in this world. We must use our weapons where we find them. Just as you must use yours, non? You must hunt the nice husband. If your beauty brings him close enough to see how nice he is, what is wrong with that?"

"I've never liked being stared at," Miss Fairleigh confessed.

"Oh, la!" Madame trilled out a laugh. "I would tell you to get used to it, but I know your shyness is part of your charm. Like honey to the bee. When you quiver and blush, you make the men feel big and strong."

Without warning, Miss Fairleigh laughed, as if the absurdity of her complaint had just then struck her. The sound was an infectious warble that seemed to come from deep within her chest. "I shall stop!"
she declared between the merry bursts. "I shall never blush again."

And the dressmaker laughed, because her client's face was rosy even then.

* * *

Edward stalked to the carriage without waiting for an escort. He was angry with himself for staying so long, angry for being attracted to the hapless country miss, angry at Alastair Mowbry for putting an innocent in that position. That the man had been right about Miss Fairleigh did not calm him in the
least, nor did the thought that, most likely, a wish for her well-being had played some part in the
solicitor's scheme.

His mood was as thunderous as the sky by the time he ducked into the waiting Greystowe brougham.
The coachman did not tarry for instructions, but snapped the horses sharply into motion.

Mowbry sat in the shadows of the opposite seat. Silent. Knowing.

"You will fill that peephole at once," Edward said in his coldest, darkest voice.

If the solicitor's expression changed, Edward did not see it.

"It is only for private use," he said. "A game between myself and Madame Victoire. You are the first outsider to have seen it."

His tone was entirely neutral, free of insinuation or censure. Edward forced his hands to unclench. Obviously, he was in no position to judge this man.

"She is all you said," he admitted gruffly.

Wisely, Mowbry didn't take this as an invitation to repeat his estimation of Miss Fairleigh's charms. Edward didn't think he could have borne that. Instead, the solicitor brushed a bit of lint from the
bowler he held in his lap. "Have you a sponsor in mind, my lord?"

"My aunt Hypatia," he said, "the dowager duchess of Carlisle. She can bring her forward as some sort
of country cousin."

Mowbry simply nodded. He must have known his approval was neither necessary nor welcome. Despite his fury, Edward's estimation of the lawyer rose. Without question, he had behaved abominably, but he had carried it off with rare aplomb.

"You are a man of hidden depths," Edward said.

A small, dry smile acknowledged the warning in his words. "You may call upon my depths whenever
you wish, Lord Greystowe. They are entirely at your disposal."

This man is ambitious, Edward thought, but he could not tell whether that boded ill or well.

Edward dropped Mowbry at his office, then ordered the coachman to drive to Lady Hargreave's. The
rain continued to fall steadily but not hard, and the wheels made a soft, sticky sound as they rolled through the muddy streets. A mist wreathed the city, muffling the edges of the buildings, slowing traffic and sound until he seemed to ride through a dream. The softness of the air was that of spring, but the color could well have been winter.

He closed his eyes and saw again the delicate slope of Miss Fairleigh's shoulders. How vulnerable were the planes of a woman's back: any woman's, but especially hers, in her mended chemise with the fragile bits of lace around the sleeves.

Warmth crept up his thighs as his blood rushed to his center. He was hardening at the simple memory
of her spine. He thought of her buttocks and ached to cup them in his hands. Shaking himself, he turned his gaze to the fog-shrouded window. Should the strength of his reaction worry him? Perhaps he ought
to put himself on guard.

But, no. She was a pretty woman; that was all. Any man would have responded. He was glad her
powers of attraction were strong. He wanted Freddie happy. He needed Freddie safe.

He paused in the act of unfurling his umbrella, caught by a half-conscious thread of memory. Whatever
it was, it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but easing the terrible knot of hunger in his groin.

Lady Hargreave awaited in her boudoir. Well aware of how best to display her assets, she was sprawled artistically across an ice-blue chaise longue, with a novel she probably wasn't reading. Her hair, a smooth champagne blonde, spilled like silk down her slender arms. The filmy pink wrap she wore left little to the imagination. He could see the small cones of her breasts beneath it, and the fair thatch of curls that covered her mound.

"Darling!" she cried and, in her usual languid manner, floated to the door to greet him.

His kiss was deeper than was his custom. Rather than let her break it, he gripped her hair to hold her in place. He discovered he wanted to make her melt today; wanted to hear her cry with helpless need.

"My," she said when he finally released her. Her hands slid down his waistcoat to fondle his growing bulge. "Someone's been thinking naughty thoughts."

He did not answer, nor did he want her to speak. He wanted a good hard screw that didn't end for hours. He wanted oblivion and release, and Imogene was damn well going to provide it.

"Nice Eddie," she said, and returned to the petting with which she'd begun.

But he wasn't a dog she could cosset to submission. He tore her wrapper down the front and kissed her when she dared to laugh. With inexorable force, he stepped her back to the satin chaise. To hell with adjourning to her bedchamber. He would take her here and now.

"The maid—" she gasped, but her little bosom was heaving up and down. Edward watched it, telling himself he did not wish she were lush instead of lithe, or dark instead of blonde, and that he would not rather she tremble instead of pant.

"Damn the maid." Cupping her breast, he nipped its reddened peak. "Let her get an eyeful."

Imogene laughed and wound her arms behind his neck. "Oh, yes," she purred, crushing her groin to the clothbound arch of his sex. "I like you in this mood."

Their embrace became a skirmish, with Imogene fighting to get on top. Edward used his strength against her, something he had not done in all their times together. She did not seem to mind. In truth, she seemed to like it. Her languor abandoned her. She clutched him as if she could not get enough of his muscle and skin, her hands tearing at his clothes, her throat vibrating with desperate cries.

"Oh, please," she begged when he refused to let her open his trousers. "Please, Edward."

Perversely, he knelt above her, straddling her narrow nips, holding her down with one hand spread between her trembling breasts. With the other, he opened his trouser buttons. As the strain gave way,
new blood rushed into tissues already full. He had never been this hard, this needy, and yet he found himself not in the moment but seeing it from a distance. She was lovely, Lady Hargreave, all blonde and pink and eager, her youth wasted on a man twelve years her senior. Edward was what she needed. She had said so many times. Only he could scratch the itch that left her tossing in her bed.

He pushed his trousers to his hips, even that light friction a goad. The air was cool on his fiery skin.
Look, he thought. Here's what you want.

Imogene looked, her eyes seeming to glaze as she took in the thick red thrust of his erection. Edward studied it himself: the heavy veins, the nervously jumping sack, the sheen of hunger on the bulbous tip. Why did women want this ugly beast? And why did the sight of it, the feel of it hard and ready, imbue him with a sense of power?

She sighed as she watched it pulse in defiance of gravity's pull. Despite his hold, her hands found him, stroked him, teased him until he ached to drive inside her. He ground his teeth rather than give in. He
did not know why, only that something compelled him to delay.

"Fuck me," she whispered, her body writhing between his knees. "I want you inside me."

But he touched her first, because he did not wish to be agreeable. He touched her with his hard male fingers, parting her tangled golden hair. Arousal soaked her delicate folds and plumped her tiny pearl.
His fingers slid around the swollen bud. She groaned as he teased it, melting as she never had before,
her fair locks clinging to her temples, the pillow rustling as she lashed her head against the chaise. This was what he wanted, to make her helpless, and yet it did not satisfy the formless need inside his soul. With a growl of frustration, he wrenched her legs wide. Enough preliminaries. He would take her and
be damned.

He notched her gate and plunged, but found no resistance beyond the stricture of her size.

"Oh, yes," she said, encouraging him to work his engine in. "Oh, yes."

Her knees rose, squeezed the ribs beneath his arms. Back and forth they rocked until her body eased
and took him, until his thighs tightened to penetrate the final inch. He stopped and held inside her, his body shaking with desire.

"You're a monster," she breathed, her face white, her pupils huge. "You're the biggest fucking cock
I've ever had."

"Now," she urged. "Do it."

At last, he was willing to comply. With a mutual groan, they thrust in tandem, strongly, smoothly,

both selfishly eager to reach their ends. Beyond control, Imogene's nails broke the surface of his skin. Edward grunted and gripped the bottom of the couch to lever deeper, to thrust with greater force. Imogene's neck arched off the cushion, her outward breath a wail.

"Keep going," she gasped, her hips frantically beating his. "Don't stop. Don't stop."

He pounded into her, her flesh tightening around him, his pleasure rising. His cock was steel within her heat, so burstingly hard he could scarcely stand it. He closed his eyes and pressed his brow to the small embroidered pillow beside her head. Images flashed behind his lids: a scrap of lace, a tiny foot, a breast swelling above a corset. The muscles of his belly tensed. He yearned. He ached. And then his partner broke, great shudders of orgasm that milked him to the tooth-grinding edge of release. He pulled out at
the very last, coming in heavy, draining spurts against her thigh.

He hung above her on his elbows, shaken by a fear he could not explain.

"Oh, my," she murmured, languidly stroking the scratches on his back. "If people knew how passionate you can be, they'd never call you Edward Coldheart."

He was tempted to inquire who called him that, as this was an insult he'd never heard. In the end,
though, he didn't care enough to ask. He looked down at Imogene. Her skin was flushed with satiation, her gray eyes starred. She didn't have the strength to stop him when he pulled away, merely mewled
like a disappointed kitten. Too polite to leave outright, he sat by her hip and stroked her arm. Their
sexual connection had always been strong, but they'd never shared an encounter this intense. He hadn't spent so fiercely since he'd been a lad of seventeen, nor taken a woman with so little finesse.

Not that Imogene seemed to mind.

His mood was no brighter by the time he called on his aunt Hypatia. Wednesday was her at-home day and he was forced to sit, hat in hand, while some idiot countess and her two marriageable daughters
tried to engage him in predictably pointless conversation. They left much beyond the recommended quarter hour, and reluctantly at that. Edward nodded stiffly at the departing girls, but could not bring himself to rise.

"Edward," said Aunt Hypatia, "if you hadn't obviously come on important business, I would scold you
for being rude. You're getting too old to dismiss every girl who bats her eyes at you." She patted the
spot beside her on the gold and white settee. "Come closer, dear. You're looking unusually dour, even
for you. I trust nothing untoward has befallen my investments."

"No," he said, jerkily taking the seat, still warm from its occupation by the countess. For the last few years, he'd been handling the duchess's money. "Your investments are safe. It's this business with Freddie."

"Ah," said his aunt, her unruffled response easing some of the tightness in his chest. Hypatia was a handsome woman, slim and straight despite her years, with a crown of silver-white hair that was all
her own. She had not in her youth been a beauty, but her elegance and pride had made it seem as if
she were. Now she folded her hands in the pale lavender satin of her skirts. "I wondered when you'd
get around to asking my advice."

"It is more than advice I need." He bent forward over his knees and tapped his hat against his shin.
"I'm afraid I require your services as a social fairy."

"Indeed," she said, then grabbed his hat and gloves and rang for her rail-thin footman, John.

"Yes, your Grace?" he said in his distinctive sepulchral tones.

"Take Lord Greystowe's coat," she ordered. "Bring the port and bar the door. I am presently
indisposed."

"Very good," he said and glided off with what might have been the ghost of a smile.

She would not let Edward speak until the port arrived and he'd downed one brimming glass. "Now,"
she said, "I suppose your need of my social clout means you've found some chit foolish enough, or desperate enough, to consider a match with the footman's scourge."

"Is that what they're calling Freddie: the footman's scourge?"

"Well, I can think of one footman who isn't. From what I hear, they were having a lovely time before
that wretched beermaker burst in. Oh, don't pull that face with me, Edward. I'm older than you and I've seen things a good deal more shocking than young Freddie's peccadillo. Done them, for that matter."

She patted his shoulder and filled his glass again with wine. Edward frowned into its ruby depths. Then
a happier thought struck him. If the duchess could view this scandal with levity, Freddie's position must not be as irretrievable as he'd feared.

"Tell me about this girl," she said. "Just how impossible is she?"

"Not too, I don't think, but green. She's a vicar's daughter. Grew up in Lancashire somewhere. Poor as
a church-mouse, of course, but very pretty."

"Oh, 'very'?" said Aunt Hypatia, with a humorous twist to her mouth.

Edward ignored what his unwitting emphasis might have meant. "She needs polish," he went on,
"and someone to sponsor her for the Season."

"What does the Season matter if she's going to marry Freddie?"

"Does Freddie know what you intend?"

"He will," Edward said, "and he will do what I say."

"I've no doubt he'll try, but—"Aunt Hypatia stopped herself midsentence. Lost in thought, she stacked
her hands over the cut-glass stopper of the wine decanter. "No," she said slowly. "You're right Freddie needs to settle. Better he should do it now, before it becomes impossible."

"So you'll help?"

She turned to him with her still brilliant smile. "You know me, darling: my family right or wrong.
Besides, how could I not help my favorite nephew out of a bind?"

The sting of hurt pricked him too suddenly to hide it True, Freddie had the charm of the family; Edward was accustomed to his little brother being everyone's favorite. The only person who'd ever preferred Edward was their father, a compliment he could not prize since the former earl had been a bastard. But
of the people Edward himself respected, he'd always thought— He swallowed and clenched his hands. He'd always thought Aunt Hypatia was partial to him.

Reading the involuntary flash of pain, she clasped his face in her cool, papery hands. "Oh, Edward, Freddie is only my favorite because he needs people's approval more than you do. Why, sometimes I think you'd survive the very Flood all by yourself." She lowered her hands to squeeze the conjoined fist he'd made of his own. "Dearest, I love you every bit as much. What's more, you're the one I would turn to were I in need."

The concern in her eyes made Edward aware of how ridiculous he was being. Of course, Freddie ought
to come first. Edward put Freddie first himself. Gently, he pulled his hands loose and cleared his throat.

"No need to talk nonsense," he said. "I'm a grown man, not a child."

"We're all children when it comes to love," said his aunt "When you're my age, I hope you know that
as well as I do."

Edward hoped he would not, but only time would tell.

The dowager duchess of Carlisle was the most imposing woman Florence had ever met. She was as tall
as a man, nearly six foot, and not yet bowed by age. Her clear blue eyes were as sharp as diamonds, and far more penetrating. Her dress was exquisite, a tailored masterpiece of navy and silver stripes with a long basque waist and a bustle so restrained it made one long to burn one's ruffles.

At least, it made Florence long to.

Her knees had begun to knock the moment the ghoulish footman led her up to the drawing room. The ceilings were twice the height of a normal room, with gilded moldings and a teardrop chandelier that no doubt took the servants days to clean. The only thing that saved her from utter terror was an amusing coincidence: the duchess had the same gold and white Louis XV furniture as Madame Victoire. The duchess's, of course, was no papier-mache' imitation.

"Stand up straight," she snapped when a smile threatened to touch Florence's lips. "How can I tell how you look if you slump?"

Florence's eyes widened because she knew she was standing straight. Her cheeks warmed as the
duchess stumped around her with an elegant ivory cane. Florence suspected she liked it more for the sound it made than for any support it might provide.

"Hmpf," said the duchess, the awful thumping coming to a halt. She had stopped just behind Florence's shoulder, but Florence didn't dare look around. She felt like an errant soldier on review.

"Who made your dress?" the duchess demanded.

"Madame Victoire of Brook Street, your Grace, a former associate of Mr. Worth."

"Never heard of her." The duchess stumped to Florence's front. She touched her collar, her hands surprisingly gentle on the pleated cloth. "This red is good for you but far too dark for a chit barely out
of the schoolroom."

"It was made on short notice," Florence said without a quaver. She'd always found it easier to stand up for others than for herself, and she didn't want the dressmaker's judgment called into question. "It was
all she had on hand."

"Hmpf," said the duchess. Her diamond eyes seemed to measure every seam. She began to stump again. "Play the piano?"

'Tolerably well, your Grace."

"Sing?"

"Not for all the tea in China."

The stumping stopped. Florence gasped and held her breath. The duchess's stare seemed to bore holes into her forehead. "Are you trying to be smart with me, girl?"

"No, your Grace, it just popped out."

A noise issued from the duchess's nose which sounded uncommonly like a snort of laughter. "Oh, very well," she said in the tone of someone who had grudgingly conceded an argument. "You'll do. Sit and have some tea. I'm parched even if you aren't. And stop calling me 'your Grace.' To you, I'm Aunt Hypatia."

"Aunt Hypatia?" Florence's knees gave way as she sank into a chair.

"Yes," said the duchess. "After all, I can hardly present a mere vicar's daughter to the queen."

"Oh, your Grace... Aunt Hypatia, I wouldn't presume—"

"You had better learn to presume. No protegee of mine is going to scuffle through life like a frightened mouse."

"I am not a mouse," Florence said, even as she pressed her knees together to still their trembling.

Aunt Hypatia glared. Florence lifted her chin. She wasn't a mouse. Shy, maybe. Timid, certainly. But
not a mouse. Mice didn't run their father's home. Mice didn't get themselves to London. Mice didn't
risk everything to build a solid future.

After what seemed like an eternity, the duchess's face softened with satisfaction.

"Well," she said, "at least you've got spine. Not much, but some. Which is just as well. Most people exercise their temper far too often. Then, when they really need to stand firm, they crumble."

"Aunt," the duchess corrected, and lifted the pot to pour her tea. "In fact..." Her expression grew distant. "I think you'll be my goddaughter."

At that moment, the duchess could have knocked Florence over with a feather. She laughed when she saw Florence's face, her eyes twinkling with the mischief of a child.

"I can hardly wait to take you out," she said, actually rubbing her hands with glee. "You're going to
cause a sensation, an ab-so-lute sensation. There'll be so many noses out of joint, we'll have to count them by the bushel."

This was not a prediction Florence could welcome. "I really don't care to cause a sensation," she murmured. "Just to meet a nice, eligible man."

"You will, my dear," the duchess assured her. "Cartloads. But first"—she chucked Florence under the chin— "first we're going to have fun!"

* * *

Aunt Hypatia's generosity had just begun. She assigned Florence a spacious room on the second floor, with windows overlooking the fenced-in park at the center of Grosvenor Square. Lizzie had a cozy
closet right beside. The girl was atwitter, for she was to be trained by the duchess's own abigail to be
a lady's maid.

"It's a dream," she breathed on hearing the news. "Oh, miss, don't pinch me or I'll wake up!"

When Aunt Hypatia wanted Florence to patronize her dressmaker, however, a woman who lived on
Bond Street, not just near it, Florence had to draw the line.

"I'm paying," the duchess huffed. "The least you can do is let me have my way."

But even if Madame Victoire was a trifle odd, Florence could not betray her trust.

"If I marry," she said, "I shall be able to pay you back. Perhaps not at once," she added, thinking of
the possible tradesman, "but eventually."

She held her ground even in the face of the duchess's glare. Finally, her benefactress gave in with a
snort of annoyance. "Next you'll be wanting to pay room and board."

"If your Grace wishes," Florence agreed.

"Cheek," muttered the duchess. "Don't know what girls are coming to these days."

Happily, when Madame Victoire arrived, the duchess's feathers were quickly smoothed. Florence had feared the dressmaker's manner would be too familiar, but her treatment of the duchess was impeccable, almost obsequious— though the duchess didn't seem to mind.

Their taste was in perfect accord. As a result, Florence had no say whatsoever. She was to have three new corsets, all French, four carriage dresses, six dinner dresses, another six suitable for dancing, and
the Lord only knew how many petticoats, chemises, and shoes. A single pair of satin slippers would
have strained Florence's purse, but Aunt Hypatia did not intend for the madness to stop there.

"If you take, we'll buy more," she said. "Since people will remember what you've worn."

"I feel as if I'm taking enough already," Florence mourned. "I begin to pity my poor husband. His wife will be shockingly in debt."

On Saturday, Her cards went out; or, rather, Duchess Carlisle's cards went out with Florence's name written underneath. Florence and the duchess did not accompany the cards. One of her more ordinary footmen drove them around on his own.

"I have only sent out thirty," said Aunt Hypatia. "We are being select."

Thirty sounded like a great number to Florence, but she nodded as if she thought it small. It was the peaceful hour before bedtime. She sat at the duchess's feet in her boudoir, with her new muslin skirts spread around her, idly helping to roll a skein of cashmere yarn. It seemed odd to have no chores. The Fairleighs, even at their most flush, had never possessed sufficient servants to excuse Florence from the nightly round of dishes and water-carrying and stoking or banking of fires. Now she had only to listen to Aunt Hypatia's voice, to admire the Oriental carpets and the lovely watercolors and the flicker of a fire someone else had built to keep the cool May night at bay. She was growing comfortable here; too comfortable, truth be told.

"What," she said, picking up the thread of conversation, "are we selecting for?"

"For those who are powerful," said the duchess, "and those who are so interesting we cannot resist.
Alas, those circles very seldom overlap."

"Except in your case, Aunt Hypatia."

The duchess rewarded her teasing with a sharp rap from her fan. "I have not taught you to be so flattering."

"No, your Grace," she dared to say. "You have not had the time."

Aunt Hypatia chuckled. "Ah, child, it's good to see you smile. When you are frightened you tend to
look very prim."

"That is preferable to showing terror, I believe."

"Yes," said the duchess with a quiet sigh. "It is."

She stroked Florence's cheek where the fire had not warmed it. It was a brief caress and when it ended, the duchess subsided into thought. Florence watched her regal, time-worn face: the nose haughty and sharp, the eyes wise and heavy. She did not know this woman and yet she felt as if she did. Despite
her suspicions, she could not hold out against the tugging on her heart. Florence did not remember her mother. Sarah Fairleigh had died too young. She thought, however, that the tender spot beneath her breast must be the shadow of a daughter's love.

In that moment, her resistance wavered. The most hardened cynic—and Florence was hardly that—
could not doubt Hypatia's affection. It was offered too wistfully to be shammed. If the duchess wished
to use Florence in some fashion, well, so be it. Florence judged her patroness had more than earned it.

* * *

On Sunday morning, the duchess thumped into Florence's room while Lizzie was struggling with the
laces of her corset The new ones would not arrive for weeks, but Lizzie was determined her mistress's waist would come up to London's mark.

"Reach up and grab the bedpost," the duchess instructed, "and let Lizzie give a heave."

Florence squeaked at how well this succeeded, but the duchess showed no pity.

"You'll get used to it" she said, "and if you faint, we'll let the laces out."

Certain she did not welcome the prospect of fainting, Florence vowed she'd somehow learn to breathe. "Do you require my assistance?" she gasped through the constriction around her ribs. "You know I'd
be happy to help in any way."

"No, I don't require your assistance," the duchess huffed. "I require your presence at breakfast
In the cream tarlatan with the green velvet bows. The boys will be joining us. You can have your first
dry run."

The duchess thumped her cane. "My nephews, and your cousins. So no 'my lord' this and 'viscount'
that. It's Freddie and Edward to you and don't forget it."

"Oh," said Florence, her heart beating very fast. She was going to take breakfast with men, titled men,
the dowager duchess's relatives. Her nerves being what they were, she sincerely hoped the meal
wouldn't end up on her dress.

She worried for nothing, though, because the duchess's nephew Freddie immediately made her comfortable.

"Hullo, cuz," he said, rising as she entered the breakfast parlor. He was the handsomest man she'd ever seen, like a hero out of a novel, with wavy, golden brown hair, bright blue eyes, and a smile as sunny
as the day outside.

"How do you do?" Florence responded shyly, unable to resist smiling back.

His brother was a tall broad shadow beside the window. Florence wouldn't have taken much note of
him if her fingers hadn't tingled strangely in his grip.

"How do you do?" he said, bowing over her hand. His eyes were the same bright blue as his brother's,
but his lashes were black as coal. Within that brooding frame, his stare was remarkably penetrating. A peculiar heat curled through Florence's chest. Embarrassment, she thought, but it wasn't precisely that.

"Oh, kiss her knuckles." Impatience incarnate, the duchess waved him on. "The girl needs to get used
to gallantry."

With great solemnity, her nephew obeyed. He was graceful but stiff, and when his lips pressed briefly
to her skin, she could not suppress a shiver. His mouth had been warm, almost hot. When he straightened, two spots of color flew on his cheeks.

"Enough of that," chuckled his brother. "Edward don't do the pretty like I do."

He took Florence's arm to lead her to the sideboard, where an astonishing array of food was laid out
in silver dishes. Florence goggled at the deviled kidneys and eggs, at the kedgeree and kippers, at the porridge and toast and rolls and the pots of jelly that gleamed like jewels. She doubted four people
could eat this much in a week, even if two of them were men.

"Shall I serve you, Florence?" Freddie suggested, grinning to soften his use of her Christian name.

"Yes ... Freddie," she responded and was rewarded with a boyish laugh.

"We'll get on," he said with a friendly wink. "I can see you're a sensible girl."

He could not have picked a better compliment and the meal proceeded with amazing ease. Freddie was
a witty raconteur, a bit naughty perhaps, but never over the line.

"My brother," he confided, as that stern fellow cut his kidneys with methodical care, "is the despair of
all the mamas in London."

"Is he?" she said, though she wasn't sure she ought to encourage Freddie at his brother's expense. Edward, as she forced herself to think of him, did not seem the type to relish teasing.

"Yes," said Freddie and bumped her shoulder compan-ionably with his own. "They try to snare him for their daughters, but he won't go. Can't even get him to flirt."

Edward frowned at his plate, but did not scold.

"Not all men were born to flirt," Florence said, feeling oddly as if she should defend him. "Perhaps he—
I mean you—oh, dear. Forgive me, Lord Greystowe. I ought not speak for you."

"Edward," he said with a chill authority that proved he was Hypatia's nephew.

"Edward," she said, her cheeks aflame beneath his strange, measuring gaze. "I'm sure your reasons for not flirting with the mamas' daughters are very wise."

"Hah!" said Freddie, apparently in no fear of his brother's ire. "He's married to his responsibilities. To
his corn and his sheep and his cotton mill in Manchester."

Edward set down his knife and fork. "Now, Freddie," he said with a perfectly sober face, "it isn't nice
to say a man is married to his sheep."

Florence almost choked on a piece of toast. One of the footmen had to thump her on the back until she stopped.

"Come, come," Edward chided. "Surely a country girl like yourself is familiar with the animal side of life."

Florence was almost certain he was teasing. Some emotion curled the corner of his surprisingly sensual mouth. His tone, however, was completely serious.

Her nerves in hopeless confusion, she crumpled her napkin in her lap. Whatever this family's reasons for taking her in, she did not want them to think her common, or that her father had not sheltered her as he should. If she'd heard the village lads joking about such things, it was purely by accident! "I know n-nothing of it at all," she stammered. "Why, when Father carved the turkey, he always asked if I'd take
a slice of bosom."

She'd meant this to prove the vicar's propriety, but the declaration caused Freddie to cough loudly into
his fist. As for Edward, though he did not succumb to humor, a definite glint shone in his eye.

"Very proper," he said. "The white meat is the tenderest."

His head was lowered over his plate, but when he peered up through his lashes, his gaze seemed to rove laughingly across her bodice. She'd never seen a man laugh that way, with nothing but his eyes. It was at once disconcerting and appealing. And it made it utterly impossible not to press her hand to the swell of her breast.

"Edward," Hypatia scolded, "you're making the girl uncomfortable."

The polite thing would have been to deny it, but Florence's mouth wasn't working well enough for that.

"No worries," Freddie said, recovered from his cough. "Old Edward's made his joke for the quarter.
You needn't fear he'll try another until August."

"Freddie!" said Hypatia, no happier with his jest.

"See, Edward," Freddie teased, "not just pretty but forgiving."

Florence returned his friendly grin. What an agreeable young man, she thought. If he was a sample of what London had on offer, her quest to find a husband would not be hard at all.

CHAPTER 3

The following week was spent in giving and returning calls. Florence doubted she was "taking," as Aunt Hypatia put it. The blur of faces and names confused her, and she rarely thought of anything to say.
How could she? She did not know the people being discussed, nor any more of fashion than Madame Victoire had laid on her back.

Aunt Hypatia, however, gave every appearance of being pleased.

"Modest and unassuming," she pronounced as the footman handed them into the carriage after a visit
in posh Park Lane. With an air of satisfaction, she spread her skirts more comfortably around her, then laughed at Florence's grimace. "You mustn't fear being dull, my dear. You would only seem awkward
if you tried to be gay. The important thing is for people to meet you and see how pretty you are, which they could not fail to do if they were blind."

Such claims made Florence uncomfortable but, considering how generous the duchess had been and
how little else Florence had to offer, she felt she really ought not to complain.

She had to remind herself the duchess could not mean for her to fix her affections on him. Her nephew would marry an heiress, she decided, one of those laughing Americans, perhaps, who would not make him stand on ceremony.

"Do you think so?" he said when she shared her theory. He fixed her with an odd, speaking look which, provokingly, did not speak clearly to her.

They were leaning over the rail of a pleasure boat, chugging westwards from the pool of London. The Victoria Embankment lay ahead, and the bristling brown towers of Parliament. They stood so close they bumped elbows but, as ever, she was comfortable with his touch.

"You don't like Americans?" she probed, expecting some quip in response.

Instead, he turned his gaze to a nearby collier. The heavy ship wallowed under its load of coal and Freddie's expression wasn't much lighter. He looked so sad of a sudden Florence's ribs squeezed tight with pity.

"I'm fond of English lasses" was all he said. "Pretty ones, with straight dark hair and eyes as green as glass."

She did not take the implication seriously, not from a flirt like him. No doubt some foolish American
had broken bis heart, and that was the source of his pain. But if one had, he did not reveal it. The moment passed and he was soon as bright as ever.

If only the elder of the two could have been a little warmer!

He was not ugly, she decided. To be sure, his build wasn't as lithe as Freddie's, but he was every bit
as tall. His shoulders were broader, his limbs heavier and more powerful. His face was interesting if
one looked past his glower. His expression had an intensity and an intelligence which was impossible to ignore. True, his brows overhung his eyes, and his nose was as sharp as Aunt Hypatia's. His forehead, however, was truly noble, his jaw strong, and the most exacting critic of human beauty could not have found fault with the sensual perfection of his mouth.

His hands, she thought with a peculiar inward shiver, were also nice. They were large and careful and capable. She found it hard to imagine the task they could not do.

When they all went riding in Rotten Row, her pride in the brothers' company was so great she felt the glow of it in her cheeks. Freddie's style turned every eye and Edward, who rode a magnificent, deep-chested black stallion, was so imposing the other horses sidled away at his approach. His hands seemed barely to move upon the reins. Freddie's gelding frisked with high spirits, but Edward's horse behaved as if he were too proud to do anything except precisely what Edward asked. Florence found
this astonishing. In her experience, stallions were rarely fit for anyone but madmen and braggarts to ride—and Edward was clearly neither. He called the beast Samson, for his long caramel-colored mane.

Florence's bay mare, leased from a local stable, seemed inordinately fond of the big black horse. She
was a pretty creature, with a gait as light as a cat's, but if Florence's attention strayed for even a
moment, she would shoulder over to Samson and rub her muzzle against his neck.

Florence had heard such talk before, of course. Back home, horses and their breeding were as great a topic of conversation as the weather. Nothing Freddie said should have embarrassed her. For some reason, though, maybe because Edward's eyes were on her, or because the mare chose that moment to press even more amorously into Samson's side, a great wash of heat poured through her limbs. From head to toe, her body pulsed with the fiery tide. Florence had never experienced the like. Sweat prickled between her breasts and where her thigh was jammed against Edward's burned as if his leg were made
of coal.

With a soft cry, she thrust out her hand to keep from being crushed between their mounts. Her palm caught Edward's hip, right where his buff-colored breeches stretched across his groin. His leg was
harder than she expected. Her fingers curled in reaction and, as a muscle shifted abruptly beneath her touch, the strange throbbing heat intensified inside her.

Edward wrenched away with a curse. "For God's sake," he exclaimed, his color high, "watch where
you lay your hand."

"I—I—"said Florence, but before she could get the apology out, he was tearing through the trees
towards the Serpentine's banks, clods of turf kicking up beneath Samson's hooves.

Florence certainly hadn't helped that ambition today. They, too, cantered off before she could decide whether she ought to nod.

The only saving grace was that Freddie hadn't seen them cut her.

"Don't mind Edward," he said, giving her horse's withers a soothing pat. "God love him, but he's
moody."

"He's right," she said, every part of her aquiver. "My failings as a horsewoman are undeniable."

"Pooh." Freddie waved the suggestion away. "Got as fine a seat as anyone. Not your fault Edward
chose a horse with a fancy for his."

Her heart picked up strangely at his words. "Edward chose my horse?"

"Didn't he just! Wouldn't trust the job to anyone else. Drove the man at Tattersall's batty. Nothing too slow, he says, but nothing too fast and, no, that one ain't near pretty enough. And what does he get for his pains but this lovelorn creature?"

The mare whickered as if she took offense. Most of Florence's hurt was lost in the laugh she and
Freddie shared. Not all of it, though.

Lord Greystowe's disapproval had a powerful sting.

Edward rode full out until he hit the quiet of Kensington Gardens. Up till then, the necessity of dodging phaetons and buggies had kept his mind from the brand Miss Fairleigh's palm had seared onto his thigh. The girl was too innocent for her own good. Too innocent for his good.

"Yes," said Edward, stroking the horse's lathered nose. "You're a good fellow."

A better fellow than his master. Samson hadn't lost control when that mare rubbed up against him.
Nor was Samson contemplating another visit to Cumberland Terrace. Three times this week that made, with each encounter more frenzied than the last. Imogene was cooing.

He shook his head in disgust and opened his collar to the breeze. He couldn't keep exorcizing his lust
for his brother's intended with his mistress. Even if Imogene didn't know, it wasn't right. No, he had to wrestle this demon to ground himself. Florence wasn't for him. Florence was for Freddie. And they were getting on famously. Per instructions, Freddie was giving a fair imitation of an increasingly besotted man. Nor did his interest seem feigned. He was fond of the girl, genuinely fond. He repeated things she'd said, planned excursions for her pleasure, and, as far as Edward could see, enjoyed their time together.

Just the other day, he told Edward how she'd charmed the duke of Devonshire's horse. "Silly beast
tried to eat the girl's hat," he'd laughed. "You know what she said? 'Why, your Grace. I'd no idea that
hat had such good straw.' That shows pluck, Edward. Pluck. Especially for a girl who'd jump at her
own shadow." Freddie was proud of her, as a man should be proud of his future wife. All in all,
Edward's plan could not have been progressing better.

If he hadn't been so attracted to her himself, he was certain he would have been glad.

Freddie, Florence, and the duchess stood in a courtyard behind a big Palladian building on Piccadilly, waiting for Edward to arrive. For the last four years, this brown and white mansion had housed the
Royal Academy of the Arts. According to Aunt Hypatia, the private viewing of the spring show, for
which they had come, was the first great event of the Season. The look of the crowd upheld her claim. All around them, the cream of London society filed slowly towards the entrance, their clothes exquisite, their demeanor impossibly proud. Always an object of attention, the duchess nodded at many who passed, all of whom seemed pleased to be acknowledged. Surprisingly, many nodded at Florence as
well. Florence did her best to smile and bow, but was far too agitated to attempt more greeting than
that. To her relief, she did not see the Misses Wainwright.

"Don't fidget," said Aunt Hypatia, softening the order with a pat.

Florence barely heard her. She did not know if she was glad or sorry Edward had chosen to see the
show. The duchess could use his arm, of course, and Freddie was always happy to have him, but Florence was finding Edward's company increasingly oppressive to her nerves. She could not seem
to catch her breath when he was near. If he should chance to touch her, her hands would begin to
shake. The mere sight of his shoulders in one of his conservative black coats caused a peculiar
palpitation of her heart.

Today, his top hat did her in. It was perched with perfect straightness on his head, its gleam no richer than that of his wavy hair, which was clipped so close to his neck the locks didn't dare curl over his
collar. What drove a man to treat his hair as if it were in danger of running wild? And what, she wondered, would happen if he let it?

The question was nonsensical, of course, and the answer not her concern. Determined not to pursue
it, she folded her hands at her waist and composed herself to greet him.

Which meant he had to be frowning at her.

"Florence," he said, no more than that, and turned to escort his aunt.

The deflation she felt once his eyes had left her was completely inexplicable.

"Are you sure he wanted to come?" she whispered to Freddie as they, and the rest of the crowd, crept
up the double staircase in the hall. "You didn't bully him into it, did you?"

"Me?" Freddie's eyes widened in surprise. "Lord, no. Couldn't keep him away. Edward's a true patron
of the arts. You watch. Everyone else will be gossiping about who's wearing what and who's wooing whom and old Edward will be looking at the pictures."

Freddie, apparently, belonged to the gossiping set. She lost him to a group of laughing men as soon as they entered the hall. He waved at her to join him but she didn't want to go, not only because his companions looked a trifle fast, but because she wanted to see the show. This, to her, was the lure of London. Not parties, not cartes de visites, but plunging into the heart of art and culture. When she couldn't spot Edward or the duchess, she resigned herself to touring alone.

Some of the pictures were very fine. For long minutes, she stood entranced by Mr. Millais's portrait of
the grand Mrs. Bischoffshein, her character captured so thoroughly Florence felt as if she knew her. A termagant, she thought, but one with a sense of humor. She stopped as well when she reached Tissot's Too Early, which, by luck or design, hung by itself above a lovely marble fireplace. The picture depicted four lovely, but obviously embarrassed, girls, waiting with their escorts in an empty ballroom. "Do you like it?" said a deep familiar voice. Florence's heart began to pound. She couldn't recall Edward soliciting her opinion before. She snuck a look at him but, thankfully, his stern blue gaze rested on the painting.
She answered as steadily as she could.

"I like it very much," she said. "The artist has so perfectly captured the awkwardness of arriving first
one can hardly help but smile."

Edward tugged his lapels. "You like a picture that tells a story?"

"As long as the story is interesting."

"What about that French fellow, Monet, or Mr. Sisley?" For the first time, he looked directly at her,
both his gaze and his tone challenging. Florence felt an odd swooping in her stomach. No man should have lashes that thick. For a moment, her face was so hot she thought she'd faint. She had to swallow before she could speak.

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with their work."

Edward nodded as if her answer was no more than he'd expected. "Come with me," he said. "I have something to show you."

To her amazement, he took her not by the arm but by the hand. Even through her gloves she could
feel the warmth of Ms hold. Her fingers were utterly swallowed in his grip. She could only pray he
did not sense the sudden dampness of her palm.

Florence put the glasses to her eyes. "Am I looking at Mr. Monet or Mr. Sisley?"

"Neither," he said, with the perversity she had come to expect. "This work is Mr. Whistler's."

She could feel him breathing, slowly, steadily. He stood directly behind her, his long legs brushing her skirts, his big hands tilting the binoculars to guide her gaze. Her arms began to tremble. They only
stopped when she focused on the painting.

"Oh," she sighed, unable to keep her wonderment inside. The picture showed a bridge just after sunset
on a misty night, with the shadow of a solitary boatman punting the current underneath. She'd never
seen anything like it. It was a completely new thing, a blur of subtle colors which somehow created a world. She felt her mind open in the strangest way. This, she thought, is a painting of the future.

Edward seemed to share her excitement.

"Isn't it something?" he said, the words a gentle stir beneath her hat.

"It's extraordinary! Why, it's nothing but smears of dark and light blue, but you know exactly what it is. He has it precisely: how the water looks at night, even how it feels, as if the whole world had gone to sleep but you. It makes me want to cry just looking at it and yet it's quite, quite beautiful."

Lost in admiration, she didn't even jump when Edward's hands settled briefly on her shoulders, just a quick, warm squeeze and they were gone.

"I was thinking I would buy it," he said.

Florence couldn't help herself. She lowered the glasses and turned to him. His expression was musing,
his exquisite mouth relaxed. For once, he looked as young as Freddie. Oh, I could like him, she thought. If only he behaved this way more often, I'm certain we could be friends.

He laughed at her admission, a soft, open sound that brushed her ears like a puppy's growl. "Careful, Miss Fairleigh. You betray your origins by such a statement."

His eyes were twinkling so kindly she knew he was teasing. All the same, she found it impossible to
hold his gaze. It was too blue, too warm. She looked at her hands instead, still clasped around his opera glasses. "My origins are difficult to hide," she said, smiling a little herself. "Aunt Hypatia says I mustn't even try."

"Well, if Aunt Hypatia says..." he agreed, and smoothed back the little white feather which had fallen forward from her hat. It was a gesture his brother might have made, thoughtful and protective.
Florence shivered under it as she never had with Freddie.

"Are you cold, Miss Fairleigh?" Edward asked, his voice low and oddly husky. He had bent forward to view her face, an action necessitated by his greater height. She could see the shadow of his whiskers beneath his skin; could smell the woodsy aroma of his cologne. She wouldn't have thought he'd wear scent, a sober man like him. The fact that he did pricked her deep inside. He has secrets, she thought.
He is not at all the man he seems.

"Miss Fairleigh?" he said. So lightly she might have dreamt it, his finger brushed the curve of her cheek. Its tip was bare and slightly rough. He must have removed his gloves. Her stomach tightened at the unexpected intimacy.

"I am well," she said, just a shade too loudly. "Quite."

Edward stiffened at her tone and took half a step back. He buttoned his elegant coat and smoothed it down. "Perhaps we ought to rescue Aunt Hypatia from the tea room."

"Yes," she said, both relieved and disappointed.

"Sir?" said Lewis. Having failed to get a response from his master, the valet stepped just inside the door. "I'm afraid a small problem has arisen."

Edward's mind flew to Freddie, and footmen, but he pushed the thought aside as quickly as he could. Freddie had given his word. That was all Edward needed to know. He fastened the stud beneath his pointed collar. He reached for his white bow tie. "What small problem?"

"It's Miss Fairleigh."

Edward's heart skipped a beat. Damnation. Her name was enough to tighten the muscles of his groin.
"Is Miss Fairleigh unwell?"

"Not precisely, my lord." Lewis took the tie from Edward's hands before he mangled it. "Apparently, she's grown so anxious over the prospect of her first formal ball that she is ... prostrate."

" 'Prostrate'?" Edward lifted his chin for Lewis to tie the bow. An image of Miss Fairleigh fainting
drifted disturbingly through his mind. He could almost feel himself catching her.

"A disturbance of the stomach," Lewis elucidated.

"Yes, sir," said the valet. "Her courage has failed her. She swears she'll return to Keswick tomorrow, rather than make a fool of herself tonight."

"Keswick?" With a frown, Edward submitted to a subtle rearrangement of his hair.

"Her home village," Lewis explained and Edward experienced an illogical prick of annoyance that his servant knew this when he did not. "Duchess Carlisle is at her wit's end. She sent her footman over to
see if young Lord Burbrooke can talk some sense into her, but your brother has already left for his
dinner engagement at the Brawleighs'."

"Surely my aunt could"—"

"She says it's a job for a man: the voice of authority appealing to the rational in a woman." Lewis
looked as if he doubted this quality existed in female form. Then again, for the past year, Lewis had
been trying without success to coax the senior chambermaid into his bed.

"I'll speak to her," Edward said, though he knew it flew in the face of his resolutions. "Most likely she only needs to be reassured she won't be left standing through the waltzes."

"Yes, my lord." Lewis held up his waistcoat for him to slip his arms into the sleeves. The design was
very plain, black with a smooth shawl collar and a satin back. It fit like a second skin.

Edward ignored the tingle of excitement that warmed his spine. This mission of mercy posed no danger. After all, how appealing could a "prostrate" woman be?

* * *

"Brush your teeth," said Lizzie, holding out the tin of tooth powder.

"Already brushed them twice," she mumbled.

"Once more before you go," Lizzie insisted. "Duchess's orders."

"But I'm not going. I'm not, I'm not!" She knew how hysterical she sounded, but she could not stop herself. She couldn't go. She simply couldn't. She might be pretty but she was hopelessly inept. With
a groan, she piled the pillow over her head.

"Honestly," Lizzie huffed, and Florence knew she'd put her hands on her skinny hips. "You make me ashamed to know you, Miss Florence."

"And you should be ashamed," said a voice that had her bolting up with the pillow clutched to her chest, though her dressing gown was perfectly modest. Her hair was down. And this was her bedroom. And
he was a man. All of which was enough to throw her into a panic.

"Lord Greystowe!" she gasped.

He sat very gently on the edge of the bed, as if she were an invalid. She thought he would take her
hand but he only stroked the coverlet beside her hip.

"Now, Florence," he said, "tell me what has frightened you."

He made her feel foolish by simple virtue of asking the question. But she wasn't foolish. No one understood how terrible this was for her, least of all this man, who'd probably never been frightened in
his life. She plumped the pillow in her lap and sniffed back a tear. "Aunt Hypatia says five hundred
people are coming to the Vances' ball."

"And?" he said, as if five hundred people were nothing. Her tears welled again, but now they were tears of resentment

"They'll stare," she said, her nails curling into her palms. "They'll stare and they'll titter and they'll talk behind their fans as if I were a cow at a county fair."

"Because you're pretty," he said in that same infuriatingly reasonable tone.

"Yes!" she said, almost shouting it.

"Hush," he said, and pressed a gentle kiss to the knuckles of each fist. This procedure so astonished her she didn't think to pull back. His eyes shone with humor and something that in any other man she would have said was fondness. "Allow me to explain the economies of size, Miss Fairleigh. With five hundred attendees, at least half of them women, you can count on, oh, fully twenty being prettier than yourself.
A good many will have jewels more dazzling than your own. A fair number will be dressed so inappropriately anyone who sees them will not be able to look away. Add to that those guests who are either the subject or repository of gossip, and you'll find no more than a tenth of those present will stare
at you even once."

"And a tenth is only fifty," Lizzie put in, who was proud of her skill at math.

Florence was neither impressed nor reassured.

"All I know are country dances," she said, her voice still quavering. "I don't remember a step Aunt Hypatia's dancing master tried to teach me."

Edward squeezed her hands. "You'll remember. The moment the music starts it will all come back.
Come now, Florence. Where's the girl who charmed the duke of Devonshire with her wit? Where's her courage?"

"In the chamberpot," Florence muttered.

"Nonsense," said Edward. "That was only lunch."

"And since it's gone," Lizzie added with country practicality, "you needn't worry about being sick."

Florence's shoulders sagged. She didn't want to be strong. She wanted to be weak and helpless and stay where she was safe. But Lizzie was counting on her and so was Aunt Hypatia, and even Edward, in a way. If his "cousin" proved a coward, it would not reflect well on him.

"I suppose I have no choice."

"No choice at all," Edward agreed. He smiled at her. Florence saw a hint of pride in it and thought perhaps she wouldn't fail after all.

A burning shiver swept the bare expanse of Florence's shoulders. Edward was watching her descend
Aunt Hypatia's curving stairs. He wore an expression of utter stupefaction.

"Perhaps," he said, in an unusually faint tone, "I have misled you."

Florence didn't know what to make of his reaction—or her own. Edward had never looked at her like this, as other men did, as if she were a meal they wished to devour. Usually this look discomfited her.
She couldn't imagine why she welcomed it from him. Certainly, she didn't desire his attention. He was the opposite of everything she valued in a man: not gentle, not affectionate, and certainly not safe! No, indeed. Most likely her response was merely nerves.

"Misled me?" she said, the question dangerously close to a squeak.

"Yes," he murmured and pressed his hand to his pristine shirtfront. His father's ruby signet gleamed
on his smallest finger. "I fear you shall be the prettiest woman there."

"Enough," said the duchess, thumping her ivory cane. "Move aside so I can see."

If she was, Aunt Hypatia did not disapprove. Instead, she touched the necklace with one age-stiffened finger. She nodded brusquely.

"Suits you," she said. "Never did believe in girls wearing ribbons around their necks. Not if they've got something better."

"I'm grateful for the loan," Florence said, knowing the duchess had worn these pearls when she was Florence's age. "I shall take good care of them."

"Know you will," said Aunt Hypatia. The light from a wall sconce caught a sudden glitter in her eye.
Was she thinking of her dear departed duke or some other youthful conquest? Assuredly she had had them. The duchess was too self-assured for it to be otherwise. But Florence doubted she would share
the tale. Indeed, as soon as Hypatia blinked, the glitter disappeared. Once more in command of herself, the duchess rapped her cane against the footman's calf.

"Well, John," she snapped to the senior man, "have them bring around the carriage."

"Yes, your Grace," he said in his eerily drawn-out voice, as if being struck by his mistress were an everyday occurrence.

It made Florence wonder what she'd gotten into when she let the duchess take her under her wing. If
she failed to live up to Hypatia's plans, would her calves be stinging, too?

Her heart find plenty of time to flutter before their coach crawled its way up the line of carriages to the door. Such dresses she saw as they waited! Such silks and jewels and clouds of expensive perfume! For once, she was glad Madame Victoire had spared no expense on her couture. She would at least look as
if she belonged.

When they reached the fancy overhang of the porte cochere, Edward lifted her out of the carriage. The clasp of his hands made her even more breathless than the corset. She hadn't supposed a man could be that strong. She seemed to weigh nothing in his arms. As he set her on the pavement, their eyes locked. Edward's shone like hot blue flames, intense but mysterious, and completely focused on her. Warmth spread over her breasts. Wish though she might, she could not quell the reaction. Embarrassed, she touched the tulle that swathed her bodice. Edward looked away.

"Watch your train," he said, as gruff as ever, and helped the duchess down.

When she was settled, they ventured together up the stairs. Grateful for the distraction, Florence could not contain her curiosity. She'd never been in a house this grand. To her it seemed a palace. A pair of torches shaped like nymphs, with gas globes balanced on their shoulders, lit the reception area inside the door. While the liveried footman announced their names, Florence goggled. The nymphs bore no more covering than a gauzy, scarflike cloth which seemed to have blown across their privy parts. Their breasts were bare and topped with swollen nipples—not stiffly swollen, as if the nymphs were cold, but soft, as
if the breeze that blew the scarves had gently kissed their skin.

An irrational yearning pulled her closer. She would have liked to touch that polished bronze. Even more puzzling, she would have liked to stand in the nymphs' place, equally bare, to be kissed by the balmy breeze and admired by passersby. A statue could not be shy, after all. A statue could only be adored.
She touched the metal plinth, surprised to find it cold.

"Florence," hissed the duchess.

She hurried after her with a gasp. What was she thinking? Without a doubt, her recent fears had disordered her mind!

In its way, the Vances' home was as confusing as Euston Station. The mansion in Knightsbridge had
been designed by Robert Adam in an opulent, classical style. Every public room—and there were many—boasted marble columns and gilt and inlay and magnificent stuccowork ceilings. The paintings were as fine as any she had viewed at the Academy. With difficulty, she tore herself past Gainsboroughs and Reynoldses and followed a female servant up the stairs to the women's cloakroom.

In this bustling boudoir, an obliging lady's maid took her wrap and smoothed her hair and, best of all, showed her a quiet corner where she could sit. There, behind a sheltering screen of potted palms, with
the sweet night air flowing in through an open window, Florence shut her eyes and tried to catch her breath.

She told herself she could do this. She would take the evening slowly. She would speak when spoken
to, dance when asked, and—above all—pay attention to any nice gentlemen she met. The sooner she settled herself, the sooner she could repay Aunt Hypatia's faith, not to mention her purse.

Her face had begun to cool when a trio of women stopped on the other side of the wall of greenery.
To her dismay, two were the Misses Wainwright, in matching white tarlatan gowns. They stood so
close she could not possibly leave without them seeing her. But perhaps she would stay where she was
a little longer. Discretion was, after all, the better part of valor. Her cowardice thus justified, Florence steeled herself to wait as quietly as she could.

"I can't believe his affections are engaged," said a third woman whom Florence didn't know. "Everyone knows he's an incorrigible flirt. I'm sure he's simply being cousinly."

"Perhaps," drawled Miss Minna in a cool, superior tone. "But one of her cousins doesn't welcome the association. I saw him cut her myself. Galloped off without a word when the hopeless ninny bumped
his horse. I thought she'd burst into tears right there."

Heavens, Florence thought, starting up in her chair. They were talking about her, about her and Edward. Heart thundering, she shrank back and willed the women not to see her. Fortunately, they were too caught up in their gossip to look around. Even as Florence held her breath, the third whispered furiously in Minna's ear. When she'd finished, Minna's curls trembled with indignation.

"Now that," she pronounced, "is the grossest slander yet. Freddie Burbrooke adores women. Any female who's met him knows that. In any case"—she snapped her painted fan—"I don't see why we should concern ourselves with such a nobody. Why, if it weren't for that tired old dragon who's carting her about, no one would pay her any mind."

"She is pretty," Greta said in the tone of one too sure of her own beauty to be threatened.

"Milkmaid pretty," Minna scorned. "And who among us believes those blushes don't come out of a pot?"

If the trio had seen Florence then, they would have known her blushes were real. Her very ears were hot. With relief, she watched the women moving towards the door. The third, alas, had a final parting shot.

"It's animal magnetism," she said as they rustled off. "She's coarse and fleshy and men are the biggest animals of all. Didn't you hear what Devonshire's horse did to her hat?"

Florence clapped her hands to her cheeks. Were people really talking about that?

A low, musical laugh broke through her shock. Florence looked up. A slim young woman with frizzy gold hair and freckles was parting the fronds beside her ear, like an African hunter who'd found his game.

"I see from your horror," she said, "that you are the infamous Miss Fairleigh."

The woman's words were so mischievous Florence couldn't help but laugh. She rose and dropped a
small curtsey. "I am," she said. "Milkmaid blushes and all."

"And I," said the girl, "am Meredith Vance, the plainest deb in London." She gave Florence's hand a brisk, unfeminine shake. "Shall we walk down together and show those silly cats that plain girls and milkmaids know how to behave?"

Florence had not met Miss Vance before, but knew her to be the daughter of their hosts and, therefore, the daughter of a duke. Consequently, she was momentarily flustered by her offer.

"It would be my honor, Miss Vance," she said once she had found her voice.

Miss Vance wrinkled her nose. "Call me Merry," she said, as if Florence herself were the daughter of
a peer. "All my friends do and I'm certain we're going to be friends."

Miss Vance's kindness stole her breath. Dear as Keswick was, the village had been home to a great many genteel old ladies. Florence couldn't remember when she'd last had a friend her own age. Of course, she thought more soberly, Miss Vance's generosity meant she couldn't hide in the cloakroom all night.

"My brothers are going to swamp you," her rescuer predicted.

Florence endeavored to look as if this news were good.

Only Freddie succeeded. He arrived late with a shower of apologies and immediately swept Florence
into a waltz. Within minutes, she was shaking her head with laughter, easy in his arms as she was in no one else's. Her smile dazzled Edward all the way across the room. Freddie was good for her. Freddie brought her into her own. Even when he took her to meet his friends, she did not lose her glow. Edward saw her speaking to them and watched them laugh at whatever she'd said. Somehow, Freddie had found
a way to share his charm with her.

Her earlier terror might as well have been a dream. Certainly, she didn't need Edward's assistance now.

He thrust his hands into his pockets, glummer than he could ever remember being. He shouldn't stare
at her like this. He was only torturing himself. But how could he look away? Peter Vance was dancing
with her now, a sprightly polka which could not have shown her stiffness to worse effect. Why did her awkwardness enthrall him? His heart thumped at the way she craned her slender neck to watch her stumbling feet, at the way her skirts caught Vance's legs, at the way—God help him—she blushed
when Vance bent to whisper some tease in her shell-like ear.

Edward ground his teeth. He was an idiot. A complete and utter idiot. The obsession he felt for this girl made no sense whatsoever. It did no one any good: not him, not her, not Freddie.

"People are saying you snubbed her," said a throaty, boyish voice.

Caught by surprise, Edward looked down quite a few inches and found himself gazing into the wide freckled smile of their hosts' youngest daughter. He'd met her at Tattersall's, he recalled, a horse-mad
girl, as plain in speech as she was in appearance.

"Miss Vance," he said, and bowed politely over her hand. "Forgive me for not noticing your approach."

She gave him a rap with her fan that put him more in mind of Aunt Hypatia than a seventeen-year-old coquette. "Didn't you hear me? People are saying you don't like Florence Fairleigh."

Edward squinted in confusion. "Are you acquainted with Miss Fairleigh?"

"Oh, yes," she said airily. "Your cousin and I are great friends—ever since I heard those Wainwright witches taking cuts at her in the cloakroom."

Edward's spine snapped straight. Someone had hurt Florence? Someone had dared? "What Wainwright witches?"

His unwitting growl made his companion laugh. "The same Wainwright witches whose mama has been stalking you these past two years."

"Oh," he said, unconsciously pursing his mouth in distaste, "Greta and Minna."

"Yes. Greta and Minna. And if you don't dance with your cousin, they'll convince everyone you disapprove of her." Her eyes narrowed and she poked the center of his chest with the end of her fan. "You don't really dislike her, do you? I'd hate to think so. Because she's obviously a nice girl and just
as obviously perfect for your brother. If you meant to be cruel, I would be forced to greatly lower my estimation of your character."

Edward was startled to hear Miss Vance had any estimation of him at all. Taken aback, he had only enough presence of mind to blink when she grabbed both his wrists and pulled him onto the crowded floor. What a hellion she was to behave this outrageously in public!

"We'll dance straight to her," she said, lifting his arms into the appropriate position. "My brother Peter
has got her now and he's already stood up with her twice. Once more and Mama will fear he means to make a declaration. He'll know he must relinquish her to you."

Florence's world shrank down to a single soul. Edward stood before her. Tall Edward. Grave Edward. Edward of the burning eyes and the beautiful mouth. Peter Vance faded into insignificance, though he'd stepped a mere foot away. Freddie's older brother was all that she could see. This was not good, she thought, not good at all.

"Oh," she said stupidly, and put one hand to her stays to keep her heart from bursting through.
"Edward."

"Florence," he said, with a low, formal bow. How broad his shoulders were, and how well his black tailcoat showed off the trimness of his waist! With customary dignity, he straightened. "Might I have
the honor of this dance?" Florence blinked. "You wish to dance with me?" He frowned and at once she felt more clearheaded. A scowling Edward she was used to.

"Yes, I wish to dance with you. Have you some objection, cousin?"

"Oh, no," she said. "I—I'd be happy to."

"Well then," he said.

As if on cue, the orchestra struck up a waltz. Her skin tingled as he took her in his arms. At once, she knew this dance was different. Edward held her with complete assurance, born to rule the ballroom.
The hand he'd placed on her waist almost rifted her through the steps.

"Stop looking at your feet," he whispered, his cheek for one moment pressed to hers.

At the touch, her limbs turned to honey, liquid and warm, as if she'd been set in the sun.

"Oh," she said, enchanted in spite of every scrap of sense that spoke against it.
"Oh, my, you dance divinely."

"It's like flying," she said, helpless to keep her smile inside.

He grinned back at her, his face creasing upward, his bright blue eyes agleam. "It's dancing, Florence,
the way it was meant to be."

She caught her breath with pleasure as he spun her even faster. The other couples seemed to part like
the sea before them. The music swooped, giddy, magical. She took a firmer grip on his shoulders and closed her eyes.

"You're as lovely as a rose," he murmured, just loudly enough for her to hear.

With a quiet sigh, he gathered her closer still. She felt the warmth of his body, the hardness of his chest. His breath came quickly from his exertions. In. Out. Stirring her hair. Warming her cheek. The sound
put a spell on her. Something throbbed inside her: an ache, a nameless want. She thought she heard him whisper her name. Yes, she thought, and her lips moved soundlessly on the word. He must have seen her do it. His hand tightened on hers, his fingers strong, sending a message her body could not help but read. Without warning, a flood of heat washed through her flesh. Her knees wobbled and gave and she stumbled over his foot.

Edward caught her before she fell.

"Goodness," she said, mortified by her near collapse. "I'm afraid all that twirling has made me dizzy."

For once, Edward's frown was more worried than disapproving. He put his arm around her waist to steady her. "Come. Let's get you some air."

"Here." He seated her on a pretty cast-iron bench. "Close your eyes and breathe." To her surprise, he
sat beside her and patted her hand. "Lizzie laced you too tightly, didn't she?"

"Oh, no," she said, her eyes flying open to find his gaze. "Aunt Hypatia's maid wouldn't let her. It was
the dancing, I think. All that swooping around. It was wonderful, of course, but suddenly I felt so hot."

His brows lowered, shading his eyes to blackness. His expression was most peculiar. "You felt hot."

"Yes." She fanned her face at the memory. "Astonishingly hot. As if someone had dropped me in a
pot of steam. You don't suppose I've taken ill, do you?"

She knew the words were hopeful. Though the ball had not been as terrifying as she'd feared, she still would have liked to go home.

"No." he said, but he touched her cheek with the back of his hand.

"There it is again!" she gasped.

"Florence," he said, half laugh, half groan. "You cannot be so ignorant you do not know why you are flushed."

"Well, I—" she began and then her gaze caught on his smiling lips. "I'm sure it's not—I've found men appealing before, you know, and they never affected me like this!"

"Didn't they?" His eyes were heavy, his tone a soft, insinuating growl. "Didn't they make you hot
from the inside out? Didn't they make you yearn and ache and feel as if you would die unless you
held them?"

His head drew closer, lips brushing her cheek like heated satin.

"Edward," she gasped, a shiver supplanting her flush. She wished he wouldn't speak so; wished he wouldn't draw so close. "You can't be meaning to kiss me!"

She didn't know what Freddie had to do with it, but she was certain what he was doing qualified as a
kiss. His lips had slid over hers, soft but firm and parted for the rush of his breath. She brought her
palms to his chest, meaning to push him away but mysteriously unable to do so. She felt like the victim
of a mesmerist, caught in the spell of his magnetic power. His chest was so hard, so warm. Helpless to resist, her fingers curled into the starchy linen of his shirt.

"Stop me, Florence," he whispered, shivering beneath her touch. "Stop me before I hurt us both."

"Stop yourself," she said, though she couldn't imagine where she'd found the wickedness to do so.

At least he was not angry. Chuckling, he nipped her chin, then did what no one had ever done before. First he licked her lower lip, then pressed beyond it with the tip of his tongue, actually breaching the
outer reaches of her mouth.

"Sweet," he said, and did it again, more deeply than before.

Florence was shocked beyond fear. The smooth wet curve slid past her teeth before she could gather
her wits to stop him. She could taste the champagne punch he'd drunk; could feel the texture of his tongue as it stroked her own. The effect was peculiarly seductive. It made her want to lick him back; made her want to close her eyes and sigh. But it was an unconscionable intimacy, a thing even a
husband might not do. And now he was sucking her, pulling at her tongue as if he meant to lure it
from her mouth. Her shoulders stiffened and her hands clutched his arms. Her heart beat like a fox chased to ground. A kiss was bad enough, but this ... this blatantly carnal invasion—she could not
allow it, simply couldn't.

"Let me," he whispered when she twisted her head away. "Oh, God, Florence. I'll go mad if I can't
kiss you."

A sound broke in her throat, a hopeless whimper. His sweet, husky plea made her tingle from head
to toe. He was right. She was attracted to him. That honeyed warmth was pouring through her veins, curling low in her belly and thighs, like a tide no force of will could stop.

"Let me," he said, as if he sensed her weakening. He nibbled her neck, then the lobe of her ear.
"One kiss, Florence. One kiss to satisfy us both. No one will see. I'd never let anyone see."

She tried to think of Aunt Hypatia, of the five hundred guests who might take it into their heads to
wander out. She tried to think of what she'd come here to find. A nice, safe husband. Not a moody, black-hearted wretch who insulted her one moment and begged for kisses the next.

Sadly her efforts were for naught. "Just one?" she asked in a shameful rush of breath.

He covered her mouth with a sighing moan, his tongue searching, caressing, his arms slowly circling her back. This time she kissed him back. She couldn't help it. He was gentle but unstoppable, like treacle rolling down a heated pan.

"Yes," he praised at her tentative foray. "Kiss me, Florence. Kiss me as deeply as you can." One hand slid up her spine to cup her head. He was tilting her neck: guiding her, she thought with an odd, warm start, so that her vulnerability to his possession would be complete.

And then her neck wasn't the only thing that was tilting. He was tipping her backwards, dizzying her as
he laid her down along the bench. Satin rustled and hissed. She had to clutch his back to keep from
falling and then she wanted to clutch his back. Its breadth was a pleasure she could not resist: its
warmth, the slow, shifting strain of its muscles. His mouth lifted for breath, then sank again.

To her surprise, his shirt clung damply to his skin.

"Florence," he groaned. "You don't know what you're doing."

But then he kissed her even harder, as if his life depended on the total plunder of her mouth. His fingers tightened on her neck, sliding under Aunt Hypatia's pearls. When his father's signet pressed her skin, the metal was fever-warm. His scent surrounded her, not merely cologne but a subtle, animal smell. He
began to push his hips against hers, slowly but with force, rubbing up and down the very center of her heat. That heat seemed to double as she realized his manly organ was not soft. Rather, it was thick and thrusting and hard, like a creature that needs to mate.

Abruptly panicked, she struggled to get away, but he only held her tighter. He was groaning her name now, grinding her with his hardness. His body seemed beyond his own control.

Florence could not wait for him to control it; could not stop to think. She did what she'd heard the
village lads joke about. She reached around his legs and gave his parts a forceful squeeze. Apparently, she'd done it right. Swallowing a yelp, Edward shoved back as if she'd stabbed him. The blackness of
his glare was enough to make her quail. Burning fingers pressed to her mouth, she struggled to sit upright.

"I'm sorry," she said, barely able to get it out. "Did I hurt you?"

"Did you—? Good Lord!" He raked his hair with both hands, then dropped his head back and breathed: long, slow breaths that lifted his belly and chest. The place she'd pinched was still humped between his legs, a rise of black cloth that pulsed like a living heart. Seeing it, she went hot again and knew she'd lost her mind. Surely she couldn't regret calling a halt to his affront!

As if he sensed her stare, Edward opened his eyes. Unlike her, he seemed to have regained his calm.

"You did precisely as you should," he said. "It is I who must beg forgiveness. I drank more champagne than I ought tonight, and took advantage of your inexperience. It was utterly despicable and I promise it shall never happen again."

He was saying he'd only kissed her because he was drunk. The confession should have comforted but it didn't. She wound her hands together in her lap. "What you did wasn't completely terrible."

He laughed, the sound harsh. "I'm glad it wasn't terrible, but it was wrong. You mustn't let other men
get you alone where they can try it."

"I'm not so green I don't know that," she snapped, with a salutary hint of anger. "It's just you're, well, you're supposed to be my cousin!"

"Quite." He sighed and dragged his hand through his hair again, causing it to stand up rather comically.
He was right to worry about his wavy locks. They could turn wild. But he didn't seem to notice. He nodded towards the path. "Perhaps you should go. I wouldn't want anyone to miss you."

She knew he was right. She stood and smoothed her skirts, perversely reluctant to leave. "Are you
sure you're well?"

"Yes," he said sternly. "Now go."

She trudged two steps and turned back. "Your hair."

He furrowed his brows at her.

"It's sticking up. You need to smooth it."

"I shall," he assured her. And then she had no more excuses to stay.

* * *

He certainly didn't drive a vicar's daughter to pinch his balls.

"Damnation," he said, and wished he knew just what he cursed.

With a long, low sigh, he pushed to his feet. He tidied his hair as well as he could and marveled at Florence's consideration in giving him the warning. What she must think of him, he couldn't guess—
nor could he afford to lament the loss of her good opinion. If she stayed away from him, all the better. Clearly, he could not be trusted to keep his vows.

Imogene Hargreave cornered him halfway down the corridor to the ballroom. He had no chance to
avoid her. Apart from the distant hum of merriment, and a marble cherub with a mass of roses in its arms, they were alone.

"There you are," she cooed, tiptoeing her fingers up his chest. "Charles is staying at his club tonight.
I thought you might whirl me around the floor."

He caught her hand and held it away. Her hair gleamed like flax in the flickering gaslight, her skin like ivory. She was as seductive as ever, as beautiful and as skilled, but she moved him no more than a
statue.

"I'm on my way out."

"Are you?" Imogene chuckled. "I'll admit the Vances' parties are a bit tame, but your aunt and her little charge seem to be enjoying themselves. Quite the sensation, that one. You'd better take care or you'll have more than a cousin on your hands. Your brother is acting smitten."

Edward stiffened at her tone. "Florence Fairleigh is a perfectly respectable young woman. If my brother chooses to pursue her, the duchess and I would hardly disapprove."

Imogene cocked her head, then shook off her puzzlement. She stroked his arm. "Come, darling, let's
not talk about your relatives. Let me give you a ride home." Her brows rose suggestively.
"To my home, if you like."

Edward hesitated. He had no doubt Imogene intended the journey to end in her bed, a place he'd
vowed not to visit again. On the other hand, if he took the carriage he came in, he'd have to send it back for Hypatia, Going with Imogene would save the coachman an extra trip. Besides which, he'd put off talking to her longer than he should.

"I'll be going to my home," he said, "but if the offer stands, I'd be happy for it."

"Of course it stands," said Imogene, playfully swatting his shoulder.

As he'd suspected, she was planning to change his mind. The carriage hadn't left the Vances' drive
before she'd slid over to his seat and pulled the shades. The lantern that swayed from the hook above
the door made a glowing nest of the interior. The coach's upholstery was blue, a sleek, pale satin that echoed Imogene's eyes.

"There," she said, giving him a deep, practiced kiss. "This is more like it."

He did not stop her. He was waiting—hoping, he suspected—to see if her kiss could do to him what Florence's had. But the truth was as he'd feared. The memory of Florence's touch, innocent as it was, was more exciting than the reality of Imogene's. That pleasure had been fresher, sharper—more right, God help him. Kissing Imogene was wrong in ways he hadn't the courage to examine. After a moment,
he eased back. "We need to talk."

"Oh, dear," she said with a high, brittle laugh. "I'm sure I don't like the sound of that."

"Edward." She pulled her hand away, a flush staining her cheeks. "I don't want your gratitude. Why
are you doing this? We're good together. The passion we share is special."

She shook her head as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing. "My aunt was right about you.
You are a cold-hearted bastard. Just like all the Greystowes. Unless there's another woman?" She narrowed her smoky eyes. "Tell me it's not Millicent Parminster. That two-faced bitch. I'll rip her
bloody hair out."

"It's no one," he said, wondering when he'd met her aunt. "I just can't do this anymore."

She snorted. "I'll believe you can't do it when someone tells me your stones have fallen off."

"It's over, Imogene," he said. "I'm tired of feeling dirty."

He was sorry he'd said it the instant it left his mouth. Her lips moved to repeat his final word. Then
she covered them with her hands. "It's your cousin, isn't it? The blushing miss who's been batting her eyes at your brother. She's a clean one, all right. Clean enough to squeak!"

"It's no one," he repeated, the denial a threatening growl.

Imogene wasn't fooled. "Bloody hell," she laughed, the sound like glass. "The mighty Edward
Burbrooke has fallen for his brother's country mouse!"

He caught her arm. "You breathe that to a soul and I'll see you ruined."

Then she rapped the roof with her fan, ordering the coachman to set him down by the side of the road. He was miles from home, but Edward didn't protest. He knew the walk would not be as bad as the memory of her curse.

CHAPTER 5

The picnic was Freddie's idea. A reward, he said, for Florence's having braved three balls in one week—not to mention a presentation to the queen. Curtseying to the monarch had been by far the
easier ordeal, despite having to practice walking backward in a train. Not the least bit terrifying, Queen Victoria had reminded Florence of the plump, kindly widows back in Keswick. All the same, she was grateful the business was over.

Momentarily free of obligations, they spread their blanket across the grass in Aunt Hypatia's town house garden, a small stretch of ground enclosed by a tall brick wall. A sundial shaded Freddie's shoulder and
a picturesque urn spilled ivy down a pedestal of stone. Florence's relaxation had as much to do with Freddie's presence, and the lack of anyone else's, as it did with the glass of currant wine he'd pressed
into her hand. At peace for the first time since Edward had taken leave of his senses at the Vances' ball, she sat in the circle of her dark chintz skirts—housecleaning clothes from Keswick—and watched Freddie pick idly at the remains of their cold repast

"Penny for your thoughts," he said and batted her sunhat with a tasseled blade of grass.

"I'm happy," she said, "because I'm sitting in the sun without my corset."

He hid his smile by drawing circles on the blanket. "As a gentleman, I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

Florence grinned back and wondered if she'd ever find a suitor she felt as comfortable with as him. She touched his shoulder with the tip of her finger. "May I ask you a question?"

He rolled onto his back. "Ask away, dearest."

"It's a personal question," she cautioned, "one that might inspire sad thoughts."

"I shall not renege my permission because of that."

She set her wine in the grass. "I know you lost your parents when you were young, but I don't know
how they died."

"Ah," he said, and closed his eyes. To her relief, he was not offended. "They took a trip to Egypt to see the pyramids. On the journey back, one of the passengers brought the yellow fever onto the ship. It was
a bad outbreak. Twenty-two died before they were able to contain it, my parents among them. My mother was one of those who nursed the sick. She saved a few, they say, and died a heroine. I imagine Father was proud of her in the end."

She could not forestall a blush at speaking his name, but Freddie did not notice.

"Actually, Aunt Hypatia became our guardian. Edward was only seventeen, and I was twelve. But he fathered me from then on, if that's what you mean."

"Was it difficult?"

"To let Edward have charge of me? Not in the least, for he'd been doing it all along. Even as a boy, he took his duty as elder brother seriously." His face softened with memory. "Our father was strict. A hard man, you'd say, to the point where he sometimes seemed cruel. His father had been the same. According to family lore, our great-grandfather was a wastrel. Nearly gambled Greystowe into the poorhouse. Perhaps the generations left to repair the damage were right to run a tight ship. Whatever the reason, many times Edward stood between my father's rod and me."

He rolled onto his elbow and covered the hand that was crumpling her skirt. "Shall I tell you the best Edward story?"

Ignoring the sudden skipping of her heart—for why should she care about Edward's part in the tale?—
she smiled into bis boyish face. "Of course you should tell me."

He composed himself by propping his jaw on his hand. "You may not know this, but Greystowe is
built above a lake with an island in its center and a family of proud black swans who return each year to raise their brood."

"Black swans?"

"None other. Nasty, noisy things, if you want to know the truth, but handsome enough to look at. At
any rate, when Edward was seven, our father decided he ought to learn to swim. He rowed him to the deepest end of Greystowe Lake and pushed him over the side of the boat. Edward, of course, immediately flailed around and went under. When my father judged he had swallowed enough water,
he hauled him out, let him catch his breath, and did it again."

"Heavens!" said Florence, her hand to her breast.

"But Edward might have drowned!"

"He learned not to soon enough," Freddie assured her. and soothingly patted her hand. "Edward being who he was, when it came my turn to learn, he insisted he be allowed to teach me. Told my father the responsibility would prepare him to be a leader. He always was better at getting around the earl than I was."

Florence shook her head against a dawning horror. "You can't mean to tell me Edward dumped you in that lake!"

"Indeed, no." Freddie laughed and her shoulders unwound in relief. "But he did take it into his head
that I had to learn in a single day or Father would do it instead. We stayed in that lake till midnight, a
shivering pair of prunes."

"And did you learn to swim?"

"Enough to satisfy Father. And better over the course of the summer. Edward was so pleased he gave
me lessons every day. Two years later, I won a swimming prize at school. Edward doesn't know I know this but, to this day. he keeps that medal in a cabinet by his bed."

Florence blinked her stinging eyes. "What a wonderful story. It makes me wish I really were your cousin, so I could have been there to cheer you on."

"I should have liked that." He touched her cheek where a single tear had slipped away. "Now you must
let me ask you a question."

"Oh, Freddie, you know I can't tell stories like you." "It's not a question that requires a story. At least,
I don"t think it is."

"Very well," she said, and smoothed her simple skirt. "Ask me anything you like."

He cocked his head at her answer, eyes twinkling, but all he said was, "What do you think of Peter Vance?"

"The duke of Monmouth's son?" She sat straighter in surprise.

"Yes. Aunt Hypatia tells me he sent you violets this morning and invited you to the opera with his family."

She squirmed at the memory of the card that had accompanied his bouquet. Something about the
"violet hiding in the shade" and the "sweet and simple beauty" that its perfume betrayed. The sentiment was flattering, even poetic, but Florence had felt supremely uncomfortable when he'd read it.

"I'm sure he only sent them to please his sister," she said. "And even if he didn't, he's the son of a duke."

"The youngest son," Freddie interposed.

"Yes, but I don't think he is someone I should consider. I am only a vicar's daughter."

"You may consider anyone you please. You're a sweet and pretty girl. The question is, does Peter
Vance please you?"

Florence gazed at the sky, at the sheer white clouds and the swallow that soared above them towards
the greensward in Grosvenor Square. Did Peter Vance please her? He didn't have half Freddie's sense
of humor, but he was handsome and ardent and undeniably better than a simple girl like her deserved. Instinct told her he'd be kind to his wife and take a mistress in half a year. Which did not rule him out
as husband material—at least, not the sort of husband she'd told Mr. Mowbry she was seeking.

If her thoughts had been haunted of late by a taller, darker, and infinitely more dangerous figure, that
was a foolish romantic notion she would do her best to quash.

"I suppose he pleases me," she said. "But how can I tell? I have danced with him and talked of nothing. He has brought me punch and paid compliments to my hair. All I really know is that he likes horses, is pleasant to look at, and has an agreeable sister."

"Agreeable sisters are important."

He seemed to be teasing, but Florence couldn't smile. "You must think me terribly cold-blooded."

"You, Florence? Never."

"But to hunt for a husband this way, as if he were a bit of beef, rather than a living human being who would be yoked to me for a lifetime."

"What a horror that would be!"

This stilled him.

"Do you?" he said, eyes hooded from her gaze. She wondered if she'd alarmed him.

"I'm afraid so," she admitted as lightly as she could. "But please don't tell your aunt. She'd be aghast."

"I don't know about that. From what I've seen, she's very fond of you."

"Not fond enough to invite a silly nobody into her family!"

He peered at her from under his brows, the same measuring look he'd been turning on her all day.
"You might be surprised." He smoothed the blanket beside her knee. "Florence, would you really
want to marry someone like me?"

"How can you doubt it? You're quite the nicest man I've met. You're funny and you're kind and when I'm with you, I almost feel brave."

He pressed his hand to his heart. "Goodness. I am a paragon."

She clucked her tongue at him in scold. Though his eyes shone with more than laughter, she should
have known he couldn't be serious.

But then he cleared his throat. "Florence?"

"Yes, Freddie."

He drew a breath and let the words out in a rush. "Would you marry me? Would you really? I know
I'm not as good as I could be, but I'm not as bad as some. I don't drink or gamble or curse. I don't often work hard, but I can, and I'd always do my best to keep you happy."

Her eyes felt as round as saucers. He wanted her to marry him, the man she'd made a model for her ideal. She should have been elated—indeed, part of her was—but behind the elation, a sensation uncommonly like panic was expanding in her chest.

"You can't be serious," she said, half of her wanting him to admit he was teasing.

Her heart was pounding like a drum. She told herself only the thought of Edward kept her from jumping into Freddie's arms, because he'd kissed her, because he'd made her pulse race and her skin tingle from head to toe.

But Edward wouldn't marry her. Even if he would, he wasn't what she needed. Peter Vance might disappoint her, but Edward would break her heart. She knew that as surely as she knew her name.
She'd promised herself she wouldn't end up like her father, half her soul lost to mourning a love she
could never find again. Florence was not some hearts-and-flowers ninny. Florence was a sensible girl. Despite which, she couldn't quite make herself accept.

"I don't know what to say," she said.

"Say yes," Freddie urged.

"Oh, Freddie. How can I? Your aunt will think I've betrayed her trust."

"I assure you she won't, but I'd face even that if you feel certain you'd like to have me."

She searched his dear, kind eyes, eyes that for once seemed as shy and unsure as her own. She could make him happy, she thought. They were not in love, but there was fondness between them, and respect. She could make a home he would be pleased to call his own. She could ease the sadness she sometimes saw behind his smile. As for her...

She would be safe, as safe as she'd ever dreamed. Freddie was a good man: young in some ways, but decent to the core.

"Yes," she said, squeezing his hands. "I'd be honored to be your wife."

She was not sure whose palms were colder: Freddie's or her own.

"Yes," Aunt Hypatia agreed. "A small, quiet wedding, so as not to break your mourning too badly. The vicar at St. Peter's is a friend of mine. I'm sure he can fit you in."

"I don't understand." Florence looked from Edward to his aunt. "You aren't upset. You seem pleased.
I don't mean to insult you, your Grace, but I honestly thought you'd agreed to sponsor me because you hoped I'd upstage Greta and Minna Wainwright."

"And you think this won't do that?" Hypatia barked out a laugh. "No, no, my dear, while I admit the thought of foiling their mother's ambitions lends this match an extra savor, I assure you I had no such ulterior motive. I'm fond of you, Florence. More so now than ever. You've made my nephew a happy man."

"But I'm only—"

"Only my goddaughter," said Edward's cheerfully mendacious aunt as she leaned forward to kiss her cheek. "We're not snobs. I'm sure you'll be a credit to the Burbrooke name."

Florence began to cry, slow fat tears she tried to hide behind her hands. With a fond smile, Freddie
pulled her into his shoulder and stroked her hair. She looked as if she belonged there, as if they were married already.

"There, there," he said. "It's nothing to cry over."

 "You've been so kind," she said, with a teary hiccup. "I don't know how I shall repay you."

"You can repay us by being happy," Freddie said. "That's really all we ask."

His gaze met Edward's over her shoulder. His expression held a grief Edward could scarcely bear to
face, a grief not so much for himself as for Florence—as if, between them, they were committing some terrible sin against the girl.

But they weren't. Edward tugged his lapels and set his jaw. They were saving her. They were making
her happy. Any idiot could see she and Freddie were meant to be. This would not be a marriage like
his parents', with one partner cold and the other miserable. This would be as near to a love match as
Edward had ever seen. If a deception made that possible, well, so be it.

"We all want you happy," he said, his voice gentler than he'd intended.

She looked around at him, her cheek still pressed to Freddie's chest. Her eyes dazzled him, soft with emotion, green as the buds of spring. With no more weapon than that, she speared him to the floor.

Good Lord, he thought, chill with horror. I love her.

"Thank you," she said, as if his approval meant the world. "I'd be proud to join your family."

She held out her hand to him, her small, soft hand.

He thought the hardest thing he'd ever done was clasp it and let it go.

CHAPTER 6

Edward's idea of a quick wedding was not the same as his aunt's. He saw no reason to wait beyond
the obtainment of a special license. She, however, cautioned against the appearance of undue haste.

"It won't do," she said. "Anything less than six months is simply vulgar."

But that was before Imogene Hargreave extended her claws.

Hypatia heard the news before he did. He was sitting down to breakfast when her carriage dropped her
at his door. She didn't wait for Grimby to announce her, but strode straight through. Edward looked up from his plate, too stunned by his aunt's appearance to venture a greeting. Her skirts swished loudly
with her haste, then released a cloud of lavender as she flung herself into a chair. Her hat was askew,
her yellow gloves an offense against her purple dress. Her cane was nowhere in sight.

"We have trouble," she said, yanking off the gloves as if she wished to do them harm. Her hat followed with equal force.

Her face twisted with anger. Edward hadn't seen her in such a fury since the one and only time his father had struck him. Freddie had been six, as he recalled, and the earl had decided to take him cub hunting, it being common practice for inexperienced riders to be set after the younger foxes before the season. Freddie hadn't understood what would happen until it came time to "blood" him with the kill. He'd turned hysterical then, refusing to let their father smear his forehead—no surprise, since the boy still slept with a stuffed rabbit. Only Edward's intervention had stopped the earl from shouting his younger son deaf, for which act Edward had earned a black eye.

He'd known at once his father regretted lashing out. The earl had grown very quiet; actually picked Freddie up and carried him back to the house—gently, too, as if he meant to comfort him. When Aunt Hypatia discovered what had happened and slapped her elder brother across the face, the earl accepted her judgment without a word.

She looked as if she wanted to slap someone now, but her fingers merely tightened on the teacup. "It's that bastard Charles Hargreave," she said. "He's telling people he saw someone who looked 'uncommonly like Freddie Burbrooke' coming out of an introducing house on Fitzroy Street."

Edward sagged back in his chair. Despite his fears, the news caught him completely unprepared. An introducing house was a homosexual brothel that specialized in underage boys. If it was true ...

"I don't believe it," he said, breathless and hot with shock. "Freddie gave me his word. Even if he hadn't, he would never do anything to take advantage of the young."

He wouldn't, he told himself, the possibility unbearable. Not Freddie. Not the brother he loved. His hands clenched so tightly the skin over his knuckles stretched white.

Edward smashed his fist into his thigh. "It's Imogene. That bloody bitch put her husband up to it."

Hypatia stared at him, one thin brow raised in judgment. That she'd indulged in similar language did not seem to matter. Edward rubbed the ache in the center of his forehead.

"Sorry," he said. "Shouldn't have lost my temper."

"Of course you should have. Hargreave's behavior is despicable, even if his wife is behind it." Calm now, she turned the blue and white teacup in a circle. She reminded him of merchants he knew, planners, men of business. Her gaze was as cool as theirs. "I won't ask why Lady Hargreave might have a grievance against this family. I simply trust that no one in it will have anything further to do with her." Edward's laugh was brief and bitter. "You can rest easy on that."

"Good." With a brisk rustle, the duchess rearranged her skirts. "Now all we have to do is decide how to get Florence to Greystowe."

Without quite realizing he'd done it, Edward pressed a hand over his stomach. Summer's end. Was that
all it would take?

"They'll need a chaperone," he said, his voice strangely distant to his ears. "Are you willing to accompany them?"

"More than. But I think you'd better come, too."

"Me?" The ache in his belly increased.

"I trust Freddie," said the duchess. "But I trust him more when he knows your eyes are on him."

Which was good news, really, even if it meant he'd be living out Imogene's curse. She'd kept her word, damn her; she seemed not to have told anyone that Florence had enamored him. She'd found a better
way to hurt him: through Freddie, through the brother who was his heart. But at least they'd be taking Florence beyond her reach. He didn't trust his former mistress to hold her tongue should the two meet face-to-face.

Edward's chance to speak to Freddie came that afternoon. He found him in the study, slumped in a
chair with the curtains drawn, a bottle and glass close to hand. A single lamp burned on the table by his elbow. The low yellow light turned his wavy brown hair to gold. From the rumpled state of his clothes,
it appeared he'd been sitting—and drinking—for some time. His collar was open, his tie a draggle around his neck. He looked a fallen angel, one who mourned his former state of grace. Where had he heard the news? At his club? On the street? At a loss as to how to begin, he walked to Freddie's side and looked down. His brother did not look up.

"Join me?" he said, his voice slurred but steady. "We can drink to the end of Freddie Burbrooke as we know him."

Edward's breath came faster. "I know you didn't do what they're saying."

Freddie finished his drink and poured another. The decanter clinked against the cut-glass rim, but the liquor did not spill. "How do you know?" he said, eerily calm. "I'm a deviate, aren't I? The victim of unnatural urges. Who can say where my depravity ends?"

Edward grabbed his shoulders and shook him. The glass tumbled down Freddie's shirtfront, spraying whiskey over them both on its way to the floor. Freddie's head rolled back and forth like a rag doll's,
but Edward could not stop.

"I know you didn't do it," he said, almost shouting. "I know!"

With a sudden burst of energy, Freddie pushed him off. He wasn't as strong as Edward but he was
strong enough. He stood and put the chair between them. "You don't know, damn you. I can see how afraid you are. I can hear it in your voice." He raked his hair back with a curse, then pointed in accusation. "You can't know because you don't know anything about that side of me. You don't know how it works. You don't know how it thinks. I don't blame you for doubting me, Edward, but I swear
to you, I'd rather die than do a thing like that."

Edward stepped to the front of the chair and laid his hand on Freddie's shoulder. His brother was
shaking, his teeth chattering with the force of his distress. His eyes were red but dry. They seemed to burn as they met Edward's gaze.

"Never," Freddie said, tight and low. "Never with anyone but an equal. Never with anyone who didn't want it as much as I did."

The terrible doubt inside him eased. He knew Freddie was telling the truth and yet, as grateful as he was, he didn't want to hear this; didn't want to know there had been others besides the footman, besides the boys at school. He looked down at the empty chair, at the drying liquor stain on its seat. "Aunt Hypatia and I have decided we need to go to Greystowe: you, me, the duchess, and Florence."

"Florence?" Freddie's brow lifted in astonishment, "Edward. You can't mean to go through with this engagement. Florence is bound to hear."

"That's why we're going to Greystowe."

"For the rest of our natural lives?"

Edward stooped to retrieve the fallen glass. "Just for the summer. Memories are short. The next
scandal will push this one from people's minds."

"And if it doesn't? Good Lord, Edward, think of Florence. It's hardly fair to—"

"There's more to life than roofs and meals."

"You are more than a meal to her, Freddie. You're her friend." Edward knew he spoke the truth, just
as he knew this was the way things had to be, for all their sakes. Maybe Florence did deserve to marry more than a friend. Maybe she deserved the world. That didn't mean she wouldn't be perfectly content
as Freddie's wife. And Freddie would be content as Florence's husband: content and safe. In this sorry
old world, who had the right to ask more than that? Throat tight, Edward opened the decanter and poured. Freddie watched wide-eyed as his brother tossed back the drink. The fine Irish whiskey hit his belly like a punch. He coughed before he spoke. "I'm telling Lewis we leave tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," he rasped, and prayed the decision would not destroy them all.

Florence was exiting the library with a book when the senior footman informed her that her cousins
were in the drawing room.

"My cousins?"

"Lord Greystowe and Viscount Burbrooke."

"Of course," she said, nervously smoothing her skirts. "Thank you, John. I'll go right up."

She wondered what they wanted, as it was past the hour for calls. Business involving the engagement, perhaps? But it seemed unlikely they would discuss that without the duchess, and she was spending the evening with friends.

"Gentlemen," she said, striving to present a calm exterior as she entered the elegant room.

The men rose and bowed. To her consternation, both wore matching sober faces. Indeed, Florence
had never seen Freddie so serious. Heavens, she thought, her heart giving the oddest leap. They must
be calling off the betrothal,

"No, no," said Edward. His smile seemed forced even for him. "Freddie here"—he slung his arm around his brother's shoulder—"has a surprise for you."

Freddie looked a bit green around the gills but he nodded in agreement. "Thought you might fancy a trip to Greystowe. See my boyhood haunts and all."

Florence blinked at him, then broke into a grin. "I'd love to, Freddie. Absolutely love to." She skipped across the room to squeeze his hands. "How did you know I'd been longing for the country?"

"You don't have to go," he said. "Only if you really want to."

There was something in his eyes she didn't understand, some inexplicable discomfort, as if he were making this offer under duress. Edward cleared his throat.

"What's the matter?" she asked, her hands slipping to Freddie's lapels. "Don't you want to go?"

" 'Course I want to go. Just thought you might regret missing the rest of the Season."

Florence had to laugh at that. "I'd pay to miss the rest of the Season. But are you well, Freddie? You
look pale."

"Drank too much at my club," he confessed, pulling away and giving his coat a tug. "Think I'd better
see if Aunt Hypatia's footman has a cure."

With that, he hastened from the drawing room as if he were being chased. Florence stared after him. "How peculiar," she said. "It's not like Freddie to overindulge."

"I imagine his friends wanted to toast his engagement." The explanation rang false, but she shrugged the mystery off. No doubt Edward was hoping to keep some prank from Florence's ears. She could not worry about it now. Freddie's abrupt departure had left the two of them alone. As always, Edward's presence, and all the unsettling feelings it inspired, was quite enough to occupy her mind.

"Shall I ring for refreshment?" she asked even as she hoped he would refuse.

"Brandy?" she offered.

Again he shook his head, then seemed to gather his will. "You are happy, aren't you?"

The question was more accusatory than concerned, and more personal than he had any right to ask.
Her temper rose. "Of course I'm happy. Why wouldn't I be? Freddie is a wonderful man. A true gentleman."

Edward flushed at her barb, then tightened his jaw. "Glad to hear it," he said in a patently scornful
drawl. "I'd always hoped my brother's wife would appreciate the noble virtues."

"More than you can," she said, and matched him glare for glare.

She didn't know when they'd drawn so close but they were nose to nose now, each vibrating with fury. His scent threatened to seep into her skin, musk and salt, heating her blood against her will. Damn him, she thought, for being so blasted masculine.

"If you hurt him ..." he warned.

"I? I hurt him? You're the one who—" But she snapped her mouth shut on the rest. A real lady would pretend their encounter in the Vances' conservatory had never happened.

Not that Edward would let her be a lady. "No, no," he urged. "Finish what you were saying. I'm the
one who what?"

She drew herself up and turned her face away. "It could not be of less importance."

"Oh, it couldn't, could it?"

When he gripped her jaw and forced it back, she felt as if she'd been waiting all night for him to do this very thing. Her body thrummed with excitement even as her heart sped up with fear. Her lungs were working like a bellows.

"Florence," he growled, his nostrils flaring as if he, too, could scent her secret flesh. His mouth crashed over hers, all searing male power. He invaded her, drew on her, his hand like iron around her jaw. He kissed her until her knees began to wobble, until her hands fluttered to grab his coat.

He kissed her until she whimpered, until every shred of rational thought escaped her brain. The sinews
of his neck were damp beneath her palm, his breathing ragged on her cheek. He pulled her up against him, his hold crushing her dress, his thighs hard and hot through the fragile cloth. With one forearm banded beneath her buttocks, his hips began to rock like that night at the ball. The ridge between them was extravagantly large. He seemed to want to brand her with it, to force her to take its measure against her skin. She could not get away; could barely even squirm, but the long, grinding press did not frighten her as before. Instead, to her dismay, she wished she could explore him with her hands; wished she could see the shape of his desire. Here was a passion a woman could drown in. Willingly. Recklessly. Until she begged her seducer to do with her what he pleased.

Of course, she should have known what Edward pleased had nothing to do with her.

Just as she was ready to add her own hunger to the kiss, he tore his mouth away and held her off from him by the shoulder. "Now that," he rasped, "could not be less important."

He strode from the room without another word. Beast, she fumed. Horrible, arrogant beast. She couldn't be attracted to a man like that. Simply couldn't. What was he trying to prove? That she liked his kisses? That she wasn't enough of a lady for his brother?

"I am," she swore to the silent room. "I am." She released a long, tremulous breath, then smoothed her hair into its coiffure. She was not a heroine from a penny weekly, tripping blithely down the road to ruin. She was a vicar's daughter, a gentlewoman born. This ... anomaly in her feelings would not sway her.
So long as Freddie Burbrooke wished to marry her, she was more than happy to marry him.

Whether she was more than happy to be Edward's sister-in-law, however, was a very different matter.

* * *

Bloody insane, He thought, sagging back against the drawing room's heavy door. He'd kissed her. Again. For no better reason than her implication that his kisses didn't matter. What did he expect her to say? That she was secretly in love with him and that Freddie, "the perfect gentleman," could go hang? As if that would help. He covered his eyes and wagged his head. Better he should pray she hated him.

Of course, after tonight's fiasco, chances were good she did.

* * *

The journey to Greystowe was as different as night and day from the one she'd made to London. Edward, it seemed, owned a railway carriage.

"The spoils of dirtying one's hands in industry," Freddie teased as he handed a gaping Florence up
the stairs.

Inside, the car was as fancy as the duchess's drawing room. The walls were lined in bird's-eye maple,
the couches and chairs upholstered in dark green satin. Quilted black silk covered the arch of the ceiling and a rich Chinese rag, intricately patterned in red and gold, muffled the floor. The effect was one of sumptuous, masculine splendor, so sumptuous Florence blushed to see it. She couldn't help imagining Edward stretching some eager maiden across that couch, kissing her perhaps as he'd kissed Florence. How smooth that silk would feel beneath one's skin; how it would whisper when one moved. With a
tiny shudder, she pushed the senseless image aside. That way lay disaster.

"Heavens," she exclaimed, then lowered her voice because Edward was climbing in. "He doesn't own
the whole train, does he?"

Freddie laughed and turned to his brother. "Florence wants to know if you own the train."

"No," he said, with his customary curtness. He reached for the duchess's hands. "That honor belongs to the Midland Railway."

He seemed to feel the same. First he buried himself in the London Times, and then in a pile of correspondence. She told herself she did not care, could not possibly care. She'd enjoy the trip, just as she'd enjoy their stay at Greystowe.

She had plenty of time to test her vow, for the journey was not a short one. Greystowe, Freddie
informed her, was in the East Midlands, not far from the Peak District. As they clattered and chuffed towards the heart of England, they passed picturesque villages and thriving market towns. To her relief, the stench of London quickly cleared the air. The building stone turned gold and soft, and the landscape took on a pleasing roll. Sheep grazed the slopes, but crops had been planted as well. They shimmered
low and green beneath the clear June sky.

The country girl inside her drank it in like a healing balm.

At last, as the sun began to sink behind the hills, they entered a sheltered valley. Its fields were fed by
the Derwent River and separated not by hedgerows, but by weatherworn walls of stone. Ox-eye daisies waved at her from the side of the track. The grass was wonderfully green. After her stay in London, the color almost hurt her eyes.

The station bordered the village of Greystowe, a handsome tumble of half-timbered Tudor shops. Edward's car was unhooked from the rest and towed onto a private siding.

"Thank God," Freddie said, stretching until his spine cracked.

Florence echoed his sentiment with a smile, but saved her stretch for later. Aunt Hypatia would not have approved, even if she had been sleeping for hours. With a tenderness that belied his surly mood, Edward touched his aunt's shoulder. His face was achingly beautiful in its kindness.

The duchess awoke with a start. "Goodness," she said. "Must have dropped off for a minute."

No one was rude enough to contradict her, but even Edward joined the exchange of grins.

A big old-fashioned coach awaited them on the road, accompanied by a much plainer wagon into which half a dozen liveried servants were loading their luggage. Their silent efficiency was impressive to behold. Clearly, Edward's arrival had whipped them to their best.

"Not far now," said Freddie, and draped his arm around her back. His warmth was twice as welcome after all those hours of Edward's chill. She had to admit, though, she was surprised to find him eager to resume his rural life. If ever a man had been made for the city, it was Freddie. He loved people and parties and gossiping till dawn.

"Tell me Cook has a big dinner waiting," he called to the coachman, obviously an old retainer.

"Could be, sir," said that large, grizzled fellow. "Did think I smelled a Yorkshire pudding afore I left."

Florence's stomach growled at the mention of food. They'd had a light tea on the train, but that was all. Freddie, of course, could not ignore the unladylike sound.

"Roast beef," he said, rubbing his hands in exaggerated glee. "Horseradish sauce and gravy."

She laughed and pushed his shoulder to make him stop. "You'd think you'd been fasting for days!"

Beside her, Edward rediscovered his frown.

The church was farther into town, with a handsome stone school beside it. The town fathers—here she glanced at Edward—had not stinted on the windows, all of which would be taxed. She smiled when she remembered her father bullying the council to put in his windows. Children need light, he'd exhorted. Light and air and a place for little eyes to wander. As always, the thought of him brought a touch of sadness. Poor Papa. So much love in that big, warm heart and no one to spend it on but his daughter
and his flock. They hadn't been enough. Hard as he tried to hide it, she'd always known a part of him
had broken with her mother's death.

Freddie noted what had drawn her attention. "You'll have to visit when school starts up."

"Yes," she said and shyly squeezed his hand. Would they be here then? Did Freddie mean for them to live at Greystowe? Would he allow her to teach? Florence had done so at home. As the vicar's daughter, it was expected. When she married Freddie she'd be a lady but, oh, how little she'd like that honor if it meant she had to sit home all day and stitch!

These questions massed inside her as they rolled through the pretty town, but Edward's presence compelled her to hold them back. She didn't know if Freddie had spoken to his brother about the future. Would they have a small place of their own? Would Freddie want one? She could have burst with all
she wished to ask. Even not knowing, the thought that this might be her home added interest to every
soul they passed.

People called out to Freddie, she noticed, and tipped their caps to the earl.

All thoughts of the future faded with her first glimpse of the estate. The railway carriage should have warned her, and the mention of the cotton mill. Despite these hints, the sheer size of the place took her aback.

Greystowe sprawled across its grassy rise like a small Gothic town: a fortress town. Though of relatively modern construction, with all the attendant tracery and windows and archwork, the house was topped
by battlements of stone. The lake reflected its blocks and towers, not so much in vanity as in emphasis. Swans aside, Florence couldn't help being reminded of a moat. This house made no bones about its intent. It was built to impress, to dominate, to hearken back to a time when lords were lords and
everyone else was not.

Her lips twitched as she snuck a look at Edward's stern, feudal visage. She bet he'd have liked clumping about in armor, or galloping off on Samson to terrorize England's foes. What a step down he must feel it, to be reduced to terrorizing country mice!

"Home, sweet home," said Freddie, and Florence's burst of humor faded. Anything less like a home she could not imagine. The setting sun flamed across a numberless march of windows: rose on the lower stories, lime on the upper.

It would take a miracle, she thought, to make a girl like her feel comfortable here.

Even as she pondered this impossibility, the front door— a great ironbound arch that required two brawny footmen to prop it open—released a long double line of servants. They filed down the wide granite steps, crisp as you please, like a regiment forming ranks. Their livery was black and fawn, with shining brass buttons on the coats. Edward waited for them to assemble, precisely as if he intended to review them. When they'd finished, one man and one woman stepped forward.

The man was tall and elegant, with salted black hair and pale gray eyes. The woman, a bit older, was round and merry. Good humor notwithstanding, she held herself with authority. Florence suspected she was the housekeeper.

"Welcome home, your lordship," said the man. "We received your telegram and everything is in readiness."

"I've prepared the best upstairs apartment for the young lady," the woman added, "and the duchess"—here she dropped a curtsey—"shall have her usual rooms on the ground floor."

"Very good," said Edward. He turned to Florence, his eyes strangely wary. If she hadn't known better, she'd have said he was worried about her reaction. "Florence, this is our steward, Nigel West, and our housekeeper, Mrs. Forster. They've both been with us for years. Should you require anything at all,
one or the other of them will be happy to oblige."

"And may we say," Mrs. Forster put in, "that we're very pleased to meet young Lord Burbrooke's intended?"

"I believe you have said it," Freddie cried, and pulled the older woman into a hug.

The woman laughed as he spun her around, her dignity forgotten. Florence smiled at the spectacle.
Leave it to Freddie to put everyone at their ease. Edward, naturally, called a halt to the merriment.
"We should go in," he said. "I'm sure the ladies would like to freshen up."

Mrs. Forster immediately squirmed down and sobered. "At once, my lord. If the ladies would
follow me?"

He's an ogre, Florence thought as the housekeeper led her up the main stair. He's an old sourpuss who can't bear to see anyone happy. The thought steadied her, as if it were a shield against confusion. But when she stepped into the blue and white splendor of her rooms, something awaited that put her to shame. It wasn't the huge tester bed, or the breathtaking view of the lake, or even the gorgeous carving
on the fireplace. It was the picture that hung above it: Mr. Whistler's blue bridge, even more beautiful than when it had hung in that poor dingy corner of the Academy.

"Oh, my," she breathed, hands to her mouth. He'd remembered her admiration for this painting, and deigned to share the pleasure of owning it with her. That the same horrid creature who'd used his kisses to insult her could be so thoughtful was beyond her power to fathom.

Mrs. Forster was a step behind her. "Funny sort of mess," she said. "Lord Greystowe claims it's art, but
if you don't like it, I'll take it somewhere else."

"Oh, no," said Florence. "There isn't another picture I'd like to look at more."

She hadn't been fair, she thought as the housekeeper withdrew. Perhaps he had some reason for his behavior, perverse as it was, which she did not comprehend. Perhaps, in fact, he meant this as an apology.

And perhaps pigs will fly in Hades, her more practical self put in. But if there was even a chance he wasn't set against her, that he was only concerned she would let his brother down, she had to do her
best to win him over. And that's all I want, she promised herself: to be friends, to turn the other cheek
as her father would have wished. For the sake of her and Freddie's happiness, she knew she had to try.

* * *

Like his father, Edward favored simple landscaping. Greystowe shunned Frenchified bedding arrangements for a more natural, parklike effect. Nothing was allowed to ran wild, of course; the thickets and glades were strictly planned. But in appearance, at least, the grounds might have been dropped from God's hand. Even the rose garden, his mother's special project, bore an admirably spontaneous air.

Florence had just stepped onto its crushed oyster shell walk when a sudden belling from the hounds warned Edward that one segment of the household's population had yet to welcome them home. The pack raced across the lawn in full cry, their tails wagging madly, their keeper in hot pursuit.
"Hoy," yelled that hapless fellow. "Hoy there, lads. Holdup!"

Edward braced himself for an embarrassing scene. He was not disappointed. In a matter of heartbeats,
the wolfhound's paws struck his shoulders. Nor was he the last of the assault. Between barks and
whines of joy, a dozen tongues lashed his hands, and a dozen noses snuffled whatever they pleased.

"Enough," he said, thrusting the worst of them away. To his amazement, he was obeyed.

Then he saw why.

Every one of the smaller dogs was groveling furiously at Florence's feet. True, she had knelt down to
pet them, but even so, the division of attention was unprecedented. Even Freddie, whom the dogs
knew, didn't warrant such a greeting.

Florence looked up from the tangle of wriggling bodies.

Ridiculous, he thought. Totally ridiculous.

"Well," Aunt Hypatia observed, "people are right to speak of your animal magnetism."

Florence's head came up in alarm, the pink of her cheeks rivaling his mother's roses. "Oh, no," she said. "I never have this effect on dogs. Only cats and ... and small children. I'm sure I simply smell of dinner."

That, Edward thought, did not explain the effect she had on him. Even now, in front of his family, in front of the gamekeeper and God, he couldn't control his lust for his brother's future bride. His palms itched to hold her, to touch her in any way. Even to stroke the soft curves of her face, to kiss the tip of her nose, would have brought him satisfaction. Never had he yearned like this for a woman. Aunt
Hypatia had spoken true. He was an animal. And Florence, apparently, was the magnet he couldn't resist.

Florence had survived the day: the train ride and the silent dinner and Edward's obvious disapproval
over that stupid business with the dogs. As if she'd wanted them to make a cake of her! Now she stood by the window in her darkened sitting room, quiet but for the sound of Lizzie's snores from the room
next door. The maid was understandably tired. She'd ridden to Greystowe on the public part of the train, along with the duchess's maid, Edward's valet, and a few of the footmen who weren't needed to keep
the London house. Lizzie had been sorry to leave the city until she'd discovered they weren't trading it
for a drafty, antiquated heap.

"They've got running water," she'd imparted in a breathless tone. "Hot and cold. And baths in the servants' wing.

This last pleased her most. Lizzie had never relished the messy chore of trimming lamps. Not that she would have been asked to do it here. Thanks to Aunt Hypatia, Lizzie had climbed to the top of the servants' heap. Only the steward and the housekeeper had the right to order her about, a fact that was only beginning to sink in. "I've never been so happy," she said. "Never."

Florence should have been able to say the same. Freddie was a wonderful man. Her future was nearly assured. But instead of enjoying the accomplishment of her dream, she stood sleepless, restless, her forehead pressed to the glass, her mind on a single thorn. Sighing, she gazed out at the grounds. The window overlooked the moonlit lake at the front of the house, the selfsame lake in which Freddie had learned to swim. An arched stone bridge connected its bank to the island in its center. Between the tops
of the trees poked a pointed Moorish roof. She wondered what the building beneath it was used for, if
it were simply a folly or a place one could shelter from a storm. It seemed large, its architecture unlike anything on the grounds. Florence shivered and rubbed the curtain's gauzy liner against her cheek. The building was exotic, Eastern, a place for self-indulgence and assignations: a man's place.

How easily she could picture Edward there, despite his stuffy manner. He'd furnished his train car,
hadn't he? He must harbor a streak of the sybaritic. He'd smoke cigars in that hideaway, she mused,
and drink expensive wine. And meet women, of course. The local widows. The saucy laundry maids. They'd know more than his kisses. They wouldn't be too frightened to unwrap the mystery that hung between his legs. They'd touch it bare and feel it harden. They wouldn't fear, not them, not with Edward to guide the way. Edward would know how to protect a woman from the consequences of indiscretion.

Then, just as she was about to turn away, she saw a figure on a horse, cantering smoothly around the lake. Edward. And Samson. They seemed a creature out of myth, one being. As she watched, Edward slowed the stallion to walk him through a patch of stones.

He cares for that horse, she thought, far more than he'll ever care for me.

Then it came to her: what she could do to win his respect.

Her hand tightened on the drapes and her body tingled with a different sort of thrill. This was the
answer. She was sure of it. I must learn to ride, she thought, as well as a lady born.

Heart pounding with resolve, Florence found Freddie in the billiard room after breakfast. Appropriately enough, he was dressed to ride, though, at the moment, he was merely knocking balls around the table. When he looked up from his shot, his eyes glowed with approval. "Well," he said, "don't you look smart!" Uncustomarily nervous, at least for an interview with Freddie, she smoothed the front of her teal-colored habit.

With a smile, Freddie set down his stick. "What would you like to do today? We could go into town
and meet the shopkeepers, who—believe me—will be delighted to hear there's a lady in residence. Or
we could visit the canal. We're not too far from the lock, and the boats hereabouts are the sort of works of art a Philistine like me can appreciate. The owners paint them, stem to stern, like gypsy wagons. They're very pretty. Plus, I'm sure the Quack and Waddle would be happy to have us for lunch."

Freddie cocked his head at her. "You don't ride badly."

"Not riding badly isn't the same as riding well. You and I are ... are going to be married. I don't want
you to be ashamed of me."

"I couldn't be ashamed of you if you rode like a sack of potatoes."

Florence looked down at her hands, folded now across her waist. She was uncomfortably aware that she wasn't being honest with him; that it wasn't Freddie's judgment she hoped to improve. Still, his brother's opinion mattered to him as well. If Florence won Edward over, Freddie would be happier, too.

"I'd like to ride better," she said, and forced herself to meet his eye. "You don't have to teach me yourself. One of the grooms could if you'd rather. Anyone who knows more than me would be a help. Please, Freddie. I'd really like to learn."

"I see that," he said. He seemed perplexed by her persistence. The lift of his golden brows wrinkled the skin of his forehead. "Very well. I'd be happy to teach you what I can."

"Are you sure you don't mind?"

"Not at all." He rolled a green ball into the corner of the table, then grinned. "It will be fun. You have
a nice enough seat already. You'll be a nonpareil in no time."

"Oh, Freddie. I don't—"

"I know." He laughed. "You don't want to attract attention. We'll turn you into a quiet nonpareil, a perfectly unobjectionable equestrienne."

Florence was so grateful she rose on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "That," she said, blushing for her boldness, "would be marvelous."

CHAPTER 7

The day was perfect for a ride: warm with a light, rose-scented breeze and a flood of sparkling sunshine. She and Freddie crossed the back grounds to reach the stable, a longer walk than she'd expected. Greystowe's servant wing took up fully half of the sprawling house, and the stable was no smaller in scale. Like the main structure, it was built of stone. Blue slate protected its barrel roof and tall arching windows opened onto each horse's stall. The horses were cleaner and better fed than many of the people she'd seen in London. Even the cats looked sleek and fat.

They, thank heavens, took a few twists around her ankles and let her be.

With the efficiency that characterized all of Greystowe's workings, Freddie was mounted on a dappled gray and Florence on a nervous brown mare with the unpromising name of Nitwit.

"She'll settle," the groom assured her when the horse shifted from side to side. "It's the stable she don't like. Once you're in the open, she goes as pretty as you please."

Since they were already in the yard, Florence wasn't certain she believed this. Nitwit had her swaying
like a tipsy sailor. Happily, the mare did calm as they left the home paddock behind.

Freddie smiled and waved and clicked his horse to a brisker pace.

"We'll take you across the downs," he said, "and get a look at your form."

The downs were an expanse of low, grassy hills, dotted with sheep and crossed by a narrow stream.
After a short ride, Freddie pulled up at a flat, clover-strewn stretch of grass. "Here's a likely spot.
'Course, you probably shouldn't gallop a horse you've never ridden. Would you mind if Sooty and
I shake the bugs out while you wait? I can tell he wants to run."

The dappled horse blew noisily in agreement. Florence laughed. "By all means, shake out all the bugs
you please. Nitwit and I will enjoy the view."

In truth, Nitwit enjoyed the clover more than the view, but Florence was admiring enough for them both. Freddie rode as well as his brother, though his style was different: more full out, as if the horse's spirit drove that rolling gallop, rather than Freddie's driving the horse. He crouched low over Sooty's neck, his seat rising out of the saddle, his golden hair streaking like a second mane. He was tall for a jockey, but Florence had never seen one with more dash.

He was free out there. She'd never thought of him as less than free, not like his brother, but seeing him today she knew that he, too, had constraints he needed to leave behind.

Horse and rider slowed to a canter, quartering back the way they'd come. Sooty's gait was smooth as butter, a joy to watch. As if to share the pleasure, Freddie hooted and waved his arm.

Until Sooty found the hole.

It caught his right foreleg. She heard the horse scream and saw him fall. Freddie went down with him.
He let out a yell, and then she heard nothing. Sensing her alarm, Nitwit began to sidle but Florence dug
in her heels and forced her across the field.

"Come on," she urged, her skin all over sweat. "Come on!"

Even that close, Florence couldn't see Freddie, just the: thrashing horse. Lord, she thought, Freddie must be underneath. She jumped from the saddle. The break was bad. Sooty's right cannon bone stuck out beyond his skin, the edges showing ragged through the blood. The horse was rolling his eyes, moaning low in his throat for help. She wished she could stop but she couldn't until she'd seen to Freddie.

As she feared, he lay under the horse, legs trapped by its weight, eyes wide and staring.

"Freddie!" she cried, kneeling beside him. He was pale as parchment.

And he wasn't breathing.

Her moan echoed the horse's. He couldn't be dead. He couldn't. What would Edward do? Edward
would die himself. She touched Freddie's throat. A pulse. She felt a pulse. She had to do something.
She couldn't move him, but she had to wake him. She had to make him breathe. God, she thought, praying this time. Please, please tell me what to do.

She didn't know if He answered but she drew back her arm and slapped his face. "Freddie! Freddie,
wake up!"

His body shuddered so she slapped the other cheek. This time he gasped, his chest lurching upward in a pull for air. His eyes jerked wildly as if he didn't know where he was. A second later, he tried to sit up. His groan was almost too low to hear.

"Don't move," she ordered, pushing him back. She gasped for air herself, so relieved she could barely speak. "You've had a bad fall. I think you got the wind knocked out of you, but you might have hurt
your spine."

"Fall?" Then he saw what was lying across his legs. "Bloody hell," he said, the first time she'd heard
him curse. "He told me. He told me about the bloody badgers and I forgot." He pressed his arm across
his eyes. "God damn it, I've killed my horse."

His fist pounded the grass. Florence caught it before he could hurt himself any more. "Freddie, it was
an accident."

Florence stroked his bone-white, clammy face. More than his language shocked her. "Freddie. Edward might be disappointed, but the only thing he'd never forgive is if you'd killed yourself."

Freddie lowered his arm. Tears streaked his face, but she saw her words had calmed him. "You have to ride to the house and get him. Tell him to bring some footmen. And a rifle." Florence looked at him,
then at the panting horse. He covered his eyes again. "Hurry, Florence. I don't want Sooty to suffer."

She hurried as well as she could on a horse who tried to skitter sideways every time she saw the house. She had to lash the mare hard before she'd gallop, and then it was only will that kept her in the saddle. Sliding off at the rose garden, she picked up her skirts and ran.

"Edward!" she shouted with the last of her breath. "Edward!"

He appeared, with Nigel West, on the first floor landing. She thought she'd never been so grateful to
see anyone in her life.

Edward paled when he saw her. "Florence, what's wrong?"

"It's Freddie. He fell. The horse." She held her stomach and gasped for air. "You need to bring some servants and a rifle."

Both men had run down the stairs in the time it took her to say this. Now Edward grabbed her arms
hard enough to bruise. "Is Freddie all right?"

"Yes, I think so. But he's trapped under the horse and the horse has a bad break. Freddie thinks he
needs to be put down."

Edward emptied his lungs. Then, visibly in control again, he addressed his companion. "Nigel, you get
the men and the gun. We'll meet at the stables and Florence will lead us to where it happened."

The steward pulled himself straighten "We should bring Jenkyns, too. He can patch Freddie up if he needs it."

"Good," said Edward. "Do it."

He hustled her into the garden before her brain had finished following what he'd said. Fortunately, she'd remembered to loop Nitwit's reins around a bench, though she didn't remember how she'd gotten onto
the horse's back without a mounting block. Now Edward tossed her up so quickly, she nearly slid off
the other side.

He shook his head, took the reins from her hands, and led her to the stable as if she were a child. His anger was a cold, palpable force. The mare minced after him like a beaten dog. Florence wasn't beaten, though, not when it came to protecting those she loved.

"Freddie's sorry," she said, her jaw tight from steadying her voice. "He's sorrier than you could make
him if you tried. There's nothing I can do to stop you from yelling at him, but I really don't think that's what he needs."

Edward stopped. He stared at her as if she'd grown a second head. When he turned away, he quickened his pace. "I've no intention of yelling at my brother."

"What about glowering at him? What about making him feel as if that horse means more to you than he does?"

A muscle bunched in Edward's cheek. "My brother knows better than that."

"Not right now, he doesn't."

Edward walked faster still. Florence knew she had no right to dictate his behavior, but she refused to withdraw a single word. Freddie thought he was worthless. Freddie thought everything he touched went wrong.

"You have to be nice to him," she insisted, though her heart was pounding in her throat.

Edward snorted. "I'll shower him with the milk of human kindness."

His tone was as dry as she'd ever heard it. She could only hope she'd made her point.

She thought he was a monster.

Even as Edward issued orders, Florence's scold played through his mind. Even as he waited for Jenkyns to gather his supplies, even as they rode like thunder across the downs, her estimation of his character made him grind his teeth.

She thought he was a monster.

But when they reached Freddie every worry but his brother left his mind. The horse lay over him from the waist down. This couldn't be good. In a single motion, Edward swung off Samson and tossed his
reins to someone else. His knees hit the turf by Freddie's side.

Freddie's eyes fluttered open. His face was the bluish white of too-thin milk. It glistened with perspiration. He was in pain, Edward knew. Bad pain.

"Eddie," he said, a name he hadn't used since they were children. His voice was thready. "Tried to move, but my leg—" He grimaced. "Think I broke it. Only fair, I guess, since I broke the damn horse's."

"Sh," Edward soothed, brushing the hair from Freddie's brow. Freddie's tone alarmed him. Was Florence right? Did his brother think the horse meant more to him than he did?

"Stupid," Freddie said, rolling his head from side to side. "The groom warned me."

By this time, the stablemaster was kneeling by Freddie's other side. He touched Edward's arm. "I'd like
to get a look at his eyes, my lord. See how bad a thump he took. Then the men can hoist up the horse and we'll slide him out."

Edward nodded. Jenkyns was the best doctor Greystowe had, a man of sense and experience, with
people and horses. Not knowing what else to do, Edward moved to Sooty's head and held his tossing muzzle. "There," he said, over the horse's ragged pants. "You'll be out of this soon."

Sooty's great, liquid eyes held such pleas, and such faith in Edward's ability to grant them, that he felt
as if a vise were tightening around his ribs. "You're a good fellow," he said, the words like gravel in his throat. "You've been a good friend to my brother."

"Of course." Edward gave Sooty a last pat and got to his feet.

To his surprise, Florence moved in as well. Though he couldn't imagine what help she'd be in lifting a horse, some corner of his mind was pleased she wasn't hysterical.

"She's to steady Lord Burbrooke's legs," Jenkyns explained. "We don't want them jostled when we slide him out." The wiry stablemaster had positioned himself behind Freddie's shoulders, ready to pull the moment Edward gave the signal.

"All right," Edward said to the other men. "On three."

They got him out on the second try. Both Freddie and the horse cried out at being moved.

"Stand back, Florence," Edward said once his brother was free. He could tell from Freddie's pallor that
he was about to be sick. Florence seemed to reach the same conclusion. Despite the warning, she rubbed his back while Jenkyns rolled him gently to his side. She didn't cluck or fuss, just stroked him the way a mother would a weary child.

When his sickness passed, they immobilized Freddie's leg and laid him on a canvas stretcher. Nigel took one end and Jenkyns the other. Woozy with pain, Freddie still reached for Edward before they could carry him off.

"You take care of Sooty," he said, his grip surprisingly strong on Edward's wrist. "He knows you.
I don't want him to go without a friend."

"I will" was all he managed to get out.

To Edward's surprise, Florence did not leave with her fiance.

"I'm staying with you," she said, her face tear-stained but determined.

"With me?"

She glanced at the footman who'd carried the gun, then lowered her voice. "I wronged you, Edward.
I should have known you wouldn't treat Freddie harshly. And I want to make sure you're all right."

His mouth fished open and shut. Protests streaked like quicksilver through his head: that he might have yelled at Freddie if she hadn't been there, that a man like himself did not require coddling, that Freddie needed her more and that her continued presence was hardly proper. She was the gentler sex. She was the one who shouldn't see this. Instead, he gazed into her sweet, stubborn eyes and knew he could not refuse her gesture.

"As you wish," he said. Though he'd meant the words to come out cool, they were as low and caressing as a lover's midnight sigh. Embarrassed, he shouldered the rifle and cleared his throat. He pressed the muzzle to the gelding's skull. As if he knew what was coming, Sooty calmed.

"Stand back," he said. "I don't want you spattered."

Florence made a half-swallowed sound, more concern than horror. Edward didn't mean to look at her again, but their eyes locked just as they had over the hounds. A strange, drawing sensation pulled at his breastbone, a thin, painful tug, as if his soul were trying to reach her.

You ought to be mine, he thought. Only I can make you happy. But that was pointless. She belonged
to Freddie. She was Freddie's saving grace.

He squinted down the barrel of the gun and blinked to clear his vision. The horse gave one last sigh. Edward gritted his teeth and pulled the trigger.

The recoil knocked him back a step, but the kill was clean: just a pool of blood that soaked quickly into the ground. When he lowered the gun, his arms were shaking as if he had the ague. He didn't resist
when Florence tugged him away.

Edward did not make it from the stable to the house. Even though he must have been anxious to
check on his brother, his legs refused to carry him. Florence watched him go paler and paler until finally, in front of a big oak with a rustic bench beneath, he tightened his hold on her arm and forced her to a stop.

"I have to sit," he said, his voice a ghost. "I can't let Freddie see me like this."

He dropped to the bench and propped his head on shaking hands. Florence sat beside him, her knees turned towards him in worry. He was sweating, and not from exertion. She pulled off her gloves and reached between his arms to unfasten his collar. As she did, he looked at her, his expression naked, his eyes pleading for something deeper than understanding.

"It's all right," she said, laying her hand behind his shoulder. "Breathe slowly. I'm sure you'll feel better soon."

She kept to herself the certainty that his brother would not think ill of his reaction. This was not about Freddie's opinion of Edward, but about Edward's opinion of himself. Gradually, as he breathed in a measure of control, the color returned to his face.

"Father wouldn't have turned a hair at this," he said, his head still lowered. "He'd have put down that horse and called for lunch."

Though Florence knew he was jesting, she did not laugh. "Forgive me for saying so, Edward, but—your father's strength of character aside—I think you're entitled to turn more than a hair. And not over the horse."

"No," he agreed with a grimacing shake of his head. "Not over the horse." He pushed himself upright
and let the tree's breeze-blown leaves dapple his face with sun. Florence had never seen him so weary. She longed to hold him, to cradle his head against her breast. Her hands curled with the intensity of the urge and she blushed for fear he might look at her and read the forbidden desire. She sat in agonized silence, not knowing what to say but unable to leave. At last, he sighed and twisted his father's signet around his smallest finger. The cabochon ruby flashed in the dancing light.

"I always got on better with the earl than Freddie did," he said. "Father... respected me."

She lifted her gaze to his face, an intimacy that was possible only because he was staring out across the grounds. "Is that a bad thing?"

His lips twisted in a smile. "My father gave me my first horse when I was nine, to ride when I wished without the company of a groom. Freddie never earned that privilege, though he was twelve when Father died. Whatever he did, he came up short. According to Father, he was always too soft or too flighty or too much a mama's boy. My mother—" Edward pinched the bridge of his nose. "My mother was delicate, easily upset, but very sweet-natured. She needed the kind of love Freddie gave her. Unqualified. Unquestioning. But Father couldn't see that. If Freddie wanted to ride alone, he had to sneak a horse out of the stables. He had to break my father's rales and risk getting whipped."

"Are you saying that if your father had let him have his own horse, this accident wouldn't have happened?"       

"Surely that's natural. You were just a boy."

"He was your father."

"If Freddie was stronger than you, why did you have to protect him?"

This, Florence saw, was the true confession. This was what had tightened his jaw and set that subtle tremor in his hands. But what a thing to feel guilty for, and for so many years! Aching for him, she
gave in to the urge to stroke his rich dark hair. Even as she tried to soothe him, she reveled in the feel
of that silk sliding through her fingers. She was shamefully glad she'd removed her gloves.

"A thought has consequences," she said carefully, gently. "My father taught me that. But a thought is
not a deed. Your enjoyment of protecting Freddie did not cause your father to be cruel. Nor do I think you should worry overmuch about the possible disloyalty of your emotions. Children need to be loved
by their parents. Freddie was your mother's favorite, wasn't he? You may as well blame her for what happened—though I know you will not."

Edward was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his response was low and heartfelt. "You are a wise young woman. And a kind one."

"You are easy to be kind to." Moved by his tone, she dared to pet his cheek. He turned his head,
pressing his cheekbone to her fingers, brushing his mouth across her palm.

Then, as if he'd done something he devoutly wished he hadn't, he jerked away and stood. Briskly, he tugged the bottom of his waistcoat. "I must consult with Jenkyns," he said. "Please stay until you are ready to go in."

He did not wait for her to follow. Indeed, his words made following impossible. Instead, she watched
him stride stiffly towards the house, once again himself, while she—

She no longer knew who she was.

Florence paced the hall outside Freddie's room. She was waiting for Edward's steward to finish settling him. The stable master had given Freddie a dose of morphine, but he wasn't yet asleep. Though Florence knew she ought to wait till morning to see him, she felt too restless, so restless she was wringing her
hands like a heroine in a play.

She couldn't push Edward's expression from her mind. When he'd looked at her as they sat on that little bench, she'd thought—she'd wished—

She wrung her hands and paced the other way. For once, his heart had been in his gaze. When she met
it, she seemed to know his every thought: his regret for the horse, his fear for Freddie. Most of all, she'd sensed his hope that no one would guess how weak he was. But Florence didn't think him weak. Instead, she thought him the strongest man she'd ever known.

Was that the real Edward: the man whose heart could break for a wounded horse? Who could torture himself over the tangled motivations of his childhood? Who could worry that his love had not been perfect? And if this was the real Edward, what did that mean for her? Attraction was one thing. Even infatuation could be dismissed. But the pull he exerted when he bared his soul would not be easy to evade. She wasn't even sure she wanted to.

The dilemma seemed destined to remain unsolved. Nigel West stepped out of Freddie's room and carefully shut the door. As befitted his position—the steward ran Greystowe when Edward could not—
he was a dignified man of middle years, slender, his temples lightly shot with white. He would have appeared as serious as his master but for his extraordinary gray eyes. They were kind and quiet and crinkled pleasantly at the corners when he smiled. He smiled now at Florence.

"I'm afraid he's dropped off, Miss Fairleigh. Didn't even wait for me to finish plumping the pillows.
You can go in, of course, but I doubt he'll wake."

Nigel's brow puckered as if her words held some significance she didn't understand. She wondered if she'd overstepped her place. She had no authority here, nor would she have much more as Freddie's
wife. Greystowe was Edward's to arrange. Just as she was about to withdraw the request, Nigel
shook himself.

"I imagine I shall be looking after him. With Edward home, I'm rather at loose ends."

Relieved she hadn't put her foot wrong, Florence smiled. "You've been at Greystowe a long time,
haven't you?"

"Since his lordship's father paid for my schooling." Nigel grinned at her shocked expression. "You've heard the stories then. All true. The old earl was a devil. But he did believe in fostering potential.
I owe this family more than I can say."

Eyes abruptly pricking, Florence gazed past him down the hall. She owed this family a good deal herself, too much to think of betraying their trust. They'd welcomed her, a simple country girl, as Freddie's bride. And Freddie.. . Freddie was the dearest man she'd ever known. "They're complicated, aren't they?" she said. "Even Freddie."

"Yes," Nigel agreed, the gentleness of his tone forcing her to blink back tears. "But steadfast every one. You couldn't want for truer friends."

Friends, she thought. If only her wishes were that simple.

Shortly after midnight, Edward crossed the hall to his brother's room. He had no intention of waking Freddie. He simply wanted to stand in the dark and listen to him breathe. The leg with the splint made
a funny shape under the sheets, as if a mummy were sharing his bed. Edward was still too shaken to be amused. He didn't know what he'd do if he lost his brother; didn't know who he'd be. He'd built his life around protecting him. Without Freddie alive and well and happy, none of his accomplishments meant a damn.

Disturbed by the movement, Freddie snuffled in his sleep and rolled partway onto his side. His arm flopped out, hitting Edward's leg. His eyes opened. "Nigel?"

Edward hunkered beside the bed. "It's Edward. I just came to check on you."

Freddie smiled, his eyes sliding shut again. "You haven't checked on me since Mummy and Daddy died."

"I didn't know you saw me do that."

Covers rustled as Freddie shrugged. "I figured you wanted reassurance that you weren't alone. I didn't mind. It made me feel safe."

"You are safe. I'll always keep you safe."

Freddie laughed under his breath. "Can't promise that, old man. You ain't God yet, though I know you'll try."  His singsong tone told Edward he still felt the morphine. He'd have to warn Jenkyns to watch the dose. He didn't want Freddie getting used to it.

"She did it for you," Freddie said, his fingers plucking idly at the sheet.

"Who did what for me?"

"Florence," he said. "Asked me for riding lessons. She didn't say so, but I know it was you she wanted
to impress."

Edward's breath caught. Was it true? Did Florence value his opinion? He'd thought today, when she stroked his face, that she must hold him in some esteem. But how could he know? She was a
sympathetic soul. Perhaps she'd have touched anyone as tenderly. Surely after all he'd done she
couldn't still care what he thought.

Freddie laughed again. "Thinks you don't like her. Big old grouch."

But Freddie's drug-fogged mind had already wandered on. "You'll have to take over for me. Teach her yourself." He smacked his lips and burrowed deeper in the pillows. "Be like when you taught me how
to swim."

Alarmed by the suggestion, Edward stood. Be alone with Florence? Teach Florence? Not on his life.
Not unless he wanted his brother to marry a ravaged bride.

CHAPTER 8

According to Jenkyns, Freddie couldn't be moved until his bones had a chance to set. Nigel was seeing
to his meal when Florence knocked.

"I don't want your blasted broth," she heard Freddie snap. "My leg is broken, not my stomach." Clearly, his pain had made him peevish. Despite his discomfort, he brightened when he saw her. "At last. A
kindly nursemaid. Tell this loathsome bully to take his nursery food away."

Florence kissed his brow without a blush. "I'm sure Mr. West is only following doctor's orders."

"Bloody horse doctor," Freddie muttered, then squeezed her hand in apology. "You should go, sweetheart. Have your own breakfast. I'm a bad invalid. Always have been. I'm afraid if you stay,
you'll throw me over for a banker."

Florence clucked her tongue and roundly denied the charge. She did as Freddie asked, though, for he
was obviously not in a humor to see her. He and Nigel were squabbling again as soon as she shut the door.

Poor Nigel, she thought. She was glad the steward had taken him in hand. Freddie would have talked
his way around any of the maids. She proceeded to the breakfast parlor, a pretty yellow room with a
view of the breeze-ruffled lake. To her dismay, only Edward sat inside.

"Is Aunt Hypatia—?"

"Sleeping," he said, as short-tempered as ever.

So, she thought, the grumpy earl returns. She filled her plate at the sideboard: eggs, sausage, a freshly baked roll, and strawberries. Refusing to give in to fear, she took the seat around the corner from his.
For long minutes, the only sound was the clink of china and the rasp of a snore issuing from the ground floor bedroom next door. Never an early riser, Edward's aunt must have been exhausted by the previous day's excitement.

Florence wanted to smile, but she doubted Edward would appreciate the jest. His mood was blacker
than Freddie's—and both his legs were sound. She was beginning to think she'd dreamed the man she'd seen the day before.

"Do you think we ought to call a real doctor?" she asked, perversely wanting him to look at her. Even
his scowl was preferable to being ignored.

Edward set down his knife and fork. When the morning sun struck his eyes, they glowed like clear blue gems. His riding coat was for once not black, but a soft brown tweed. His shirt was white and collarless. He looked wonderful: big and broad-shouldered and country-squirish. Not relaxed though. She couldn't imagine Edward ever being relaxed. A short, deep line appeared between his heavy brows. For him, the expression was friendly.

"I'm afraid the doctor in town is a bit decrepit. Jenkyns knows more about broken bones than he does.
If we encounter complications, I'll send to London for my physician."

Those lips had kissed her, and those hands, those big, sun-darkened hands had held her head, had ran down her spine and cupped her bottom. The last time they'd done it he hadn't had drink to excuse him. He did desire her, even if he didn't like her. Perhaps, she thought, he remembered their kisses as vividly as she did. Perhaps he wanted to kiss her now. The possibility made her shiver. She did squirm then,
just a little.

"Florence," he said, his voice deeper than usual.

Startled, she glanced guiltily back at his face. "Yes, Edward?"

"I'm arranging for Merry Vance to visit Greystowe, so you won't be bored while Freddie's laid up."

"Oh," she said, surprised he would concern himself with her comfort. "That's very kind, but won't she mind leaving London during the Season?"

His laugh was dry. "She's only seventeen. I suspect she wouldn't be out at all if she hadn't wrapped her father around her finger. I thought she could take over training you from Freddie. By all accounts, she's quite the horsewoman."

"Oh," said Florence, the only word she could think of. Her tea and sausages sat like stones in her belly. Suddenly, the reason for Edward's consideration was clear.

He didn't want to teach her himself.

She looked at her lap, where her traitorous hands were twisting her napkin into a ball. She swallowed.
She was being ridiculous. She shouldn't let him hurt her. It wasn't as if having him teach her would be fun. More often than not, he wasn't nice to her at all. Against her will, she thought of Freddie's swimming trophy, the one Edward kept in the cabinet by his bed. She knew then; couldn't deny it any longer. She wanted more than Edward's respect. She wanted him to like her, to care as deeply for her as he did for his brother.

"I'm sure you'll do well," he said, the assurance uncustomarily soft. She had the impression he was leaning towards her, though she didn't dare lift her head. "I'm sure Freddie will be proud."

"Thank you," she managed to say. "I liked Merry Vance very much. It was kind of you to think of her."

"You are easy to be kind to."

Florence couldn't help widening her eyes. Did he mean to remind her of her words to him in the garden? He'd behaved as if he wanted to forget his confidences, and expected her to do the same. But perhaps
the reminder was unintentional, or some obscure setdown she was simply too thick to fathom. Oh, she would never understand him, never!

Unfortunately, knowing that did not keep her from wanting to try.

The rose garden buzzed with dragonflies and bees. Two days had passed since Freddie's accident and Florence was taking tea with Aunt Hypatia. According to the duchess, Florence's simple flowered cotton gown—one of her own—was woefully inadequate.

"You look like a farmgirl," she complained.

Florence did not take offense. The duchess liked complaining as much as cats liked cream. She hid her smile behind the gold-plated rim of her cup. "I thought tea dress was meant to be more comfortable."

"It is, but in a picturesque and romantic manner. Here." With the agility she displayed when she chose, she pushed from her chair and snipped two budded yellow roses. The small silver scissors that hung
from a cord at her waist made quick work of the thorns. That done, she removed one of her hat pins
and fastened the flowers, leaves and all, to Florence's bodice. "There. Marginally better. We won't
always be taking tea alone, you know. I do have acquaintances here."

"I'd forgotten that," Florence admitted. "You were born in this house, weren't you? With Freddie's father."

"I thought he was very stern."

"Not until he got the title. Then he had to be a 'Greystowe man.' " She pulled a face Florence suspected was an imitation of the haughty earl. "The peerage ruined him. Destroyed every shred of humor and humanity he had. After that, nothing mattered but the family honor. He threw over a girl he'd been seeing for well on seven years. Everyone assumed they'd marry. But a baron's daughter wasn't good enough for him. He had to take up with the boys' mother and make her miserable, too." She shook her head. "Suzanne was as sweet as spun sugar and about as tough. I doubt anyone had raised their voice to her before her marriage. As for me, when Stephen gained an earldom, I lost a friend. Didn't so much as pat my back until the day I married my duke. That earned me a brother's embrace. That made him love me again."

Florence reached past the tea things to clasp her hand. With a fond smile, the duchess returned the pressure. "No, dear. You mustn't pity a rich old lady. All that happened long ago."

But it wasn't the duchess who worried Florence most.

"Aunt Hypatia," she said, "you don't think Edward is in danger of..."

"Becoming like his father?" Aunt Hypatia laughed. "It's good of you to concern yourself, but there's not much chance of that. Sometimes—I fear this will sound callous, but sometimes I think it's better my brother died young. Certainly better for Freddie." Her face softened as people's tended to at his name. "Freddie was raised with love. He'll be a good father someday because Edward was everything my brother should have been. Edward still has his heart."

Did he? Sometimes Florence thought so. Other times, she doubted it very much. She would have liked
to sit quietly then, to mull over what she'd heard. Her wish was not to be, however, because
Mrs. Forster, the housekeeper, chose that moment to announce the arrival of Merry Vance.

"Yes, yes, I'm early," she said in her happy, breathless way. Holding both gloves in one hand she leaned down to kiss Florence's cheek. "London has been as dull as dishwater without you. I simply couldn't wait to say hello." Her eyes twinkled as she bobbed a curtsey to the duchess. "Please forgive my informality, your Grace. I assure you it isn't personal. Anyone you ask will tell you I'm a hellion."

"Will they indeed?" intoned the duchess.

"Miss Vance," Edward said, appearing at the edge of the grass. His nod was grave but his face creased upward as if he were about to laugh. No doubt he'd caught the duchess's frosty response. "I trust you
and Buttercup survived the train from London."

Buttercup? Florence thought. Her cat-light mare from London? Was it possible Edward had bought the horse for her? It would have been an extravagant gesture, and one she really shouldn't accept, but, oh,
if he had! But Merry Vance dashed her irrational hope almost before it had time to form.

"I can't thank you enough," she said, "for arranging her as my ride. Teaching is so much easier when
you have a good mount."

Edward looked down. This, of all things, seemed to embarrass him. He glanced uncomfortably at Florence, his gaze catching for an instant on the roses the duchess had pinned to her bosom. With an
air of distraction, he shook his head and returned his attention to Merry. "Ah, well, pleased I could
oblige. I had to buy her in any case. My stallion was moping."

Merry laughed, a surprisingly feminine sound. "How grand! A romance among the stalls. I shall have
to keep on top of developments while I'm here."

He doesn't want her, she assured herself. His manner was too casual, too matter of fact.

Even if he had given Merry her horse.

"You'll want to freshen up," Edward said, though not as disapprovingly as the duchess would have.

Merry trilled at the gentle suggestion. "Indeed," she cooed, tapping Edward's chest with the tip of her finger. "Fresh is my middle name."

Florence experienced a nearly uncontrollable urge to pinch her, but Edward was not put off. "Shall we hold tea for you?" he asked.

"Oh, no." Merry tossed her golden hair and turned towards the house. "I'm sure I can cozen something out of the kitchen when I get back. You three enjoy. I'll find my poor old maid and the next time you
see me, I'll be free of dust and decent."

"Not too decent," Edward said, perfectly straight-faced.

"My, no." Merry threw a wink over her shoulder, "What fun would that be?"

Florence could barely lift her jaw. As Merry sauntered across the terrace, her little bottom twitched beneath her dusty bustle. She'd been flirting with Edward. And Edward had flirted back.

"Hm," said Aunt Hypatia once Merry was out of earshot. "That girl bears watching."

Florence didn't know if she meant this as an insult or a compliment, nor was her nephew's demeanor
any clue. Still facing the direction Merry had taken, Edward clasped his hands behind his back. Florence sincerely hoped he wasn't watching Merry twitch.

"She's Monmouth's daughter," he said.

"Yes." The duchess stirred her tea. "In a year or two, she'll make some man a fine wife."

"That, too," said Aunt Hypatia.

Florence pushed her cucumber sandwich to the farthest edge of her plate. Her appetite had fled, along with her enjoyment of the afternoon. A fine handful indeed! She might not have the right to mind it,
but she knew she didn't like the sound of that.

CHAPTER 9

To Florence's dismay, Nitwit had become "her" horse.

"Today you'll groom her," Merry announced as they entered the busy stable. To Florence's amazement, Merry wore breeches. For once, another woman drew more stares than she did. She didn't know whether to blush for her friend or admire her brazen style. Merry behaved as if she were dressed to meet the queen and, while no one so much as whistled, Florence suspected Greystowe's grooms would be talking of this for years. Everywhere they passed, jaws dropped. Apparently, the only males immune to the shock of visible female legs were a trio of school-age boys who were forking soiled hay into barrows.

Grateful for their efforts, Florence picked her way across the hard-packed floor. She sighed when they reached Nitwit's box. The top of the stall door was covered in equine tooth marks, mute testimony to the mare's restless habits. Equally unimpressed with Florence, Nitwit curled her lip and made a rude noise.

They eyed each other while Merry went to Jenkyns for supplies.

"It wasn't my choice," Florence said as the mare deigned to swivel her ears. "We'll simply have to make the best of it."

Merry caught the tail end of the exchange. "Good. You're getting acquainted. You can't ride well if you and the horse aren't comfortable with each other."

As if to prove the unlikelihood of this happening, Nitwit kicked the back of her box.

"We'll have to lead her into the yard," Florence said. "Being inside makes her snappish."

"Nonsense," said Merry. "She only needs settling."

With a sense of resignation, Florence followed her into the stall. Ten minutes later, after Nitwit had clipped Merry twice on the boot, they trooped out.

"Maybe we should ask Jenkyns for another mount," Merry said.

"No, no. She'll be fine once we get her into the paddock." Florence was reluctant to admit it, even to herself, but she was feeling more kindly towards the mare since she'd tried to kick her teacher. Merry's good-humored air of competence was wearing on her nerves. It didn't seem right that someone younger than herself should be so skilled, or so fearless.

Or that someone who obviously didn't need a nice horse should be given one like Buttercup.

She bit her lip at her unkind thoughts. Her father used to say envy was a bitter pill. Now she knew how true those words were. She could barely choke her resentment down. It wasn't justified, of course.
Merry was a nice girl, a generous girl to come and teach her this way. And still Florence exulted when Nitwit proved her right. The mare did like being brushed in the open air. She barely twitched when Florence curried her sensitive underbelly.

"Now lift her feet," Merry said. "Let's see if she'll let you check her shoes."

Florence did as she asked, too annoyed to feel a moment's fear.

"Good," Merry exclaimed when Nitwit did not protest. "Horses are flight animals. When they let you
hold their feet, that means they trust you."

I am grateful, she thought. I am.

But she had to struggle not to grind her teeth.

After they checked Nitwit's shoes for stones, Merry had Florence saddle her and mount. Then, instead
of watching Florence ride, she took the halter and told Florence to release the reins.

"Hold your arms out from your sides," she instructed. "And don't put your foot in the stirrup or hook your knee around the head. Sit face front and tuck your leg behind the horn. I'll hold Nitwit steady. You concentrate on centering your weight over the horse's back. That's how you develop a sense of balance."

As far as Florence could tell, she wasn't developing anything but a sense of embarrassment. Her arms shook from lifting the heavy saddle over Nitwit's back. The smallest movement felt as if it would send
her sliding. Even worse, the three stableboys had perched on the paddock wall to watch the show.

Either that, or they weren't too young after all to notice the fit of Merry's breeches.

"Doing fine, miss," the tallest one called. The shortest, a round, straw-headed elf, decided to play tightrope on the stones.

Oh, Lord, thought Florence, his antics making her dizzy. She hardly dared breathe for fear of falling off. Nitwit was taller than Buttercup and the ground seemed a long way down.

"Are you ready for me to lead you around?" Merry asked."

Florence's "no" was almost a shout. Merry laughed and patted Nitwit's neck.

"Never mind," she said. "You just sit today. We'll save walking for tomorrow."

Tomorrow, Florence thought, and wished she were enough of a coward to give up.

To Florence's immense relief, the next day was better, and the next better still. On the fourth day of lessons, Merry put Nitwit on a long leather lead called a lunge line and had her circle the paddock with Florence on her back. First they walked slowly, then swiftly, and then they tried a gentle trot. Merry let her hook her leg around the head for this, but Florence fell off all the same. She was determined, though, especially with her trio of fans. She didn't know if Jenkyns had given them permission or if they'd simply sneaked away, but the three muddy boys managed to watch her every day.

"No worries," they'd call each time she hit the dirt. "You'll get it next time."

Despite her embarrassment, and the fact that her bottom was all over bruises, Florence was glad they were rooting for her. These boys were too old to be the victims of her peculiar charms, and too young
to be interested in her ordinary ones. They had to be there by choice. They had to be there because
they liked her.

"Forget posting," Merry said when she tried to raise up and down. "Posting is for ninnies. You want to rock back and forth from the hips. With the horse's movements. Easy. Feel how your weight shifts with the horse's steps."

"Woo-hoo," hooted the boys at Merry's suggestive demonstration. Merry merely laughed.

"With the horse," she coaxed. "With the horse."

Finally, on the seventh day, Florence got it. Nitwit snorted and pranced as if Florence had performed a miracle. Truth be told, she felt as if she had. How easy this was! How right! It was just the way her
body had been wanting to go all along.

Then Merry let her put her foot into the stirrup.

"What a goer!" Merry exclaimed and Florence was proud for her mount's sake, too.

As luck would have it, Edward was the first person to meet them coming out of the stable. Florence
was too elated to mind her manners. "I did it!" she said, grabbing his hands and bouncing up and down.
"I galloped on Nitwit without the reins."

Edward smiled at her. His grip was firm. It even swung a little. "I saw," he said. "That was very brave.
I suppose next you'll be wanting to join the circus."

Her words seemed to remind Edward that he was holding Florence's hands. He dropped them as if
they burned and turned to Merry. "You've done a good job, Miss Vance. My stablemaster has been singing your praises."

"A girl can ride anything she puts her mind to," Merry said, her eyes laughing suggestively at Edward's. "That's what we're built for."

Even Florence could not fail to catch that double meaning. Edward's lips thinned wryly as he shook his finger. "Your father would wash your mouth, Miss Vance."

"It's Merry," she said, but he was already walking off. Her sigh as she watched him go spoke volumes. "Lord above. Did you ever see such a pair of shoulders?"

When Merry looked back at her, her awareness must have shown. Her teacher smiled, crookedly, ruefully. Florence's heart squeezed with sympathy. Merry might not know it but, in this, they were
two of a kind.

"The first time I saw him at Tattersall's," Merry confessed, "my toes curled in my boots. If only I were bold enough, I think I could have him. I'm not too terribly ugly. And he does think I'm funny. Men
have been known to fall for less."

Florence supposed they had. She drew breath to assure the girl she wasn't ugly, then thought better of it. "Maybe you should be careful. You are young, and he is a grown man."

Merry made a sound halfway between a gurgle and a moan. To Florence's dismay, she knew precisely what it meant. Edward was more than a grown man. Edward was the epitome of all that was male and,
as such, he called to the most primitive urges a woman had. A man like Edward made a woman want to forget everything: promises, propriety, even common sense. But perhaps she ought to be glad he had the same effect on Merry. Perhaps Florence's feelings were nothing to be concerned over. A natural human temptation. Vicar's daughter or no, Florence had always known she was human.

"I hope you don't think I'm awful," Merry said, her hand on Florence's arm. "My friends in London say silly things or scoff. You, at least, know how I feel. After all, you and Freddie must have stolen a few kisses. Freddie's a handsome young man in his prime." Confidence recovering, she wagged her
strawberry brows. "A man with needs, Florence. A man who's practically chained to his bed. Believe
me, were I in your place and Edward in Freddie's, I know what sort of nursemaid I'd be."

"Freddie is a perfect gentleman," she said in her most repressive schoolteacher tone. "Freddie would
never do anything to compromise a lady's honor."

"Of course not," Merry said, obviously unconvinced.

And Florence knew nothing she'd said had sunk in.

She watched them together after that; watched how easy Edward was with Merry, how he laughed at
her jokes, how his eyes sparked when they debated the merits of various equine traits. Merry would
not back down when she thought she was right. Merry would rise out of her seat and pound the table.

And Edward didn't seem to mind.

Was Merry right? Did Edward merely need a push? He didn't act like a besotted man. At least, not the besotted men she knew. But Edward was a creature apart, so perhaps he felt more than he showed.

She watched to see if he touched her, measured his smiles, compared his stares to those he'd shared
with her. They weren't the same. They weren't hot and riveting and as sharp as a whetted blade. She could see the difference and she was dreadfully wrong to care. She even watched his hidden flesh to
see if it grew large when he and Merry were together. He caught her at it once and gave her the strangest look. Her face had burned like flame. Other things, too. Other things she didn't have names for caught
fire between her legs.

She told herself Edward's amours were not her concern.

She told herself if only she knew the truth about his feelings for Merry, she could face them.

Florence convinced the housekeeper to let her take Freddie's lunch tray. She'd allowed Nigel to
shoulder too much of her intended's care. That was going to change. She couldn't do everything, but
she could fluff pillows. She could smooth brows and banish boredom. She could let Freddie know she would never, ever neglect him.

With that resolve, Florence shifted the tray to her hip and rapped lightly on his door.

"You do not want to do this," she heard Nigel saying sharply through the wood. When he opened the door a moment later, his face was flushed. He and Freddie must have been fighting again. She'd come just in time, she decided. The poor man must be desperate for a break.

"Sweetheart!" Freddie exclaimed. He had a pillow on his lap and his hair was mussed as if he'd been running his fingers through it. As always, he put on his best face for her. His smile was brilliant.
"Your timing is perfect. My warden here was about to thrash me."

"I'll leave you two alone," Nigel said, sounding as stiff as the earl.

Florence clucked at Freddie as soon as the steward was gone. "You shouldn't bait him."

Freddie helped her slide the tray over his lap. "Bait him?"

"I know it's hard on you being shut up like this, but it's hard on him, too. Mr. West wasn't trained to be
a nursemaid. Now and then you could squabble with me instead— if only to give the poor man a rest."

Freddie blinked as if he hadn't understood a word. Florence uncovered the beef and barley stew Cook had made to keep his strength up. She knew better than to believe his innocent air. "I know you two
were arguing. Mr. West's face was as red as a beet when he opened the door."

Florence offered him a napkin to tuck into his shirt. His embarrassment spoke well for his conscience,
but she couldn't drop the matter yet. It wouldn't be fair to Mr. West. "I'm sure Mr. Jenkyns can decide
if you're ready to be wheeled around."

"Of course," he said. "Of course."

He lifted a bite of stew, then set it down. His gaze met hers. His arm rose and, with almost alarming tenderness, he cupped her cheek. He murmured her name, his fingertips stroking the edge of her hair.
All her affection for him came rushing back. With relief, she knew she did love him. She might not
yearn for him as she yearned for Edward, but she loved him in a good, steady way. A way that would last. She smiled at him and covered his hand with her own.

"You're the dearest woman I know," he said. "Even when you're scolding me."

His tone was oddly wistful.

"I've made you sad," she said, "and I don't even know how."

He shook his head. His hand dropped, its warmth fading quickly from her skin. "I'm only sad for you, Florence, for agreeing to marry a ridiculous creature like me."

"You're not ridiculous. Merely a bad invalid. My father was the same. But I shall pay more attention
to you now, and make sure your spirits do not sink."

"If only everything were sinking," he said, with a laugh she did not understand.

"I'm sure Mr. West would help cheer you up if you would let him."

He laughed again, a brief, sharp sound. "Mr. West disapproves of too much 'help.' Considers it a
betrayal of the family trust. In which belief he is perfectly correct."

Nigel wasn't in his office. Edward wanted to ask him about the history of some correspondence with
the mill, but Freddie must have needed his assistance. He frowned, annoyed that he'd have to put the matter off. Though it probably wasn't urgent, he'd wanted, needed actually, to bury himself in work.

He couldn't stop thinking of Florence. His feelings had escalated beyond control since their talk in the garden. He didn't know why he'd confessed those things about his father. Shock, he supposed, or
simply the presence of a sympathetic ear.

Her sympathetic ear.

He'd known she was sweet, but hearing her words—so simple and wise and kind—made his yearning
that much worse. He could still feel her small, warm hand against his cheek, the memory of that gentle touch as inflaming as a kiss. She was an ache in his bones, a fierce, impossible desire.

The devil whispered to his conscience. She cares for you, Edward. You could make her happy; could love her like no other man. Let Freddie fend for himself. Don't you deserve to be selfish just this once?

Disgusted by his own weakness, he stalked down the hall with a growl. A scullery maid jumped at the sound, nearly dropping the tray she was carrying to the servants' midday meal. He helped her steady it, which made her tremble all the more.

"I am not an ogre," he snapped.

"Of course not, my lord," she said, eyes showing white as she backed away. "Not at all."

The only woman he wanted was her.

He wanted to lock her in his rooms for a fortnight. Wanted to chain her to his bed and slide inside her from dusk till dawn. He wanted her heat, her touch, her gasp when she saw the rigid evidence of his
lust. He wanted her silky hair across his chest. He wanted her tender rose-red mouth. He wanted her
hips, her breasts. He wanted to wrap his hands around her knees and spread them wide.

He wanted to make her his.

He leaned straight-armed on the wall and hung his head, breathing hard, trying to pull himself together.
A line of boots sat inside the room where he'd stopped, clearly awaiting a polish. One of the pairs was smaller than the rest: soft gray kid with matching laces. Before he could stop himself he picked them up. The ankles were soft and supple against his palm. The leather was new yet, the stitching on the toe a series of fancy, twining curls. He ran the tip of his finger over the pattern, knowing the boot belonged to Florence. There wasn't a woman in the house who had a foot as neat. An image formed in his mind, as unstoppable as the tide, of Florence at the dressmaker's, standing barefoot in her chemise and drawers. She'd had such tiny white feet, such adorable toes. Kissable toes. Suckable toes.

The sound of his rumbling groan restored him to his senses. He dropped the boots like a pair of coals. What an arse he was, mooning over a woman's shoes. They'd be carting him off to Bedlam next.

He closed his eyes and clenched his hands. This had to stop. He needed her out of his mind before he
lost it. Just an hour, he prayed. Just an hour without this torment. His breath sighed from him as he slowly relaxed his fists. Samson might not know it, but he was about to save his master's life.

Samson whickered at his approach. Regrettably, the big black stallion was not alone. "Miss Vance,"
he said.

She turned and smiled—nervously, he thought. He wondered if his temper were that obvious and tried
to school his face. She swiped her hand down the outrageous breeches she liked to wear. He would
have asked why her maid let her-out in that state, except the poor old creature was so nearsighted she probably didn't know.

"Won't you call me Merry?" she said, more serious than was her wont. "I know I'd rather call you Edward."

Since he wasn't sure how to answer this question, he evaded it. "Are you going riding?"

If she was going riding, he wasn't. Edward liked Merry Vance. She was plucky and she amused him,
but he wasn't in the mood for her company now: a girl barely out of the schoolroom who didn't know better than to play with fire. Alas, she didn't know better now.

He was not as quick as he should have been. Her words didn't fit together until she stepped to him, wound her arms behind his neck, and pulled his head down for a kiss. His body responded without thought. He was primed for a woman, any woman. His mouth yielded to her pressure. His heart
thudded, his cock surged, and before he knew it his shirt was pulled out and pushed up and ten short
nails were raking through the hair on his chest.

"Oh," she gasped, pushing back to admire the skin she'd bared. "I knew you'd be like this: too, too
perfect for words."

Her head swooped in, catching one of his nipples between her teeth. He yelped. He meant to push her off, but her hands had snaked round his back and were scratching ms spine in a manner that made his knees much weaker than he wished. Waves of heat rolled through his body. She •aas squirming against him like a cat. Her little breasts were soft and bare beneath her cotton shirt. Her nipples were sharp. Her thighs—well, he didn't want to think about her thighs. Those breeches didn't hide the half of what they should.

"I know I'm not pretty," she said between dangerously descending bites, "or experienced like your
usual women, but oh—" Her knees hit the ground as her mouth sucked the skin of his belly.
"I'm willing, Edward. Willing to do anything you please."

Her expression was priceless: part anger, part two-year-old's pout. Any other day, he would have chuckled inside to see it. But she was also hurt, and he knew too well what it was to want what you
could not have.

"You like me," she said, stubborn to the last. "I know you do."

"You want to a little." Hands still trapped, she leaned forward far enough to nudge his erection with
her chin.

He rasped out a laugh and moved his hips from harm's way. "Yes, I want you, but you're too young
and too well born to be playing this sort of game."

"It's because I'm plain," she huffed. "You're disgusted by the thought of seeing me naked."

She made a sound of disgust much truer to her age than her recent actions. "You sound like my father."

"Good," he said. "I'd much prefer that's how you thought of me."

Her hands were planted on her hips and her gaze traveled over him from neck to groin. It was an ogle whose frankness Imogene would have struggled to match. To his amazement, Edward flushed.

"I could never," she declared, "think of you as my father."

He had to laugh then. Merry Vance wouldn't be a handful; she'd be a plague.

Florence collapsed against the outer wall of the stable with Nitwit's apple clutched to her heart.

She'd peered in the window to make sure the place was empty. She preferred giving the mare her
treats alone, with no witnesses to the silly things she said or the kisses she dropped on her nose. The mare, too, seemed to behave better without an audience, as if she were ashamed to admit she'd grown
to like her awkward rider.

She hadn't expected to see Merry and Edward embracing, much less in that fashion! Merry had been
on her knees, her arms pushing up Edward's shirt, her mouth nuzzling his belly.

His bare belly.

Muscles had rippled like cobbles at his stomach. Smooth and powerful, they'd tensed as Merry circled
his navel with her tongue. A line of ink-black hair rose from the curving indentation, then spread outward over his chest. More muscle swelled there: broad and sun-browned with fans of tendon at the side.

And he had nipples. Florence had never thought about men having nipples. Who could have guessed they'd be so fascinating? They were small and coppery and the tips poked through that cloud of hair in tiny rose-kissed peaks. She pressed the apple to her throat, the tips of her own breasts tightening until they ached. She curled her tongue over her lip. She wanted to kiss his nipples. She wanted to rub her
face in his hair. She wanted to run her hands up the long, hard curve of his thighs and cup his secret
flesh.

He'd been aroused. His organ had swelled into the space between Merry's chin and neck, distorting the cloth of his trousers just as it had that night at the ball. The light from the stall window had limned the arcing shape. The end was round, ridged at the bottom. Big, she thought, with a deep, hot shudder. Big
as a summer pippin. Perhaps it hurt to have one's body part grow so large. His expression might have been pained. His eyes had been closed, his face taut with the longing Merry stirred.

Florence's nails pierced the skin of Nitwit's treat. The longing Merry stirred.

It was true, then. He did want the duke's daughter. Florence hadn't been special. That night in the
Vances' conservatory, when he'd kissed her and changed her life, she'd merely been convenient.

Merry served as easily as she.

Her eyes burned but she did not cry. She pushed away from the stable and walked in stiff, measured steps towards the distant grove. When she'd gotten far enough not to be seen, she ran. When she'd disappeared deep enough into the trees, she stopped. She braced her hands on her knees and panted,
her bodice soaked with sweat, her head swimming with exertion.

Pandora's box had spilled its awful secret.

Bad enough she lusted after the brother of the man she meant to wed. She should have been grateful Merry had made pursuing him impossible.

But she wasn't.

She was sick with envy, sicker than she'd been at the loss of Buttercup. Her stomach was cramped,
her throat tight, and her heart ached with the truth she'd feared to face. Her affection for Freddie had
not saved her, nor her memory of her father's broken heart, nor the many hurts Edward had inflicted without her having done a thing to earn them. Nothing had saved her. Florence was lost.

Florence was in love with Greystowe's earl.

CHAPTER 10

Mrs. Forster had just helped Freddie with his bed bath. According to the housekeeper, his morning tiff with Nigel had been of a severity to make the steward reluctant to offer aid.

"Grown men," she clucked as she gathered basins and towels. "Tussling like boys."

Freddie had the decency to look abashed. He sat by the window in a purple throne-backed chair,
perhaps an indication that he had won the morning's fight. One leg of his silk pyjamas was slit to make room for his cast. A fine lawn shirt hung open at his chest. It was a nice chest, every bit as nice as Edward's. It was paler and not as broad but it had just as many muscles.

When Mrs. Forster saw who'd come in, she moved to button Freddie up.

"Oh, leave it," he said with a languid wave. "It's warm today and it's only Florence. I doubt my
betrothed will faint at the sight of my manly glory."

The housekeeper muttered about "modern morals," but Florence could tell she wasn't truly angry. Freddie's voice stopped her at the door.

"Thank you, Mrs. Forster," he said, gentle and serious. "You've been an angel."

Mrs. Forster had saved her parting shot. "Guess I won't faint at the sight of your manly glory, either."

Freddie grinned at her broad, departing bustle, then offered his hand to Florence. "Good morning, sweetheart. To what do I owe this honor? I thought you'd be at your lessons."

Florence obeyed his urging to perch on the arm of his chair. Unwilling to meet his eyes, she stared at
his chest where his breastbone divided two smooth curves of muscle. "Merry is gone. She and her
maid left at dawn. I think she and Edward had a disagreement."

"Not over you, surely?"

"No," Florence conceded, but couldn't bring herself to explain. She could still see Edward's strained expression as Merry's mouth teased his belly; could still feel the emotions that stormed inside her when Lizzie broke the news. Merry was gone. She had tried to seduce the earl and the earl had sent her away. For too many reasons to count Florence should have been sorry to see her go. To her dismay, she was exultant. None of which she was about to tell Freddie.

Good-natured as ever, he stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. "Very well. Never mind telling me why. I can guess. Edward must be kicking himself for not discouraging her sooner. I'm sure he
didn't enjoy disappointing you."

"I... I'm all right," she said, and deliberately trailed her hand down his resting arm.

Freddie inhaled sharply in surprise. Their eyes met. His were wary, but he masked his caution with a smile. "What is it, Florence? What's troubling you?"

She played with the edge of the cotton that draped his chest. "Would you mind if I kissed you, Freddie?"

His jaw dropped. "Of... of course not, sweetheart. But—"

"Florence," he whispered as his golden lashes drifted down. Gathering her courage, she pressed her lips
to his.

His mouth was soft. Remembering Edward, remembering Merry, she touched its seam with the tip of
her tongue. Thankfully, Freddie guessed what she was about. He sighed and opened for her and met
her wet, gentle stroke with his own. He knew this game better than she did. She was happy to let him take the lead. His arms gathered her closer, turned her, and pulled her onto his lap. Her breasts rested
on his chest, her bottom on the top of his thighs. Despite his cast, she fit easily against him.

His kiss was delicate; careful, as if the least bit of force might break her. An angel might have been rocking her in warmth and kindness. The turmoil she'd felt when kissing Edward was absent, but so
was the excitement. Nonetheless, the feelings Freddie stirred were pleasant. Her body relaxed as his fingers trailed down her neck, playing over her collarbones in long figure eights, as if he relished the texture of her skin.

Heartened by her progress, she slipped her fingers under the open edge of his shirt. When she brushed
her thumb over the point of his nipple, he stiffened and pulled back. His face showed none of the
tautness she'd seen in Edward's, only a brotherly sort of calm. Apparently, she did not have Merry's
skill at rousing men.

"I'm sorry," she said, hanging her head. "I know I'm not good at this."

He smiled at her, pulled her hand from his chest, and kissed its knuckles. She felt uncomfortably like
a child who was being humored.

"You did nothing wrong. But I think these are not matters we should rush. A woman's honor, once lost, can never be regained. What would your father think?"

"I knew you'd say that."

Not for him, perhaps. But a lot could happen in five months. Rather than say so, she snuggled closer.
Her movements seemed not to affect him. His manly part did not rise, nor did his heart beat wildly in
his chest. Freddie remained what he'd always been: a perfect gentleman.

She wondered what he'd do if he knew his betrothed was not a perfect lady.

Aunt Hypatia's invitation could not have come at a better time. Florence was desperate for distraction from her failure to seduce her fiance, if only the distraction of a visit to one of the duchess's childhood friends. Oddly enough, the impending reunion seemed to make the duchess nervous. She fidgeted with her skirts and gloves, then draped her lace-ruffled elbow over the side of the open carriage. Her sigh
was soft but audible.

"Is something wrong?" Florence asked. Aunt Hypatia drummed her fingers on the victoria's curving door. "Just an old woman's memories. When you're my age I suspect you, too, will have the dubious pleasure of seeing the changes time can inflict on those one cares for."

"You're not old," Florence assured her. Aunt Hypatia laughed, a soft, dry echo of her eldest nephew.
"It's not the years, my dear. It's the bruises. But the friends of our childhood are the friends we treasure most. They're our link to the past. No one knows us so well or forgives us so much."

To her surprise, Aunt Hypatia touched her sleeve to stay her.

"Sit for a moment, dear. I believe I should tell you something of the woman you're about to meet. Catherine and I were girls together. Very dear friends. I have never known a creature so loyal, nor
so protective of those she loves."

"But?" Florence prompted when the duchess paused.

"But she was disappointed young, by a man, as it happens. It has made her bitter and perhaps a trifle strange. I know you will not judge her. You're a kindly soul. But it might be best if you did not speak
too much of your engagement to Freddie, even if she asks. She worries that other women will make
the same mistake she did."

"I shall guard my words," Florence promised, her heart going out to this woman she'd never met. How easily might she step into those painful shoes herself! With more than her usual care, she helped the duchess from the carriage. She was the loyal one, Florence thought, to remain this true to a childhood friend.

A servant in brown twill and apron answered their rap on the door. She was as plain a woman as
Florence had ever seen: young, but as stolid as a dockworker. Her eyes were dull in her weary face,
her arms thick with muscle. Considering Aunt Hypatia's warning, Florence wondered if she'd been
hired for her lack of male-attracting traits.

Interestingly enough, upon entering, their hostess strode briskly to the window and closed the drapes. "The carpets," she murmured over her shoulder, a gentle, mournful scold.

The hulking servant hung her head. "Sorry, ma'am. I thought your guests might like the light."

Her employer's sad little smile did not alter. Since she wasn't looking at them, Florence studied her with interest. Her figure was not as trim as Aunt Hypatia's, but it had not thickened much. Her hair retained
a touch of blonde among its gray and her face, now seamed with age, must once have been very pretty. Her features still conveyed a sense of delicacy, like a fine bisque doll. Her house dress, neither fashionable nor noticeably the opposite, was of well-pressed and slightly faded black silk, as if she'd
spent much of her life as a widow.

Hypatia's description of her as a woman disappointed by love hadn't struck her as widowlike. Could losing one's spouse to an early death sour one on the institution of marriage? Her father hadn't been that way, but perhaps Florence hadn't seen enough of life to know the forms that grief could take.

She composed herself on the hard green sofa, expecting the duchess's friend to turn and greet them.
The woman, however, was not yet finished with her servant.

"Bertha," she said in a voice even softer than before. "Was that the butcher's boy I saw hanging about
the back door this morning?"

A dull flush crept up the lowered face. "Jeb was only dropping off the meat."

"You know how I feel about my servants having followers."

"Yes, ma'am. I wouldn't do that to you. Not never."

By this time, Florence was feeling sorry for the embarrassed girl. When her eyes darted towards her mistress's guests, Florence offered a tiny smile. If the maid saw it, it did not abate her misery. "Shall
I bring the tea now, ma'am?"

Their hostess patted the slump of the maid's big shoulder. "You know I'm only thinking of you, Bertha.
A woman caa so easily be led astray."

"Yes, ma'am. The tea?"

"Of course, Bertha. And use the tongs to arrange the okes. You know I can't abide finger marks." With that, ifceir hostess finally turned. Her smile was lovely; peaceful ?-. en, like a nun who had spent her life in prayer. Florence found herself warming to her, despite her peculiar treatment of her servant. She rose from the couch and offered as graceful a curtsey as she could. The woman seemed to appreciate the effort. Her smile curled more deeply into her cheeks.

"You must be Florence Fairleigh. Hypatia has written me of your many virtues. I am Catherine Exeter, the Honorable Miss Exeter until my father died. But that is ancient history. I hope you will call me Catherine, as my dear old friend Hypatia does. From all she has said, I feel as if I know you already."

"It... it would be my honor," Florence stammered, darting a startled look at Aunt Hypatia. Just how much had the duchess told her friend? She felt distinctly off balance as she settled back into her seat.

"You're engaged to Freddie Burbrooke, are you not?" Catherine asked, perching like a bird on the edge of a delicate green and white chair. Her demeanor spoke only of interest, polite but genuine.

"Yes," Florence answered, fighting her impulse to turn to the duchess for guidance. She knew she must not appear overly enthusiastic. "I think we shall suit. He is a kind man."

"I'm certain he seems so," Catherine said. "But a woman can never be too careful. The kindest face can hide a heart of stone, especially when that face belongs to a Burbrooke."

This extraordinary speech robbed Florence of hers.

"Catherine," said the duchess in almost as gentle a scold as her friend's.

"We can both give thanks," said Hypatia, answering Catherine's smile with one of her own. "Now tell
me, old friend, what gossip have I missed since I last stopped at Greystowe?"

The pair had much to catch up on and Florence was happy to relinquish the burden of conversation. Their speech was filled with exclamations like "no" and "indeed, it's true" and "who'd have thought she'd do such a thing?" Florence could tell they were enjoying themselves. As soon as the tea and cakes were comfortably dispersed, she rose to wander the room, taking care not to brush its ornaments.

A lovely fruitwood spinet sat in the farthest corner, with an old Church of England hymn spread open on its stand. She was tempted to sit and play, despite her indifferent skill. Instead, she touched the ornate silver frame of the single photograph on its top. An elegant young woman in rich modern dress gazed serenely out at Florence. The resemblance between her and Catherine Exeter was striking. She had the same sleek fair hair, the same doll-like perfection to her face. The photographer had captured not only
her beauty but her confidence. Here was a female secure in her womanly charms. If Catherine Exeter
had looked like this when she was young, Florence had a hard time imagining the man who could disappoint her.

"Ah," said Catherine now, "I see you've found the picture of my niece. Pretty, isn't she?"

"Beautiful," Florence agreed.

"How .. . fortunate," Florence said, not sure how to respond. Despite her words, Catherine Exeter was frowning, as if the beautiful image did not completely satisfy.

"Yes," she said musingly, her lips turned down. "Fortunate. Keeps him wrapped around her finger. Only safe place for a man. My Imogene would never be so foolish as to fall for a Burbrooke."

Florence squinted at her hostess, perplexed by the strangeness of her tone. She seemed to be trying to convince herself of something she knew to be untrue. And what grievance could she have against the Burbrookes? Twice now she had mentioned them disparagingly.

"Catherine," Hypatia warned, but this time her friend did not let the dangerous topic drop.

"No, Hypatia," she said, her eyes remaining on Florence. "The girl has a right to know what she's getting into. Oh, I don't say Freddie is the worst of the Greystowe males. I leave that honor to his brother. But the blood is bad. It chills their hearts and forks their tongues. No one can hold them, neither with beauty nor with charm. By all means, take what you need from them, but do not give them your trust; do not give them your love. If you do, you' 11 spend your life ruing the day."

Florence's heart beat unevenly in her throat. The woman's claims struck a chord she could not silence. She had given Edward her love and she did indeed rue the day. And Freddie—could he be cold? Was that why he didn't respond to her kisses? But no. She shook herself free of her fear. Freddie liked her; that could not be feigned. As for Edward, if he broke her heart, it would be her fault, not his. He had never promised her anything. He might be moody and brusque, but she'd wager her soul that he was honest.

"I'm sure you must be mistaken," she said, somewhat breathless beneath the intensity of Catherine's gaze. "Edward and ... and Freddie are very good men."

Catherine gave a little shudder before her expression cleared.

"Perhaps," she said. "But you must promise me"—she captured Florence's hands—"should they ever
hurt you. should you ever need help, you'll do me the honor of turning to me."

Florence hadn't the faintest notion what to say. Luckily. Aunt Hypatia loosened Catherine's grip on her hands. "I'm sure that won't be necessary," she said. "My goddaughter is a sensible girl."

Her friend blinked. "Good. Good. I am gratified to hear it. But should you need me do not hesitate to ask."

The duchess stroked the back of Catherine's neck where it rose above the ruffled black silk of her collar. It was, for her, a gesture of uncommon tenderness. "Perhaps we should be going, my dear. We don't wish to overstay our welcome."

"Never," said her friend with a warm, staunch smile. "You are always welcome here. But I know you must have other calls. Letty Cowles will never forgive me if I keep you to myself. She has two new grandchildren, you know. Boys."

Hypatia's laugh was comfortable. "Indeed, we must not rob her of her chance to crow."

The two women clasped shoulders and exchanged affectionate kisses. Florence could see the shadow
of their youth in their smiles; the ease of their lifelong friendship. Abruptly, she regretted the departure
of Merry Vance. Would she ever be known by anyone as Catherine and Hypatia knew each other: her flaws forgiven, her foibles understood?

She waited until the coachman flicked the reins across the horses' backs to ask the question that had
been pressing on her mind. "Catherine is the woman Edward's father jilted, isn't she?"

Florence shivered in spite of the heat. She prayed she'd sever know that kind of pain.

Edward could tell Florence wasn't well. Off her feed, Jenkyns would have said. She didn't ride, didn't laugh, didn't sneak off to the kennel to spoil the dogs. Without a hint of her old anxiety, she followed the duchess on her round of local calls, taking tea with the old ladies as if life held nothing more interesting than grandchildren's antics or the beadle's wife trying to pretend a ten-year-old dress was new. They
even went to visit that loony old bat, Catherine Exeter, the one whose door the boys in the village made
a dare of touching. Considering her history, Edward knew he ought to make allowances, but she had
once pelted three-year-old Freddie with a brace of windfall apples. Called him a spawn of the devil, simply because he'd tumbled over her wall during a game of hide-and-seek. She'd apologized later,
and their mother had accepted, but Edward had never been able to forgive her. He didn't care how
many socks she knitted for the poor or what a God-fearing Christian she was.

If Florence could visit a woman like that without complaint, there was definitely something wrong.

Even Aunt Hypatia noted her loss of verve.

"Missing your friend?" she probed one night at dinner. "It's a shame she had to leave, but Edward
could take over your lessons."

Florence shook her head. "I'm just a bit homesick. Your friends remind me of the ladies I knew in Keswick."

"Hmpf," said Aunt Hypatia.

His fingers tightened on the stem of his wineglass. Given his behavior in the past, she might believe
just that.

"You'll ride with me tomorrow," he announced. "You mustn't forget what you've learned."

She shot him a startled look, her eyes like polished beryl in the rain. He'd forgotten what her gaze could do to him, how it seemed to reach inside and tug directly on his groin. Beneath the shadows of the table, he felt himself start to fill. The head of his cock stretched down his trouser leg. A tide of heat that had nothing to do with the Mulligatawny soup rose threateningly up his neck. He looked away before it
could reach his face.

"If you truly wish it," she said, quiet and deferential. "I'd be happy to ride with you."

The deference broke his temper.

"If I didn't wish it, I wouldn't have asked," he snapped.

His aunt lifted her brows but Edward ignored their unspoken question. He'd be damned if he'd explain himself. After a moment, the duchess returned her attention to the curried broth.

"Good," she said her voice both mild and dry. "We wouldn't want Freddie's intended growing bored."

He couldn't say if he was grateful or annoyed that she did not speak except to thank him.

His father would have shuddered to know how romantic young Edward found the site. Oh, the earl's lessons had found their mark but, to Edward, this was a place where fairies might dance or dragons breathe their last breath. No doubt he shouldn't have brought Florence to a spot so meaningful to him,
or so isolated, but at present he found it difficult to be sensible.

"My," she marveled in her soft, country voice, "what a wonderful place. I can just picture you and Freddie here, having imaginary sword fights with a pair of sticks."

"Broom handles," he confessed, and swung off his blowing horse. Many women would have dismissed the ruin as a useless pile of rocks. He was gratified by her reaction. He would admit it, he decided. He would enjoy it. This day was a harmless pleasure. For once he would not spoil the delight of her
company with thoughts of all he must not do. When he helped her down from Nitwit, he allowed
himself to relish the brief, gloved clasp of her hands. His body was alive in every cell, pulsing,
humming. The air was sweeter, the ground springier.

He only wished Florence could share a portion of his joy.

She followed his lead as they walked the horses side by side along the old foundation. She'd kept up
with him on the ride. He'd barely had to hold Samson back. He wondered if he ought to compliment
her on her skill, but that seemed too great a divulgence. No doubt Merry had told her how much she
had improved. No doubt she knew it herself.

They stopped before a long vista checkerboard fields and sheep pasture and, in the misty, rolling
distance, the first blue rise of the Peaks. Edward removed the horses' bridles. Samson wouldn't wander far and Nitwit would not leave him. The stallion was the master of the stable, certainly the master of the mares. Like two old friends, the horses began tearing grass from the same patch of ground. Florence watched them bump shoulders as if her thoughts were far away, her expression not so much sad as
blank. Consequences be damned, Edward thought. He couldn't stand to see her spirits quashed.

"Won't you tell me what's wrong?" he said. "I know more has been bothering you than missing home."

If his concern surprised her, she did not show it. Instead, she fixed him with as level a gaze as he'd ever seen her use. Florence tended to wear her emotions on her sleeve, but he could not read them now.

"I've been wondering about women," she said. "Women's feelings."

Edward coughed, not sure he was prepared to discover where this led. "Women's feelings?"

"Yes." She folded her hands over her waist, the pose perversely prim. "I've been wondering if they are supposed to have the same needs that men do, or if such feelings are exclusive to the male sex."

The flush Edward had managed to avoid the night before blazed like fire across his skin. Of all the
things to ask him! He didn't want to think what had inspired the question, but he could not ignore it,
not when it so plainly distressed her. Lord, though—what had she and Freddie been getting up to?
Stalling for time, he raked his hair back with his hand.

Florence's eyes did not leave his. "And they were ordinary decent women who provided this evidence? Not—" She waved her arm, reluctant to give a name to women who were otherwise.

This sign of her old diffidence reassured him. He put his hand to her shoulder. "Yes. Ordinary, decent women. Well born. Gently bred. Neither depraved in spirit nor sick in their minds. I assure you, it's
quite natural for a woman to feel physical desire."

She pressed her lips together and her gaze evaded his. From chin to brow, her face was as pink as a budded rose.

"Florence." Giving in to temptation, he stroked the velvet warmth of her cheek. The sensation made him want to cry with pleasure, but he did nothing to intensify the caress. He gentled his voice. That was his caress. That was the secret expression of his love. "Has someone been telling you decent women don't feel desire?"

She shook her head, quick and definite, but he wasn't sure he believed her. He'd seen tracts himself, written by doctors, claiming that well-bred ladies did not like the marriage bed.

"It's perfectly natural," he repeated. "What's more, a woman is entitled to the same pleasure as a man
in the act of love."

The color in her cheeks heightened from rose to scarlet. For a moment, she did nothing but bite her bottom lip. Then her eyes lifted again to his, bravely, determinedly, but with such uncertainty he
wished he had the right to embrace her.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," she said. "Oh, not about the act of love. I grew up in the country, after all. But the other, the pleasure part. I don't—I'm not certain I understand."

Edward's groan would have tumbled a few more stones if he'd dared let it out. Any other woman he would have sent to her fiance. Such matters were best sorted out between man and wife. Unfortunately, Florence's fiance was Freddie. For all his brother's popularity with the fairer sex, his actual experience with women was a mystery Edward didn't care to plumb. Would Freddie know how to answer
Florence's question? Would he wish to if he could? Edward didn't want to think his brother too selfish
to enlighten his betrothed, but he was forced to acknowledge he might be too embarrassed.

Oh, Lord, he thought, I shouldn't do this. I shouldn't even consider it.

But it was more than possible he'd be doing Freddie a favor. Freddie cared for Florence. If she came to her conjugal bed with a few hints as to what went on, her wedding night might not be the catastrophe Edward feared. Moreover, Florence deserved to know the answer.

Sighing, he pulled her trembling form against his chest. The way she snuggled against him, trusting and soft, made him want to hold her there forever.

"I'll show you," he said, his throat tight. "But only so you'll know and only if you promise this stays between us."

At last, he had succeeded in shocking her. She tipped her head back to see his face, her eyes round,
her rosy mouth agape. "You'll show me?"

He could not help himself. He had wanted her too long, with more than his body, with more even than
his heart. She called to the part of him that could not change, that would love her forever, no matter
what life brought them both. With a groan of agonized pleasure, he dipped his head and kissed her.

She did not resist. Indeed, she seemed to melt against him: her mouth, her body, all her softness pressing the parts of him that needed pressing most. The unexpected capitulation drove everything but hunger from his mind. He couldn't remember the difference between what he'd intended and what he hadn't.
He could only want; could only seize the moment and hold it tight.

He gripped her bottom and lifted her into his groin. The added pressure made his erection throb intensely enough to hurt. He drove deep into her mouth, needing to taste, to claim, to assuage every instant of longing since he'd held her last. When he suckled her tongue she made a sound like a startled dove. His head spun. She was holding him. Her arms clung to his back, her hands to his shoulders. He wanted to
rip off her gloves and bite the tips of her fingers. He wanted to toss her habit over her head and sink forever into her sex. Instead, he hugged her so fiercely she gasped.

He could not bring himself to release her mouth, not even to apologize for being rough. Impatient beyond bearing, and knowing they could not stand here in the open, he swept her off her feet and carried her like a child to the half-ruined hulk of the old hearth.

"Wh-what are you doing?" she said as he set her down. Blood burned in her cheeks, in her bee-stung lips. Her hair had fallen, a shining chestnut gleam across her heaving breasts. Her eyes blazed with wants he doubted she could have named. She looked a perfect wanton. An innocent wanton.

He could not answer her question. He didn't know what he was doing. Instead, he kissed her again, deeply, working his mouth into hers until she moaned and went limp. Only his weight held her up
against the chimney, his knees bent to align their heights, his hips grinding slowly over hers. His cock
was so hard, so sensitive, he seemed to feel each fold of cloth between them. Florence felt it, too: the pressure of his rigid penis against her mons. The flesh between her legs was very warm. It would be
wet, he thought. It would be weeping now for him.

With a groan, he burrowed harder. Her nails pricked his nape. Something shifted inside him, dark and forbidden. He pulled her arms away and pressed them, wide and straight, to the sun-warmed stones above her head. He held her wrists as if his hands were shackles, as if she were the prisoner of his desires. The image whipped him like a lash. His body clamored for him to take her, here, like this, until this terrible desire was sated.

"What are you doing?" she said again, tremulous, her breath panting against his jaw.

He eased his head away, still holding her by the wrists. When he spoke, he scarcely recognized his voice. "I'm showing you."

"Sh-showing me?"

"What desire is."

"But—" She bit her lower lip, swollen now from his kisses. "I already know that."

He could have cried from the bolt of lust that speared his loins. He had to ease his hips away from hers for fear of spilling like the greenest boy. He did not, however, give her a chance to escape. Not that she showed any signs of wanting to. Despite her obvious misgivings, she remained as he'd positioned her: her thighs slightly spread, her arms lifted obediently above her head. Her submission, even her fear, was an aphrodisiac he was reluctant to acknowledge. But he could not deny its allure, nor pull himself away. The best he could do was try to gentle the harshness of his voice.

"Desire comes first," he said, the words hoarser than he wished. "Then pleasure. One builds on the other. Depends on the other." He released one wrist to cup the heated fullness of her breast. Its nipple pressed discernibly through her bodice. He turned his palm and it hardened even more. "Do you feel it? The ache of wanting? In your breasts? Between your legs?"

She nodded, shakily, and he kissed her in reward; kissed her until his head pounded in time with his
cock, until his passion burst from his chest in a primitive, animal growl. He kneaded her breast, pinching the sensitive tip, raking the swollen areola with his nails. She began to squirm against the trap of his body, not to get away but to get more. He knew how she felt; oh, did he know. He lowered his head to her breast and bit its peak.

"Edward," she gasped, pushing weakly at his shoulders. "I think I understand this part well enough."

He lifted his head to meet her eyes. He could barely catch his breath. "I'll need to touch you to show
you what pleasure is. I'll need to put my fingers between your legs and stroke your little pussy."

"M-my pussy?"

In spite of himself, he smiled. What an innocent she was. He nipped the curve of her chin. "I could
call it your love garden, if you prefer. Or Cupid's alley. Or perhaps your buttered crumpet?" She pleased him with a giggle. "In any case, you'll know what it is soon enough ... if you choose to let me go on."

She thought for a moment, then squared her shoulders. "I do. I do choose to let you."

His tension sighed from him. What a brave little darling she was, what a sweet, untouched, juicy plum. He played his lips over hers, letting their breath mingle in increasingly urgent gusts, letting her taste just the tip of his tongue. When she whimpered, he gave her more. When she moaned, he gave her all. Her fears thus distracted, he gathered up her skirts, slowly, taking the petticoats, too, warming her thinly clad legs with his own. When the mass of cloth reached her waist, she broke free of the kiss.

"Shall I hold my skirts?" she whispered.

"Yes," he said, just as softly. "I may want both my hands."

"If you do, you'll have to let go of my other wrist."

He laughed without sound. Even now, Florence could be practical. He pulled her still trapped hand to his mouth. Sweeping his tongue under the edge of her glove, he bit the plump flesh beneath her thumb. When she shuddered, his body did as well, hardening until the pain of wanting her stung in his eyes like tears. When he released her, his hand shook as badly as hers. Gritting his teeth, he took one step back to look at what he'd bared. Her legs, covered by the fine, lacy drawers, were as long and curvy as he remembered, her hands small against the bundle of sea-struck blue. Her boots—he shut his eyes at a spasm of longing— clung to her ankles with loverlike devotion. He hadn't planned on going to his knees, but his legs would not hold him. He fell and she drew a startled breath. A second later his hands wrapped the ankle of her shoes.

"Oh," she said as his fingers kneaded the bone beneath the kid. "Oh, my."

"Just a little more," he said, drawing a teasing circle on her calf. "Just a little further and you'll know."

Her thighs trembled when he stroked them. He could scent her now, musky and sweet. Heart pounding, he nuzzled the open slit of her drawers. His hands followed, parting the sheer cotton, finding the crisp, tightly gathered curls. She tensed but did not move away. He sensed her waiting with bated breath. He combed her thatch to pet her mound. How wonderful were these secrets, and what a marvel that she would share them with him! Gently, he rubbed the tender cushion, gently, until the soothing strokes convinced her to relax. Then he drew one thumb, light as goosedown, over the shy, warm furrow of her lips. Tense or no, she was wet. Moisture painted his skin and hers, rich and fragrant and slick. That he had the power to call it from her both humbled and aroused.

"This is your pussy," he said, low and husky. "This and the secrets that lay within. I'd like to touch them if you'd let me. I'd like to show you the magic they can do."

"This is the pleasure part?"

He smiled and kissed her tangled curls. "Yes. This is the pleasure part." Hearing no protest, he parted her with his thumbs, rubbing into and up her folds. Her skin was sleek as satin here, oiled with desire. She jumped when he brushed her clitoris. Smiling again, he pressed it lightly, the pad of each thumb compressing either side. This time his reward was a violent shiver. She dropped one hand over his as
if to stop him, then just as nervously withdrew.

"Are you sure this is where you're supposed to be?" she asked.

"I'm sure," he laughed, and squeezed more firmly. This time she moaned. "This is the secret to a woman's pleasure. This little pink bud of flesh."

"Oh," she cried, her head falling back against the ruined wall. "It almost hurts."

He did not heed the words, only the tone, only the hand that fluttered to his hair to press him closer. He drove her up the slope to climax, savoring every gasp of surprise, every moan of longing. He craved her pleasure as a starving man craves food. This was Florence. This was the woman he loved. He used everything his lovers had taught him: when to push, when to tease, when to murmur things he wished to do. Most of all, he listened to her body. Her tremors told him what she liked, the tensing of her thighs,
her ever-tightening grip on his head. For that, no other woman could guide him. This act was for her alone. When she died the little death, his soul exulted at her cry. He slid the tip of his finger into her passage, feeling the contractions at her barrier as his mouth swept her over once again. He didn't need
to do this. He'd shown her what he promised. But he couldn't let her go. This was all he would have of her. This first knowledge of her body. This first introduction to her bliss.

He wanted to make it as memorable as he could.

At the fifth orgasm, her knees gave way. She fell against him, taking him by surprise and tumbling them both to the grass. His body surged at the pleasant shock of her weight, remembering all at once that it
had needs as powerful as hers.

More powerful, he thought, fighting an urge to do more than run his hands down the length of her back. Unlike her, he'd tasted the joys his cock could know. He knew what it was to slide into a woman's warmth when he was hard enough to scream.

Of course, he'd never known what it was to do it with a heart wound tight by love.

"Show me," she said. "Show me how I can pleasure you."

It was a demand he dared not meet. He made a noise, a low, threatening rumble in his chest.

"Show me," she insisted, her hair hanging round them in a lemon-scented fall.

He didn't know how it had happened, but her wrists were in his hands again. He had manacled them; stretched them out from her sides. He knew he ought to release her. He knew, but he could not. His
legs were splayed beneath her. Her thighs lay over his sex. He wanted to imprison them as well, to
make his legs a second trap.

"Don't ask that of me," he said through gritted teeth.

She kissed his mouth, a girlish press with an intoxicating hint of tongue. "It's only fair, Edward."

The way she said his name undid him: low and throbbing, as if it held a meaning for her heart. He rolled her beneath him, pressing her into the ground with his greater size and weight. Now he had her. Now she could not get away. He cupped her head between his hands and fed his passion through their mouths.

"Oh," she moaned, gasping for air. "It hurts again."

He nearly came. He had to lift his hips and when he did her hand slipped into the space between them. Before he could stop her, she cupped bis straining sex. His body flinched, a great, nerve-jolting shock.
He could not speak for the effort it took to hold his climax back. Sweat broke out all over his body.

"Does it hurt for you?" she whispered, gently rubbing him up and down. "Does it hurt when you get big like this?"

"Take it out," he rasped. "Jesus-Mary. Open my trousers and take it out."

But he did it before she could, fumbling with the fastenings, nearly ripping his crumpled linen. His cock fell into her hand as if it knew its rightful home. He was thick, hot, pulsing with ungovernable desire. She clasped him lightly. Her hand was damp and warm and so small her fingers barely met around his shaft.

The top of his head seemed to lift from his skull. Pressure built in his groin, swelling in his stones, in his shaft. Instinct took over. He cursed, thrust his hand inside her drawers to clear his path. He pushed forward. His crest touched her parted lips. She was at his mercy and he was huge. Desperate. A single stroke from coming. He groaned and squeezed his tip inside her. Nerves fired and screamed. She was wet. Hot. For him. The earth seemed to tremble at her body's silken clasp.

"Edward," she gasped.

There was fear in the sound. He hovered, trembling, yearning to break the fragile barrier and make her his. She would accept him, he knew. Her fluid heat told him that. He wanted to show her the joy men and women could share more than he wanted his next breath. But he could not do it. He could not soil
his brother's bride. Not even out of love.

With a tortured groan, he tore himself away. He wrapped his arms around his shins and pressed his forehead to his knees. Only by holding himself could he keep from taking her where she lay. He cursed until he thought he must be frightening her.

She was slower to sit up. When she did she laid her hand on the back of his head.

"Go," he said, stiffening under the touch. "Go now before I hurt you."

No doubt he had already. No doubt the words were bad enough. She pulled away and rose. Heart
aching, he listened to her shaking down her skirts. For a moment she stood at his side. She did not
argue, merely brushed his hair behind his ear, the gesture sweeter than he deserved. He thought she would speak then, but she walked away in silence and left him to his regrets.

Oh god, oh god, thought Florence, the refrain uncontrollable. She had to pull Nitwit up before she
reached the house, so shattered were her nerves. She straightened her hair as well as she could, securing
it with what pins she could find among the strands. Her lips burned from Edward's kisses, her breasts from his touch. Indeed, her whole body seemed to vibrate with the pleasure he had shown her. And
when she'd touched him— His blood had drummed beneath his skin. His organ had lengthened and swelled. And he'd pressed its silken head against her flesh as if it would die without a home.

She cupped the place he'd put his mouth. Her pussy, he'd called it. It was still warm, still pulsing and liquid, as if pleasure were a sound that could echo down the years.

Oh, God, what had she done? Certainly nothing a respectable fiancee should do.

The thought chilled her. Was she wrong to marry Freddie when she had these feelings for his brother
and not for him? But Freddie didn't seem to want a wife who had those feelings. No matter what
Edward said about them being normal, surely Freddie was a better guide to what a gentlewoman
ought to be?

Overcome by confusion, she clutched her hands before her mouth. Her body and, yes, her heart had
felt righter with Edward than they ever had before. Which didn't mean she ought to listen to them. Edward didn't offer her safety or affection or anything like a future. Edward only offered heartache.
Even if, by some miracle, he were to think of her as a wife, he couldn't be what she needed in a husband, what she'd known she needed since the time she'd found her big, jovial father weeping over a pair of her mother's gloves.

Freddie was what she needed: Freddie's friendship, Freddie's quiet, steady love. He would never break her heart; would never leave her bereft of all that made life worthwhile. And she could be what he needed. She knew she could.

She only had to push these feelings for his brother from her soul.

CHAPTER 11

"You're treating her like a nun," Edward said.

Propped against a mound of pillows in his bed, Freddie was trying to scratch beneath his bandages with
a billiard cue. On the table beside him two novels lay open, along with a deck of playing cards, a decanter of port, a half-written letter, and a slowly bruising bowl of fruit. Edward recognized the signs of boredom but was not inclined to sympathize. Bored or not, Freddie had responsibilities. Edward intended to see that he upheld them.

If some of his anger was self-directed, that did not lessen Freddie's obligation.

Seemingly unimpressed by Edward's outrage, Freddie squinted at his sibling. "Did Florence tell you she felt like a nun?"

"Never mind what she told me. It's got to stop."

Freddie set down the stick. "Does it, now?"

"Yes, damn it!"

"You know, Edward"—Freddie cocked his head— "'when you get angry, there's a big blue vein that
ticks at the side of your neck."

"If I understand what you mean by 'a certain warmth,' I'd rather not."

Edward blinked. "You'd rather not."

Freddie swung his legs over the side of his bed, grimacing when the injured limb took a moment to settle comfortably. "I'd rather not push Florence into a physical relationship. I want her to be able to back out
of this wedding if she changes her mind."

Edward was so overcome with objections he pressed his fist to the furrow above his brows. If Freddie didn't do something about Florence, Edward doubted he'd survive the summer with his sanity intact. Seeing her was too painful: knowing she had needs Freddie wasn't satisfying, needs Edward would be
all too happy to satisfy himself. At least once they were married, his oversight would not be necessary.
He could leave the newlyweds to themselves.

He was still shaking his head when Freddie hobbled over to take his arm. "I can't force her. It wouldn't
be fair."

"Nobody's talking about force. Florence is fond of you, as I assume you are of her. She doesn't disgust you, does she?"

Freddie looked away. "Of course she doesn't."

"Are you reluctant because you think she'll make you miserable?"

"No one could think that."

"Then do it, Freddie. Treat her like a woman. You have to face it someday. You'd like children,
wouldn't you?"

"You know I would." Freddie's voice was rough. He drew a ragged breath and let it out. "Very well.
I'll do it. I'll treat her... warmly. But I won't compromise her virtue. You mustn't ask that."

"I don't," Edward said, his stomach tightening in contradiction to his relief. This was good. Freddie
was agreeing. "Just stop treating her like a brother."

"I shall be a perfect Casanova." Freddie's face twisted. He turned his back. "You can leave now.
You've made your point—though I doubt it's what you really want."

"And hers?"

"And hers," Edward agreed, forcing a lightness he did not feel.

Freddie said nothing to that, simply stood in a shaft of sun, balanced on his one sound leg. A breeze fluttered his shirt around his broad rower's back. Despite his injury, he looked strong: a graceful young man in his prime. His head, however, was bowed in defeat.

Edward gritted his teeth. This arrangement was best for all of them. He could not allow himself to doubt it. Whatever value he personally put on the pleasures of the flesh, by most people's standards, Freddie would make the better husband. Without even straining, Edward could name half a dozen women who'd jump at the chance to marry him, no matter that he was the younger son. Attentive, amusing, even-tempered, were it not for the unfortunate propensities of his past, Freddie would be a paragon.
Once he gave Florence's charms a chance to act on him, Edward was certain those other needs would fade. Freddie had no reason to act defeated; this match was the saving of all their dreams.

All their dreams but his.

The thought slipped past his defenses like a thief. Sternly, grimly, he paid it no mind. The earl of Greystowe could not afford to be chasing dreams.

She could not sort out the right of it, no matter how she tried, and Freddie's arrival did not help. Considering his stated purpose, his mood was decidedly odd. He sniped at Nigel as the steward wheeled him into the small conservatory. The argument was nothing new, but the genuine edge to his anger was. As always, Nigel bore it stoically, wishing Florence a pleasant evening as he withdrew. "Freddie—" Florence began to chide. Freddie grimaced, then swatted the air in front of his face as if that would disperse his temper. "I know. I'm a beast. But from now on, I'll behave."

"You always behave with me."

"At least there's that. Ah, sweetheart. Let's forget how we've begun and try to enjoy the night." He surveyed the cloth-covered table that sat among the fruiting trees. A trio of candles scattered light off
the crystal and plate, while a centerpiece of deep pink peonies added their perfume to the citrus-scented air. Freddie touched a waxen petal. "How prettily Mrs. Forster has arranged this. We shall dine as if we lived in the land of faerie."

"It was Lizzie," Florence said. "My maid. I'm afraid she has a romantic streak."

Freddie smiled. "Nothing wrong with romance. I could do with more of it myself."

But the meal was not romantic at all. Silence reigned over the lobster bisque and stretched through the pigeon pie. Freddie rallied over the lemon sorbet, sharing as amusing anecdote about a friend who accidentally locked himself in his father's icehouse.

"He was a good fellow," he finished with a wistful sigh. "Had his second child last year."

Florence patted his hand. "You'll be a good father." Her claim seemed to disturb him. He rubbed a spot between his brows. Behind him, the orangery's glass was a mist-sheened mirror. Darkness had fallen while they ate.

The night hummed with insects, as nights must have hummed since the dawn of time. Florence had the sudden, strange sensation that she and Freddie were alone in all the world. She could not hear the life of Greystowe from where she sat: the hiss of the gaslights, the servants' footsteps going to and fro. Only
the crickets kept them company.

Their imaginary solitude weighed on her with a portent she did not understand.

Would she feel this way when they were married? Would she be lonely then, too? Disconcerted, she watched Freddie and his reflection turn a silver spoon through the remains of his melted ice.

"You look tired," she said. "Shall I call Nigel to wheel you back to your room?"

"No!" he said, more sharply than she'd expected. He seemed to hear the sharpness, too, and regret it. "Forgive me, Florence. I didn't mean for our dinner to turn out like this. I meant—" He made a face in which she could decipher only frustration. "I meant something quite different, but it seems I cannot do what I intended."

He wrapped his hands around the edge of the table, fingers on the top, thumbs on the bottom. The
pose was that of a man bracing for trouble, and Florence found herself bracing, too.

"Florence," he began. "I've been thinking about yesterday. About our kiss."

Dread fluttered in her breast. Was he angry? Would he berate her for what she'd done?

"I know I shouldn't have been so forward," she said to the napkin in her lap. "I promise it won't happen again."

Freddie touched the side of her lowered head. "Don't apologize. What you did wasn't wrong. Not for
a couple who care about each other, who are engaged."

"Then what have I done to upset you?" She did not plan for the question to be a cry, but it came out
as it would. "If you'd only tell me, I would stop."

"Oh, Florence." He cupped her chin to press a gentle kiss to her trembling lips. "You are too good, my dear. That's why I have to tell you this."

"That you must not expect— That I'm not—" He filled his lungs with air and began again. "I'm not a greatly physical man. Please believe me when I say I care for you, even love you, and wish you all the happiness in the world. But if what you want from marriage is a close physical relationship, I fear
you're doomed to disappointment with me. I fear you'd be better crying off."

Florence felt as if he'd struck her. He wanted her to cry off? To give up everything she'd dreamed of?
A home, a family, a little security and a good, kind man to share it with? To be rejected by Edward was one thing. For that she blamed her own stupidity. But to be hurt here, where she'd believed herself safe, where she'd laid her modest hopes in perfect confidence that they'd be met was something she'd never prepared for. Her mind could not encompass her shock, not to mention her shame. Again. Again she
was cast aside.

It must be a punishment for what she'd done. She'd made her vow to be true to him too late. Her
napkin fell to the floor as she pushed stiffly to her feet. "You don't want to marry me."

"No." He caught her hands and squeezed. "That's not what I meant at all. I'd be honored to marry you. You've no idea how deeply I value your affection. But I've been thinking, perhaps, you should not want to marry me."

Her blood was ice, her eyes searing hot. She knew he was being kind. It was his way: a gentleman to
the last. She did not deserve to marry a man like him.

"If you wish it," she said, blinking back tears, "I shall release you from your promise."

Instead, he released her hands. "It's not what I wish, Florence."

She could not bear his gentle lies. "Please leave," she said with what dignity she could pull around her.
"I wish to be alone."

"Are you sure, sweetheart? I could—"

"Please," she repeated, cutting him off.

She nodded, unable to trust her voice.

She did not cry until the crickets drowned out his wheels.

Edward remained in the library long after his interest in its contents had palled. His private suite was in
the family wing and the passage outside it led directly past the orangery. He hadn't wanted to hear
Freddie and Florence, nor remind them of his existence. As a result, here he stayed, a specter by the
high French windows, nursing his second glass of brandy for the night.

He'd ordered the servants not to linger near the courting pair.

Stomach knotting, he turned his head towards the spot where the glassed-in structure angled into his
line of sight. He could distinguish nothing through the foliage but a faint candle glow. They'd been in
there an hour. Was Freddie kissing her? Whispering sweet nothings in her ear? To be sure, Edward
ought to hope he was. He ought to hope Freddie had swept her completely off her feet.

Needless to say, he did not.

He finished his brandy in a single swallow, then glanced behind him at the long, book-lined room. He could pace as he'd done earlier. Past the herbals and the Greeks. Up around the gallery and down the spiral stair. He could glare at the busts of Plato and Pliny that dignified the doorway to the drawing
room. He could even flip through the duchess's silly Gothic novels and give himself a laugh.

He did none of these things. Fool that he was, he stood, nose virtually pressed to glass, watching a
distant, flickering glow that told him absolutely nothing, yet managed to torture him all the same.

Suddenly he straightened, every muscle tensing to alert.

Anyone else would have thought she was taking a meditative stroll. Her pace was measured. Her skirts swept negligently behind her on the grass. Only eyes sharpened by love could perceive the stiffness in
her steps, as if a puppet were being tugged by unkind strings.

When she dragged her sleeve across her eyes, he knew she had been crying.

He did not stop to think, not even to wonder what bis brother had done. He flung through the French door and across the columned portico. When he gained the lawn, he peered wildly past the reach of the gaslight. She was moving towards the front of the house, towards the lake.

Shorter of breath than his brief exertions should have made him, he hastened in her wake. She was walking faster now. She'd gotten farther ahead of him than he liked. He was aware, in the dimmer recesses of his mind, that he was being ridiculous. A weeping woman didn't necessarily want or need rescuing, nor would many have chosen his services if they'd shared Florence's experience of him. But
he couldn't take the chance that she might want his comfort and he wouldn't be there to give it. He had
to be there if she needed him. Had to.

He slowed as he saw her step onto the footbridge that connected to lakeshore to the island. His neck tightened. Where was she going? What did she intend? Surely she wouldn't throw herself off the bridge. Whatever had happened couldn't be as bad as that. In spite of this logic, his shoulders did not relax until she crossed the midpoint of the arch. One of the slumbering swans ruffled its wings in complaint.
 Cursing too quietly to be heard, Edward followed.

Now more curious than alarmed, he drew to the side of the path as she tried the handle of the heavy Moorish door. It didn't budge. She tried again, then pounded the wood beneath the fanciful crescent of glass. This failing to achieve any effect, she slid sobbing to the stoop. That was more than enough to make Edward admit to his presence.

He stepped out of the shadows. Florence didn't seem at all surprised to see him.

"It's locked," she accused, as angry as a thwarted child.

"It's not locked. It's heavy. And the hinges are probably stuck."

"Well, open it, damn you." The curse sounded comical on her lips and he struggled not to smile. She'd pushed to her feet and was loudly sniffing back tears. Edward wondered if she were going to hit him
the way she had that night before the Vances' ball. She certainly looked tempted.

So much for offering comfort, he thought, but did as she asked—though he had to brace his foot on
the wall and heave. Finally, with a loud squeal of protest, the stubborn door gave way.

A cloud of dust set them both to coughing. This building had been his and Freddie's grandfather's retreat from family life and their father's after him. It was a place of illicit rendezvous, a smoking room, a bastion of male vices. Edward and Freddie had played Crusades in it when they were young, but that had been long ago. Thankfully, a flint and taper still lay on the shelf inside the door. Edward lit the candle, then made a circuit of the large round room.

Mouth open, cheeks stained with drying tears, she gaped at the filigreed arch above her head. He could almost see visions of harems running through her mind. Before thej could run through his, he cleared his throat. "Might I ask why you were so determined to get in here?"

She turned to finger a musty crimson drape. He suspected she was embarrassed. "I suppose I thought
I'd spend the night here."

"Because—?"

"Don't take that tone with me," she said, her anger tinged with fatigue, "as if I were a child sniveling
over a broken doll."

He couldn't answer at first. He was too taken by the sight of her in his father's old trysting place, her profile glowing in the lamplight, her figure enough to fuel the dreams of a dozen generations. He felt
oddly close to her. despite his obviously having put his foot in it.

I even relish her rebukes, he thought, a laugh for his foolishness caught in his throat.

"Forgive me," he said, all humor hidden. "I didn't mean to belittle your troubles. Please tell me what's wrong. Did Freddie do something to offend you?"

The nearest sconce lit the involuntary pursing of her lips. "Freddie doesn't want to marry me."

The answer caught him by surprise. He took a step closer. "He couldn't have said that. He wouldn't."

"Of course he wouldn't. What he actually said was I shouldn't want to marry him. 'Doomed to disappointment' was how he put it." She turned to face him, her back pressing the velvet drapery to the wall. As if her confession refreshed her horror, she covered her face with her hands. A moment later,
she dropped them in resignation.

A single tear spilled down her dove-soft cheek. Edward found this more wrenching than a storm of sobs. He knew it was Florence who'd begun to hope for a happy life. Without stopping to count the cost, he opened his arms.

"Come here," he said. As if she'd been waiting a lifetime for the offer, she ran to him with a hiccuping little cry. Her arms clung tightly to his back. Her body shook but it was warm. She fit the harbor of his chest as if God had made her for his hold. Happier than he had any right to be, he rubbed his cheek against her hair. "You'll work it out. I know Freddie didn't mean what you believe."

"He did," she insisted, her face pressed to the front of his shirt. "I know he did. He didn't want me,
either. When I kissed him, he—well, let's just say he wasn't looking forward to having me in his bed.
Oh, blast it anyway!"

With a furious shove, she pushed back from his hold. "What's wrong with me?" she demanded, arms flung wide to indicate her person. "What fatal flaw do the Greystowe men find so repulsive? Am I too fat? Too thin? Or perhaps my character's too dull? It can't be my boldness because I'm not very and,
in any case, you liked when Merry Vance was bold. By God, you even gave her my horse!"

Edward had to smile at this. That had bothered her, had it? Seeing the smile, Florence crossed her arms and looked as dangerous as a peach-sweet vicar's daughter could. He knew it was time to smooth her ruffled pride. "I didn't give her your horse; I allowed her to ride it. Mostly because she assumed I intended to, and I could not for the life of me explain why I'd made such an extravagant purchase for
my brother's fiancee."

This, at last, was the right thing to say. Florence hung her head and scuffed her slipper through the dust. "You truly did buy Buttercup for me?"

"And you hung that painting in my room, the one you knew I loved."

"Yes."

"I suppose you really aren't an ogre." Her head ducked lower, muffling the admission. "I suppose
I'll miss you, too."

She was crying again. His own eyes stung as he folded her against him. No doubt it was reckless, but he didn't care. "Hush." He pressed his lips to her hair. "No one's going to miss anyone. You're going to marry Freddie and stay right here."

She shook her head against his dampened shirt. "I can't make him marry me. Not if he doesn't want to."

"I'm sure he wants to." Of their own will, his lips found the baby-smooth skin of her temple. Florence's arms clutched his back.

"He doesn't. You liked kissing me better than he did."

"I'm sure that's not true," he murmured, though he wasn't certain what he denied. His mouth had drifted to the tender pink lobe of her ear. He tried to convince himself not to bite it.

"It is true," she insisted. "I know he's a gentleman, Edward, but could something be wrong with Freddie?"

That focused his attention. He straightened and drew back in their embrace. "There's nothing wrong
with Freddie. Absolutely nothing."

"Then it has to be me. I'm not woman enough to make him want me."

"Oh, Lord," Edward groaned. "You're woman enough and then some."

She narrowed her eyes. "You didn't want me. Not at the very end."

"I wanted you. Just as I've wanted you since we met."

"But you stopped!"

A new flush joined the blotches from her tears. The tip sf her nose was pink and her lashes stuck together. Even so, as thought her the most delectable creature he'd ever seen. Her hips wriggled in his hold, a devastating little squirm. If ihe needed further proof of his claims, she certainly got it. His cock leapt like a spawning salmon and his breath fled from his lungs. His fingers tightened on her bottom, whether to stop her movement or squeeze her closer he couldn't have said. Whatever his intent, she
stilled at the increasingly forceful pulsing of his sex. Her gaze met his.

"I want to know," she said, the words all breath and fire. "I know it's wrong of me, but it can't hurt Freddie now. If I'm not going to have a husband, I want to know how it feels to be desired."

For a moment, she thought he would faint. The color drained from his face and he closed his eyes.
When he opened them, their blue blazed like flame. She expected an argument, or a polite evasion
such as Freddie had offered. Instead he stared at her, blinked, then crashed his mouth down over hers.

After that, it was her turn to feel weak.

"Oh, Florence," he said between deep, devouring kisses. "Don't make me do this."

But she couldn't think of one good reason to stop him. She'd lost everything: her dreams, her future,
even her reputation would be ruined when the news of her broken engagement spread. Why shouldn't she, just once, reach for what she truly wanted? Not that she could have stopped Edward. His embrace overwhelmed her, not merely his strength or his size but the blatant ownership of his touch. His hands
slid over her, squeezing, rubbing, as if every inch of her were his to claim. He gave no thought to what might embarrass her. He touched her everywhere he wished.

With a low groan, he lifted her off her feet and pressed her back to the wall. Her legs had no place to go but around his waist. He pushed his body between them, eager to rub the hardest part of him against the neediest part of her.

"Wait," she said when he finally let her draw breath. Panting hard, he dropped his forehead to hers.
"Forgive me. I shouldn't have moved so quickly. Or been so rough." He had misunderstood her. Ignoring the apology, she found the pearl studs that fastened his shirtfront and began to slip them through their holes. His breathing changed course. "What," he asked, "are you doing?"

"I'm touching you the way you wouldn't let me before. I need proof of what I do to you. I need it in my hands."

"You need proof?" The question was strangled. She nodded shyly and hoped he wouldn't stop her. He shuddered. "Proof." He allowed her legs to slide down his sides. He took one step back from her, then another, and then his hands took over the task of divesting his clothes. "Allow me," he said, low and strained.

With a curse of impatience, he shrugged off his satin waistcoat.

Anticipation curled through her like the smoke that hookah must have trailed so long ago. She felt as if more than his body were about to be unveiled. His eyes glittered in the lamplight, color staining his cheeks, brightening his full seducer's lips. He looked beautiful and strange, the victim of a thrall: her thrall. She had asked and he complied. Under his big, capable hands, his shirtfront parted over his chest. He pulled the crisp white garment over his head, his muscles shifting under smooth, sun-browned skin. Her breath seemed trapped in her throat. His shoulders were broad, his nipples two sharp-tipped bronze coins. His build was half laborer, half marble David. But he was so much more exciting than a statue. The sheer cloud of sable hair that trailed invitingly down his center, the warmth of his skin, the way his ribs expanded with his breaths made her feel as if she'd give her very soul to touch his flesh.

"More?" he asked, his fingers resting lightly at the top of his trousers. The swell beneath made a prisoner of her gaze. It was a living, pulsing thing: the object of her unending fascination.

And he obviously feared she might not want to see it.

His laugh was half gasp. "And here I was thinking I'd scared the wits out of you."

His arms fell to his sides. She reached. Stepped closer. Hdw extraordinary it was to know that all this
time they'd been thinking of each other, and that he, too, had desired her touch. His belly moved in and out as she struggled with the metal clasp. The buttons were easier. The pressure bead them nearly pushed them free. Mindful of his rigidly vollen organ, she eased his linens around its jut. His head ropped back
as she pulled the gathered cloth to his ankles. Her fingers brushed the hair on his legs, a prickle of goose-bumps sweeping in their wake.

"Florence," he moaned, the sound beating like his heart.

She looked up at him from the floor: at his hairy chest and his beautiful limbs, at his towering maleness and the odd little sack that dangled underneath. It had pulled up higher than before and she wondered what that meant. He was watching her reaction now, his gaze searingly intense. Despite the attention, she could not drag her eyes from the part of him that was so changed, so gloriously upright. She remembered how smooth it had felt and yet the veins that twined its pulsing girth did not look smooth at all. Its head reared almost to his waist, seeming to loom in threat above her, as if angry at her presumption.

"What do I call it?" she whispered.

"This?" He gripped the column in his fist, pulling slowly towards the gleaming crimson tip. The flesh that sheathed it moved, looser than she' d expected. Her body jumped inside as if his hand were touching her. His longest finger curled over the tiny slit. "This is my penis. My cock."

"Cock," she whispered, trying the hard, crisp word. The thing leapt as if it recognized its name. Her
hand ventured towards the hanging sack. "And this?"

"Ballocks," he said, and released his grip.

For the space of a breath, he did not answer. She feared she had once again overstepped the bounds of what was done. Then his fingertip stroked gently down her cheek. "You may kiss whatever you like.
I said you could have proof."

But she did not kiss him first. First she simply pressed her face to his groin, turning her cheeks back and forth, taking his textures through her skin, his scent, his vital, leaping pulse. He sighed at the slow, catlike caress, then tensed when her tongue came out to taste.

"Yes," he gasped. "Lick me. Lick me as if I were sweet."

"You are sweet." She found a spot that made him shiver. "And big."

He lengthened at the words, noticeably, as if the claim were darkly magic.

"Not too big," he whispered. "Not too."

His words tempted her to laugh. He wanted to be big. He liked that she thought he was. She knew this with an instinct that was born into her sex. The bigger the sword, the more powerful the man who wielded it. The more powerful the man, the safer the people he loved.

"I don't know." She touched the strange papery skin of his sack. "I think perhaps I ought to be afraid."

He could only gasp at that because she'd slid her mouth around the ripe, ruddy head. It was sweet,
and smooth, the smoothest of all. She curled her tongue over the satiny curve and sucked, a peculiarly childish delight. The little slit was interesting, too. He had touched it himself and she thought it must feel good. When she tried it, he moaned, pain and pleasure mixing in the sound. His hips flexed and the hot blunt tip strove against the pressure of her tongue. Faintly, deliciously, she tasted salt.

His fingers tangled in her hair, then lifted her away.

"Enough." He pulled her to her feet. "You don't know what you're doing."

For an instant, his words stung. "Then teach me," she said.

But he kissed her instead, a slow, thorough plunder. Her knees failed and she was carried, floating really, to be set on a soft pile of pillows that smelled of old perfume. Her clothes peeled away beneath his expert hands: dress, petticoats, corset. She was embarrassed to be so bare before his eyes, as if he'd stripped away her armor.

"No," he said when she tried to cover her secrets. "Don't deny me the pleasure you wanted for yourself."

He certainly seemed to like her naked body. His hands slid over her, his mouth. The tips of her breasts earned kisses that made her moan. When he saw the marks left by her stays, he rubbed them until the
red began to fade.

But he did not remove her boots.

"Are you afraid to see my naked feet?" she teased, her confidence restored by his admiration.

"Perhaps," he said, with a small, shuttered smile.

The shock as he pressed their naked fronts together drove the question from her mind.

"Oh," she said, squirming rapturously against him. "Oh, my!"

He laughed, then growled against her neck. "You were made for this, Florence. Made for love."

She liked the sound of that: made for love. Grinning back, she craned upward for his kiss. Her joy was
all the giddier for having begun in pain. She gave herself over to it, over to him, as if she'd never in her life known fear.

"Sweetness," he murmured, sensing her surrender.

He slipped his hand down her belly and through her curls, then moaned at the heat that greeted his caress. Clearly seeking more, his fingers slid between her folds. She felt the delightful ache she'd known before and writhed beneath him, wanting what she knew he could give, thrusting with her hips when she could no longer be still.

This time he watched her climb until she had to close her eyes.

"Yes," he praised, rough and heated by her ear. "Come for me, sweetness, come."

The pleasure broke more sharply than before. She cried out at the startling liquid tremor, and again when his fingers worked her harder still. Lovely wavelets rolled over one another, ebbing and building, lapping deep inside her core. When he finally let her go she was boneless, heated through and through with satiation. As if it were a dream, she felt him stretch against her side. His arm jerked quickly, wildly, until he gasped and stiffened and a burst of something warm splashed her hip.

He sighed heavily when the wetness finished spurting, like a man who'd set down a burden.

He spilled his seed, she thought. He brought himself to pleasure with his fist. She touched the sweaty
arm he'd draped across her waist.

"Why did you do that?" she asked. "Why didn't you let me?"

Still breathing hard, he nuzzled the crook of her neck. "I'm sorry, Florence. I wasn't sure you'd want to and I couldn't wait. Watching you was too much. I had to come."

"Then you'll have to teach me to do it quicker."

He rose over her on his elbow. Crinkles spread out from his smiling eyes, warm and reassuring, as if he saw every insecurity she'd tried to hide behind her matter-of-fact tone.

"No," he said, his lips whispering incitingly over hers. "I want you to do it slow."

He showed her how, his organ beginning to grow as soon as he wrapped her fingers around it. He showed her the places he liked to be touched: how a lick of the tongue made her palm slide more deliriously; how his cock rooted deep inside him and could be rubbed behind his sack; how a gentle squeeze at the proper moment left him gasping with delight.

He held her as she slept, his heart slowing, his body blissfully at ease, his mind held from the press of reality by force of will. One night, he thought, one night until the dawn. Then he would do what he must. Then he would return her to his brother. He knew it was wrong, maybe even impossible, for this night to be forgotten. But what choice did he have? Marry Florence himself and abandon Freddie to the wolves? The lure of doing precisely that was almost stronger than he could stand. But even if marrying him might make Florence happier, that path was primarily selfish: abominably selfish, in fact. How could he live
with himself, knowing he'd destroyed his brother's last chance to be saved?

He could still make this work. He could. None of them would have precisely what they wished, but neither would any of them be ruined. And in the meantime, he would have his night.

What could one night matter when the damage already was done?

Done but not compounded, said his conscience.

He ignored the nagging voice, easing out from under his love to find the bath. He would not regret this night no matter what.

He pushed aside three dusty velvet curtains before he found the hidden door. The marble floor was cool beneath his feet as he looked around, taking in the memories. It was a rich room, shining with Moorish tile and gilt, the crowning luxury of the pavilion. Spiders scuttled in the plunge bath, but water still flowed from the taps. He did his business quickly, splashed his face, then hesitated as his gaze struck an Indian prayer cabinet. The wood was covered in statuettes, each carved to represent the positions of love. Some were only possible for contortionists. Others he and Florence had done tonight. He and Freddie had sniggered over this cabinet when they were boys, but now Edward remembered what it contained: velvet ties, rolls of long velvet ties.

He glanced over his shoulder to the room where Florence slept. He'd said he wanted memories. Why not a memory of the fantasy that had been haunting him since that day at the ruins? He opened the cabinet's folding door. Inside, beneath a smiling cedar Buddha, was a chest he'd never seen. The baroque French coffer was gold, encrusted with ornamental flowers. It was locked, but the key lay beside it. Curious, he opened the lid.

The contents included a collection of brittle letters, the packets bound with red satin cords. Next to these lay a chased gold locket, big enough to fill his palm. Opening it gave him a start. The portrait inside was the spitting image of Imogene Hargreave. For a moment, he suspected someone of playing a nasty joke. Then he realized the picture couldn't be Imogene. For one thing, the clothes were too old-fashioned. The subject's flaxen hair was scraped close to her head, then coaxed into shining coils. Though the face was familiar, the eyes were different from Imogene's: softer, easier to hurt.

How peculiar, he thought, shaken by the coincidence. He teased one yellowed letter from its stack. He opened the final flap. "Yours forever, Catherine," said the girlish signature.

Catherine, he mouthed, his mind working out the puzzle. The writer could only be Catherine Exeter. The letters were not old enough to be his grandfather's and if his father had courted any other Catherine, the people of Greystowe would have known. Old gossip died hard in a town like this.

Imogene would age, he was lucky to be quit of her. He didn't feel lucky, though. He felt as if a goose had walked across his grave. The chill trickled unpleasantly I down his spine. Maybe he had more in common with his farther than he'd thought.

No. He pushed the possibility away. He was his own man with his own sins, one of whom was curled in sleep on i mound of satin pillows. He should not waste this night in •dwelling on someone else's dusty past. The present was all I that mattered, the present and the memories it could bring.  He reached for a more familiar item, a roll of night-black velvet. When he undid the circling ribbon, eight soft quilted ties unfurled across his palm. His breathing quickened. Should he do this? Would Florence mind? Would
she even know she ought to?

He didn't think she would and that aroused him most of all. With no mother to guide her, and no
married friend her age, she was a stranger to the shapes love could take. She would not know what
was ordinary and what was not. Her questions about women's "feelings" had proved that. But would
she enjoy being made his prisoner? He closed his eyes, picturing the stark black ties against her blushing skin. He could make her enjoy it. If he were gentle and reassuring. If he showed her there was nothing
to fear.

He laughed ironically through his nose. Nothing to fear but the overflowing passions of his heart. He
was the one who should have been afraid. If she trusted him enough to allow this, he knew it would
mark him forever hers.

She woke to a sense of something out of place. Someone ... someone was kissing her naked feet. She curled her toes against the tickling mouth and smiled without opening her eyes.

She opened her eyes and thought all the beauty his. His face was close, his cheeks flushed with what she'd come to recognize as desire. His blue eyes burned in their satiny fringe of black. His lips were a curve of heaven. She did not mark his glowering brows or the harshness of his jaw. His haughty nose
was perfect. Her love, it seemed, had turned all his flaws to virtues.

"I'm glad I please you," she said, her cheeks heating at the admission. "You are the first man I ever wanted to admire me."

"The first, eh?" He hid a boyish smile by trailing kisses up the stretch of her arm. "I hope you're still pleased when you realize what I've done."

"What you've done?" She tried to sit up and look around, but her arms would not leave their place.
They were fastened by the wrist to a pair of columns, spread outward like an X . Her legs were tied as well, not to anything but to each other, at ankle and at knee. The ties did not hurt but they were strong. Goodness, how could she have slept through such an alteration?

"Why have you done this?" she asked, abruptly feeling panicked. "Why am I tied?"

"Hush," he said. He laid one hand atop her breast, cupping it in his warmth. "I will not hurt you."

The way he bit his lip belied his sureness. His eyes, always proud and stern, pleaded for acceptance,
but acceptance of what, she didn't know.

"Why?" she said, even as she calmed beneath his touch.

"Because I wish it. Because I have dreamed of doing it. Because"—his finger trailed down the midline
of her belly—"because it will make me feel safer."

She had to smile at this admission. "How could I frighten you?"

He lowered his face and rubbed it slowly against her own. The scrape of his whiskers made her shiver. "You threaten my control, Florence. When you touch me, you push me to the edge. I could love you as
I pleased if I knew you would not tempt me past what can be done." His mouth opened near the bend
of her jaw, his breath beating warmth against her neck, his tongue slipping out to test her pulse.

"What can be done?'" she repeated.

His lips whispered over her brow. "There are limits. Things we must not do. But if you let me love
you this once, this way, we will share every drop of pleasure we can know."

What limits? she wanted to cry. What things? But something stopped her, a quiver of superstition. She was the princess in the ogre's castle, free to open any door but one. If she made her prince explain,
would she break the magic spell?

"You truly wish this?" she said, nodding at the ties.

He pulled back and straddled her waist on his knees. The long shadow of his sex flickered against his stomach. It seemed immense in the lamplight, almost grotesque, and yet she found it as beautiful as the rest of him. Too big to hold. Too perfect not to. His palms rubbed up and down his muscled thighs, itching perhaps to touch her. His gaze slid from her left wrist to her right, lingering on the velvet ties. His chest rose and fell as if the mere sight of her bonds excited him. When his eyes met hers, they gleamed like jewels, the pupils huge but steady.

"I wish this more than you could know," he said.

'Then I'm sure I shall enjoy it."

He smiled with a fondness that warmed her heart. "I'll do my utmost not to make you a liar."

"See that you do," she teased.

He laughed and pulled her to her velvet-bound knees.

He had not lied. His kisses were different now, freer, lusher, as if her constraints had loosened his own. His moans were louder, his skin more fevered. He rubbed their bodies together with the enthusiasm of
a much less civilized being. "Do you like that?" he whispered. "Do you like my cock against your skin?"

"It's crying for you, Florence. It wants to fuck your sweet little pussy." He laughed, low and dark, at
her involuntary shiver. "Poor little Florence. I don't mean to frighten you with my words."

"I'm not f-frightened."

He laughed again and squeezed her so tightly his penis seemed to burn between their bodies. "I'll tell
you a secret, love. I don't mind if you're a little frightened, so long as you enjoy how I make you feel."

He kissed her before she could respond, deep and possessive, driving every thought from her mind but the sweet, drugging bliss of his touch. His hands were her salvation, his cock the brand that made her his. And she was his, entirely, without a scrap of her soul withheld. Willingly, she surrendered to his wishes, loving that what he wanted was hers to give, loving even the tiny spark of fear. He could do anything to her. Anything.

But he would not hurt her. She knew he would not. The trust she felt was a pleasure in itself. That she, who had so long feared her shadow, could trust a man with not only her body but her body's satisfaction filled her with a hot, sharp streak of pride. Even to Freddie she would not have granted this. Only Edward could be trusted to know her deepest need.

Indeed, even as she tensed with a shadow of self-consciousness, he moved behind her. She sighed at the heady rush the change of positions inspired. She could not see him now, and he could not see her face. She was freed to feel, to react, with that small bit of modesty preserved.

"Cat," he teased at her tiny, purring moan.

"I'm moving closer," he warned. "I'm going to rub us together like the butler and his favorite plate."

He planted his knees outside her calves and slipped his arms around her waist. His chin fit neatly over her head. True to his word, he buffed his front to her back, slowly, firmly, the heavy press of muscle and skin a deep, bone-heating pleasure.

Her enjoyment escaped in a long, melodious sigh.

"Like that?" he said, his fingers drawing circles on her breasts.

"It makes me feel drunk."

"And this?" One big hand covered her belly, pressing her bottom to the thick hot thrust of his sex. Her head fell back against his shoulder.

"Yes," she said. "That, too."

He pleasured her as slowly as she'd pleasured him, hands brushing feather-light against the parts of her that felt it most: her nipples, her mouth, the sensitive stretch of bone between her shoulders. He teased the triangle of curls between her legs and drew patterns over the rise of her hips. He touched her until her skin seemed to hum beneath his hands: burning, yearning, straining harder and harder for the next caress. When he finally slipped one finger between the tightly pressed folds of her mound, the contact made her nerves all leap at once.

But even these enticements could not dull her awareness of what he was doing with his cock. He was rubbing it over her: her bottom, the small of her back, the crease where each cheek met her legs. He squeezed it into the tightly bound clasp of her thighs, just far enough to touch her nether lips before he drew it out. She sensed he was exploring her with it, as if his organ were another hand. She could feel the wet, foreign press of the little eye, warm and slick. He was stretched within his skin, hardening like iron as their play drew out.

"Ready?" he said, his voice harsh but still controlled. "Ready to fly over the edge?"

She could barely move for the waves of longing that weighted her limbs. She managed a feeble nod. For him it was enough. Gone was his teasing then, gone the luxuriant rub of skin on skin. Strength replaced it, and determination. The swiftness of her rise was dizzying. In seconds, her body tensed, coiled with heartstopping pleasure, and sprung free with blinding force. He must have known what was happening to her. His hips jerked faster, pressed harder, and an instant later he joined her in the sweet convulsion. Growling softly, his teeth scored her shoulder as his seed jetted hard against her back.

It was a singular experience, feeling him soften as he held her, knowing they had shared that spasm of joy. He sat back and spooned her against him. This is nakedness, she thought. Letting someone see you lose yourself to the madness of your flesh.

He kissed the place he'd set his teeth, then licked it. Her skin tingled beneath his tongue.

"You bit me," she said, as surprised by his action as she was by her own flutters of intrigue. Obviously, she had much to learn about the secrets of the bedchamber.

Misunderstanding her words, he murmured an apology and bent to release her ties. He checked her
wrists to make sure they weren't chafed. The right bore a mark where she'd unwittingly tugged it at the end. He kissed the fading redness, then cradled her hand against his chest. "All right, love?" he said, his pretty eyes concerned.

She'd always be all right when he called her that.

"Just tired," she said, her gratification smothered by a yawn.

The response amused him. "Come then," he said. "I'll get us settled for the night."

She was a chick barely out of its shell, a child-woman with her hands curled together beneath her cheek. Could anyone who saw her not wish to protect her sweetness?

He thought of the way she'd taken him in her mouth, all curiosity and accidental skill. He thought of the way she'd let him bind her, the way she'd squirmed and sighed in his arms. Her lust was as clean as the brook that fed the downs. No act could sully her; at least, not the woman she was today.

Lips thinned by a rueful smile, he smoothed the gold satin sheet across her back. Life would change her: disappointments, disillusions, the narrow-minded judgments of the world. One day she'd know enough to be embarrassed by what they'd done. For now, though, she was innocent in the one way that mattered. Freddie Burbrooke would take a virgin to his bed.

Edward didn't credit her tale about Freddie not wanting to marry her. That was just a foolish pang of conscience. In the end, his brother would act as wisdom required. He would marry Florence Fairleigh.
He would safeguard his future and the future of the Greystowe name.

With eyes gone hot, Edward turned from his brother's bride-to-be. He told himself Freddie would take care of her. Freddie would be kinder than a thousand husbands he could name. He swallowed against
the painful thickness in his throat.

One thing only Freddie would not do.

He would not cherish the pure, bright flame that burned within her flesh.

CHAPTER 12

Florence cuddled her pillow, hugging the last of her dreams to her breast. She felt quite happily a fool.
All this time she'd been afraid of Edward. Perhaps he was intimidating, even now when she knew he
must care for her. It was a good kind of intimidating, though, an exciting kind.

What an adventure being married to him would be! She was a little sorry to be breaking her promise to Freddie, but it wasn't as if he wanted to marry her himself. She was sure a charming man like him would have no trouble finding a more suitable, less passionate bride.

Poor Freddie, she thought. He had no idea what he was missing. Then again, who was she to judge his nature? No doubt he thought her the unfortunate one.

She extended her arms in a supremely satisfied stretch. Despite her moments of anguish, everything had turned out for the best. She could hardly wait to start making Edward happy.

She would have to wait, though, because her lover was nowhere in sight.

And, look! He had left her a token. Eyes caught by something shiny, she retrieved his gold signet from between a pair of pillows. It must have rolled off the cushion while she slept.

The ring fit tolerably well on her forefinger, its ruby winking darkly in the rain-dimmed light. Freddie
had not given her an engagement ring, an omission she had not thought about till now. Moved to the
edge of tears, she brought the gem to her lips and kissed it.

"I love you," she whispered, trying out the words. "I love you, Edward Burbrooke."

She shivered suddenly, chilled by an errant draft. The room seemed empty with only herself to warm
it, as much a ruin as the former Greystowe Hall.

I should dress, she told herself, and return to the house. If Edward could be discreet, then so could she.

When she arrived, more or less dry thanks to an umbrella she'd found in a big brass pot beside the door, the front hall was empty. Her pulse beat frantically in her throat as she managed to slip back to her room without encountering any servants, though they had, of course, begun the day's work already. Relieved though she was, sneaking around gave her a sense of wrongdoing she did not like. She wished she could simply declare the truth to everyone.

She and Edward were going to be together. The thought was miraculous to the point of being frightening. Even as she longed to get the announcement over with, she dreaded telling Edward's family. She'd been intimate with him, after all, hardly a cause for pride—especially when she hadn't officially broken off with Freddie.

Her heart tripped thrillingly against her ribs as she slipped down the corridor to his office, darting to the shadows whenever she thought she heard a maid. Thankfully, the carpets muffled her eager footsteps. The day was so dark even gaslight could not dispel the gloom. One of the doors she passed—giving access to the cellar, she imagined—was actually seeping curls of mist beneath its planks. She felt as if she'd stepped into another time; or perhaps a fairy tale, where she was the intrepid princess and Edward the dark, enchanted prince. She almost giggled as she passed a niche with a suit of armor.

Edward was prince and dragon both, but she had just the spell to soothe him. Inside her pocket, coiled like a nesting mouse, were four quilted velvet ties. She could hardly wait to see how Edward liked them; how they'd look twining his strong, masculine wrists.

The door to his office was open a crack. A golden glow spilled out, lamplight rather than gas. Body humming with excitement, she peeped inside. She smiled. Edward was sound asleep, stretched on a leather sofa, his long legs propped and crossed on the brass-studded end. One hand rested on his chest while the other dangled limply to the floor. Last night must have tired him. She considered leaving him to rest, but temptation had her in its grip. That dangling arm was perfectly positioned. If she snuck in now, she could tie him the same way he'd tied her.

To her dismay, he was a much lighter sleeper than she was. He snorted and bolted up before she'd finished the first wrist. He looked at where she'd bound it to the sofa's central leg. "What the hell do
you think you're doing?"

Florence trembled. This was not the reaction she'd expected. "I'm s-sorry. Did I make a mistake? Is
this something a woman shouldn't do?"

"It's certainly something no woman should do to me." She backed away, leaving him to wrench the tie loose. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have woken you. You're in a bad mood."

"Misunderstood?" she said, the word small and cracked.

"I'm not saying it's your fault. I take full responsibility. You're inexperienced and I, well, I needed a woman. I'm aware that's no excuse. It's just the way life is." He spread his hands, a clearer denial of responsibility than his words. Florence watched the gesture with a sense of unreality. He seemed to
mean what he was saying. His tone was quite businesslike. "The important thing is," he continued coolly, 'Tve spoken to Freddie. As I suspected, he didn't mean to give the impression that he'd lost interest in marrying you. On the contrary, he's fully prepared to go through with the wedding."

To go through with it, Florence thought. There's a flattering construction. But Edward wasn't done.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," he said. "I have business at the mill. I trust you and Freddie will use this time
to sort matters out between you. By the time I get back, I expect you'll have forgotten all about, well, everything." Lowering his brows, he gave her his steeliest look. "What happened last night must never happen again."

The finger he shook in her face broke through her shock.

"Then what," she said, thrusting out her hand in accusation, "did you mean by giving me this?"

He stared at his father's ring as if he'd never laid eyes on it before. "Where did you get that?"

"You left it on my pillow."

"Why would I do that? Hell." He scrubbed his face with both hands. "It must have fallen off during the night. It does that when I get cold."

"Then I marvel it ever stays on."

The scrubbing stopped. He peered at her between his fingers, then dropped his hands. He looked so weary she wanted to call back her words. How could he be so cruel, yet look as if he were the one
whose heart was breaking?

Stupid Florence, she thought, feeling as weary as he looked. Stupid, gullible Florence. She squared her shoulders and clenched her hands. "You're telling me last night meant nothing to you. Nothing at all."

He hung his hands over his knees, his fingers limp, his shoulders bowed by an invisible weight.
"I enjoyed what we did," he said, "but it meant no more than that."

She stared at his face, trying to find the mark of evil, the sign she should have read. All she found was what she'd grown to love: the proud, sharp nose, the scowling brows, the eyes like a summer sky.

"You didn't deserve to enjoy it," she said, her voice shaking with anger. "Men like you don't deserve to enjoy anything."

He dropped his gaze but did not speak; did not try to explain or beg forgiveness or say any of the things she was praying with all her might to hear. It's a mistake, she wanted to cry. You love me. I know you do. She watched a vein tick unevenly in his neck.

And then she turned away.

Florence trod the second floor corridor like a sleepwalker, blind to the fading portraits, deaf to the quiet passage of a maid. She'd wanted so badly to believe Edward loved her she'd convinced herself it was true. Catherine Exeter was right. Women were easy to lead astray. With the slightest encouragement,
they stuck their necks in the bridle and handed the men they loved a whip.

Lord. Her steps faltered as she pressed her jumping heart. What was she going to do now?

Part of her, the weak part, wanted to throw herself on Freddie's mercy. Marry me, the weak part whimpered. Keep me safe.

But no matter what Edward said, she knew Freddie didn't want her for his wife. She'd seen it in his eyes. She'd read it in his kiss. No doubt, he'd said he did want her because Edward was too forceful to defy.

She knew from experience how difficult opposing him could be.

Continuing her journey, she dragged her fingers along the smooth curry-gold wall. She'd have to speak to Freddie. She wasn't sure what she ought to tell him. That his brother had compromised her virtue, then treated her like something he'd stepped in at the stable? Freddie looked up to his brother. It didn't seem fair to undermine his love. But she had to tell him something to explain why she couldn't spend another minute in this house.

Lost in thought, her hand skimmed the gleaming mahogany rail that marked the turn of the grand
stairway towards the ground .floor. She descended the first tread. Would Freddie take her back to Keswick? London was out of the question. Even if Florence could have faced it, she couldn't afford to return. Aunt Hypatia certainly didn't owe her more support. Plus, she doubted even the duchess could repair the damage a broken engagement would do to her reputation.

It was all too much to decide. She would put it to Freddie as delicately as she could. He was clever.
And he did care for her. Perhaps he would see some solution she could not.

Her panic eased as she drew closer to his rooms. The thought of being held with affection, if only for a while, was a ray of sunshine in a storm. She quickened her step, hurrying through the billiard room to
the family's private wing. She rapped lightly on his door, then opened it, too impatient to wait for his acknowledgment.

At first she didn't understand what she was seeing. Oh, she knew the two tall figures by the window were kissing. Their mouths were plastered together, after all, and their hands gripped each others' backsides. One of the figure's shirts had all three buttons undone, with the ensuing V fallen over his shoulder. The cloth hung to his elbow, baring a strong upper arm and a beautifully muscled wedge of back. Her brain took a moment to admit that the back belonged to Freddie, and an even longer one to identify his partner as Nigel West.

She gasped for air as if a huge hand had been holding her underwater and had just then let her up. At
the sound, the two men sprang guiltily apart. Freddie hissed out a curse. Nigel went white.

"Florence," Freddie said, raking back his wildly tousled hair.

Florence couldn't meet his eyes. He looked just like Edward had after she'd taken him in her mouth,
lust pouring off him in waves. Her mind turned in a stupefied circle. Freddie and Nigel. Nigel and
Freddie. It was too extraordinary to comprehend.

"Forgive me," she said, beginning to retreat. "I should have waited until you answered my knock."

Freddie and Nigel exchanged glances. "Knock?" Freddie said. "We didn't hear— Hell. Don't go,
Florence. We need to talk. Please."

The sharpness of the plea stopped her. She pressed her hands together beneath her breast, as if she
could by that means protect herself from further wounds. "I don't know what there is to say, except
that now I think I understand why you don't want to marry me."

"You couldn't understand. Not all of it." With a growl of annoyance that reminded her painfully of his brother, Freddie tugged his shirt back over his shoulder. "Damn Edward and his tidy little plans."

"Edward?" Her heart stalled. "What does Edward have to do with this?"

Freddie lowered himself to the edge of his bed, his legs stretched gingerly out, his face filled with a compassion so deep it scared her. "Come in, Florence. I'll tell you everything."

"I should go," said Nigel.

"Don't do anything," Freddie said.

"No," Nigel agreed, his voice calm but heavy. "I won't do anything until I speak to you again." His step hesitated in front of Florence, then stopped. "I can't say how sorry I am about all this, Miss Fairleigh. Neither of us meant to— well, let's just say I'm aware that what I did was a profound betrayal of your trust. If there's anything I can do to help, anything at all, I would gladly make the attempt."

He might as well have been speaking Sanskrit. Seeming to realize this, he continued to the door. Florence watched him go, her brain refusing to do anything but spin. She watched his long elegant legs, the proud set of his shoulders and head. It was a small head, beautifully shaped beneath its clipped silvering hair. The hand with which he closed the door had graceful, tapered fingers. When it disappeared, she turned back to Freddie.

"He is a man, isn't he?" she asked, more confused than she'd been in her life.

Freddie laughed, a dry brush of sound. "Yes, he's a man. If he weren't, I wouldn't have been kissing
him that way."

"You only like to kiss men?"

Freddie's smile was sad. He brushed back a lock that had fallen from her chignon. "I didn't mind kissing you, sweetheart, but I'm afraid it's true. I only really like kissing men. Born that way, as far as I know."

"But how could you know?"

He shrugged. "Edward thinks Eton did it to me. Blames himself for sending me. There's a tradition there of older boys bullying the younger. Making them personal servants. Giving them forty whacks for imaginary infractions. Part of the servitude sometimes involves more intimate favors."

"Kissing," she said, trying to face it.

He took her hands and squeezed them, his eyes filled with a bright, glimmering fire. "I know people
say it's unnatural, Florence. I know they say it's a sin. But it doesn't feel like a sin to me. It feels like
the way God made me."

"I don't think you're a sinner," she said. The words came slowly as she searched through the tangle
of her emotions. "Maybe if I didn't know you, I would, but I've always thought you a good, kind man. My father used to say God weighs each man's sins in private. We can't presume to know what's on the scales."

"Your father sounds wise."

A smile of memory touched her lips. "When it came to other people's hearts, he was."

"So I can hope for forgiveness from the vicar's daughter?"

"I'm not sure you need my forgiveness."

Sighing, he lifted her hands to his mouth. "I'm afraid there's more, Florence, more you deserve to know."

Given what she'd just seen, the story of the footman did not shock her. More disturbing was discovering that Mr. Mowbry was also Edward's solicitor. That her father's old friend would help Edward save Freddie's reputation by engineering a match with her quite stole her breath. Then, when she thought she couldn't bear another blow, Freddie revealed how Aunt Hypatia agreed to help.

"They knew?" she said, her face going hot and cold by turns. Amazement warred with fury in her breast. "Aunt Hypatia and Edward? They knew what you were and they still wanted me to marry you?"

"They didn't think of it that way. They thought I'd get over it. They knew you needed a husband, and thought I'd be as good to you as anyone."

"But they tricked me! They let me believe you truly cared."

He cupped her face. "I do care. That's never been a lie. If Nigel and I hadn't—that is, if we hadn't—"

Freddie blanched as if she'd told him a truth he wasn't ready to acknowledge. He dropped his arm. "Florence—"

She didn't care what he meant to say. "You're liars, all of you. Liars and cheats. And Edward's the worst of the lot. By God!" Her voice rose out of control and her hands fisted in her skirts as if she meant to rip them from her legs. "I can't believe I actually worried what he thought of me. I can't believe I tried to earn his respect. He's a bug. An insect who isn't worth the energy it would take to squash him!"

"Florence," Freddie chided, a smile flirting with the corners of his mouth.

She jabbed her forefinger into his chest. "He's a slimy, slithering fiend!"

Freddie grabbed her hand and tried to soothe it. To her dismay, she saw she still wore Edward's signet. Before he could see it, she yanked her hand away. Her chin quivered but she positively refused to cry.

"Don't judge him too harshly," Freddie said, the flash of amusement gone. "I don't say his methods were perfect, but he did what he did out of love. He'd protect anyone he cared about that way. Including you."

"Hah!" Florence barked. She swiped her eyes with her sleeve before they could overflow. "There's a pretty bedtime story. Edward protect me? He'd be the first to hammer in the nail."

Freddie protested, but she'd already heard enough. Half blinded by emotion, she spun and left the room. She didn't have to run. Freddie's injury prevented him from following.

Snake, she thought, her skirts kicking fore and aft. What an idiot she'd been to imagine he had a heart. She took the stairs two at a time, panting for breath through her anger and her shame.

They'd all made fools of her, but only Edward had made her a fool for love.

CHAPTER 13

"I don't see why we have to leave," Lizzie muttered for the umpteenth time since Florence had told her
to pack. " 'Least not right away. If your heart is set on going back to Keswick, Viscount Burbrooke will see you get there."

Deliberately ignoring her, Florence frowned at the contents of her wardrobe. Per the duchess's orders, most of her old clothes had been destroyed. Too few remained to pack only what she'd brought with
her to London. With a grimace, she pulled out the simplest of her new dresses. If worse came to worst, she could sell them for the price of a railway ticket. Not that she was comfortable with the idea. Strictly speaking, these gowns belonged to Aunt Hypatia.

Lizzie accepted the first, a pale yellow muslin. She smoothed it flat across the bed, then folded it carefully around a length of tissue. Florence had already warned her they'd be taking no trunks; only what the two of them could carry in their portmanteaus.

"Don't know what you think you're going to do in Keswick," Lizzie grumped, her annoyance still sharp.

"I shall hire out as a companion," Florence said with more confidence than she felt.

"Hah." Lizzie fussed over the lay of a hem. "Those old biddies don't have any more money than we do."

Taken by surprise, Lizzie puffed out a laugh. But she turned serious quickly enough. "It isn't right: you and Master Freddie parting ways. Whatever you fought about, I'm sure you can work it out. Besides—" Her look grew dark. "I don't like the idea of us going to stay with that friend of the duchess. I've heard the servants talk about her. They say she's barmy."

"She's not barmy," Florence said, fighting for patience. "She's a woman who's seen her share of trouble. Just like us."

"But—"

Guilt at forcing Lizzie to leave her comfortable place, and anguish at having to leave it herself, shortened Florence's temper. "Stay then," she said. "I'm sure the earl will find a position for you. There's always openings in the scullery."

All the blood drained from Lizzie's face. Florence was instantly contrite.

"Blast," she said. "I didn't mean that. Edward wouldn't set you to scrubbing pots. I'm sure if you asked he'd seek out another lady's maid position among his friends."

"B-but—" Lizzie was weeping now. "I don't want to be anyone's lady's maid but yours."

"Well," said Florence, with a humor she thought she'd lost, "it doesn't look as if I'm going to be a lady now."

"You will!" Lizzie declared, flinging herself into her arms. "I know you will."

Florence patted her back. She took a peculiar comfort in consoling the little maid. Poor Lizzie. Deprived of her gaslights and her running water. She resolved that, however events fell out for herself, she would request that Edward help her. She was certain he would, though she couldn't have said from whence
that certainty came.

"Maybe you could marry the earl instead," Lizzie mumbled wetly against her neck.

Oh, Lord, thought Florence. God save her from such a fate.

The door to Catherine's house was opened by a vision in lavender silk and ecru lace. Coolly blonde, flawlessly feminine, Catherine's niece was even lovelier in person than in her picture. "My, my,"
she said with slumberous eyes and curving lips, "if it isn't the fabulous Florence Fairleigh."

In Florence's shaken state, this condescending greeting was more than enough to cow her. "I'm sorry," she said, backing away. "I've come at a bad time."

At once, Imogene sprang into motion. "Nonsense," she said, catching Florence's arm. "My aunt would never forgive me if I let you get away. Clearly, you're in distress. If you could see your way to forgiving my atrocious manners, I'd be happy to help however I may."

With this pretty speech, she drew her guest inside. Florence hardly knew what to make of this changeable creature and her dulcet exclamations of concern. Whatever Imo-gene's motives, Florence had not the will to resist her welcome. Somewhat less happily, Lizzie shuffled in behind.

Catherine came into the hall at the sound of their entrance. As soon as she saw Florence, she folded her into her arms. "Poor dear," she said, her tone so maternal it tightened Florence's throat. "I feared this would happen. No woman who loved a Greystowe ever failed to come to grief."

"Surely Freddie didn't jilt you?" Imogene murmured. Briefly, Florence wondered at the familiarity of the question, but it was hard to take offense. Imogene's curiosity was as delicate as the rest of her. It hung in the air like spider's silk, barely there at all.

She pulled back from Catherine's embrace and wiped her eyes. The two women peered at her in gentle inquiry, their brows—one set gold, one silver—raised in identical slender arches. Despite their kindness, Florence could not answer. Even now, she could not bring herself to speak harshly of the Burbrookes.

"No," Imogene mused, her lambent gray eyes taking the measure of her expression. "Freddie Burbrooke is no heart-breaker, but perhaps the elder ... ?"

"Hush," scolded Catherine before Florence could do more than bite her lip. "The girl is clearly grieving. We must not pester her with questions. It is enough that you are here, my dear. We ask no more than that."

She would not hear of Florence leaving, though her presence, on top of Imogene's, would make more work for the tiny household. "Your girl can stay with mine in the attic. I'm sure they'll find it perfectly cozy."

Florence would have preferred to keep Lizzie with her but, bereft of support—even her own, it seemed—she hadn't the nerve to object to the arrangement. "You're too kind," she said, her vision shimmering with tears.

Continuing to cluck, Catherine led her to a guest room on the second floor. More grateful than she could express, Florence relinquished her rain-dampened clothes and allowed herself to be bundled into bed.

"Rest," Catherine said, her cool hand stroking Florence's brow. "Sleep is the best remedy for a broken heart."

The hour wasn't even noon, but Florence was exhausted. Bertha, the big, sad-faced maid, brought a beautiful white quilt to tuck around her. She glanced back over her shoulder before she spoke. "Things might look better in the morning," she said in a low, hurried tone, as if she were afraid of being heard. "Men aren't as bad as ... as some people like to make out."

Florence smiled, touched by her advice. She only wished it were true. She waved at the maid as she left. Then, with a weary sigh, she curled around her starchy pillow like a wounded animal in a burrow. She was safe, at least for now. More than that a woman in her position could not ask.

The first time in too many years to remember, Edward drank with the intention of getting drunk. The library's shelves stretched around him, above him, the wisdom of centuries held within their tomes.
None seemed likely to help him—no more than the liquor. By the fourth whiskey, his head was
spinning, his mouth tasted foul, and he could still remember every damn word he'd said.

Bloody bastard, he thought, nerves stretched by memory and by the infernal droning of the rain. He had half a mind to shatter the decanter against the wall, just to interrupt the noise. His fingers curled to do it. Fortunately, though—or unfortunately—Edward wasn't a man who easily lost control. With exaggerated care, he pressed the cut-glass stopper into the bottle's throat.

He knew as soon as Florence left that he'd made a terrible mistake: the worst of his life, one that would stain his soul until he died. He'd convinced himself it was better all around that she cease to care for him. In the end, though, all he'd done was wound them both. His heart tore from his chest with each step she took. His brain screamed for him to follow, to tell her something, anything, that would bring back the adoration he'd seen the night before.

He wanted to go after her so badly his body ached in its bones.

But he couldn't do it. He couldn't abandon Freddie. Edward didn't delude himself. Florence was Freddie's last chance for respectability. Only marriage to her could restore his place in their world. Even if some people doubted the sincerity of his brother's vows, they'd know he meant to maintain—at least on the surface—the image society strove to project. If Freddie refused to toe the line, they'd push him forever beyond the pale.

Oh, God, he thought, his head falling back in the wing-backed chair. He could still see Florence's expression as she thrust out his father's ring. What did you mean by giving me this? she'd demanded,
and all he could think was how right that circle of gold looked on her finger. If only he had given it to
her! If only he could have loved her as he wished.

His hands gripped the arms of the chair until the wood creaked with the strain.

He couldn't leave it like this. Whatever the cost, he couldn't let her hate him.

His valet, Lewis, was waiting in his chamber. He appeared both grim and worried.

"What?" said Edward, already pulling off his collar.

Lewis drew himself up with military straightness. "Your brother has left, my lord. Along with Nigel West."

"Left?" Edward's hands paused.

"Yes, your lordship. They've gone to settle the workers' dispute at the mill."

"But I was going to take care of that. I wanted Freddie and Florence to—" He stopped himself and dropped a cufflink onto the top of his chest of drawers. The onyx gleamed dully in the murky light.
"You say Nigel went with him?"

"Yes, sir. Your brother left this note for you. Said I was to place it in your hands." Lewis looked as if he disapproved. Edward barely noticed. If Nigel was with Freddie, perhaps he needn't worry. Edward had known his steward for donkey's years, ever since the old earl had taken him under his wing. Nigel, the son of Greystowe's gamekeeper, had been the brightest of the lads at the village school. Too smart for
the army, the old earl had declared, then sent him off to Oxford. He and Edward hadn't been close, of course; Nigel was older and of common birth, but Edward knew him to be a paragon of rectitude, punctilious in his sense of right and wrong, and nearly as loyal to the family as Edward was himself.
With him along, at least Freddie wouldn't stumble into another scandal.

Then he broke the old-fashioned wafer seal.

"Good Lord!" he exploded as part of the contents caught his eye.

"Sir?" said Lewis.

Edward waved him off and sank onto the edge of the bed. Heart thundering in his chest, hands shaking, he read Freddie's note from the start.

"Dear Edward," it began. "I've come to realize you aren't likely to relinquish your plan to have me marry Florence unless you are forced to do so. I suspect this ambition lies behind your sudden desire to hie off to Manchester. Consequently, Nigel and I have decided to settle the 'crisis' ourselves. We have become friends during my convalescence, perhaps—as Florence was kind enough to remark— more than friends."

"Florence!" Edward exclaimed, letting the letter slap his thigh. What had his brother been telling Florence? And since when were Nigel and Freddie friends? Whenever Edward saw them, they were snapping at each like mongrels over a bone. Muttering to himself, he lifted the page and continued to read.

"In any case," Freddie wrote, "only time will tell what we can be to each other." (Be to each other, Edward snorted.) "Meanwhile, I beg you, be good to Florence. I know you have feelings for her and that she has them for you. It may be that all our happiness rests on taking chances you have thus far refused to consider."

"All our happiness!" Edward spluttered. "He's insane!"

He sprang to his feet but did not move except to press the fist that held the note between his eyes.
Damn him. Damn him for a misbegotten fool. So. He and Nigel were taking some lovebirds' journey to Manchester. Did Freddie think no one would notice? Was he determined to throw his life into the gutter? No matter what Edward did? No matter what he sacrificed?

Well, fuck it, Edward thought, the whiskey stoking his rage. He was done trying to rescue his little brother. Done, done, done.

"Bloody hell," he swore, and smashed his fist into the wall.

The plaster split, along with the skin over three of his knuckles.

"Sir!" Lewis protested, still hovering nearby.

Edward allowed him to wrap a strip of cotton around the wound.

"Miss Fairleigh?" said Lewis, clearly startled by his tone. "I don't know. In her rooms, I imagine."

But Florence wasn't in her rooms. She was gone, along with half her clothes. Her little maid, Lizzie,
had also cleared out her belongings. Edward stood, as if rooted, among the scattered signs of their departure: boots left lying on the carpet, a sprinkling of silver hairpins, a small pink glove. His blood
beat through his body as if it were a death knell.

She was gone. Too hastily to say good-bye. While he'd been drinking himself stupid, she'd been
slipping out the door.

He'd driven her away. He'd driven them both away.

Edward threw back his head and roared.

By the following morning, the rain had settled to a surly drizzle. Though Edward had discovered where Florence was, any triumph he felt at the success of his detective work was obliterated by the nature of
her refuge.

The odds were even as to whether he'd have preferred her to run to the devil.

But the obstacle had to be faced. Florence could not be allowed to remain in such uncaring hands. The witch must be bearded in her den—or whatever the metaphor was for bitter old spinster crones.

He dressed carefully in riding clothes and freshly polished boots. His linen was immaculate, his demeanor as cool as he could make it. Perhaps it was his imagination, but Samson seemed reluctant to stop at Catherine Exeter's house. While the stallion shook his head up and down, Edward threaded his reins through the hitching post ring.

"Wise horse," he muttered, patting his glossy neck.

Lucky horse, in fact, to be able to remain out here.

His nemesis stood firmly between the entry way and him. "Little early for a call," she said.

"You know why I'm here."

"Actually"—Catherine smiled like an evil seraph—"if you were Freddie, I would know why you were here. Oh, but I must have forgotten. My niece told me you'd developed a tendre for your brother's fiancee. Tut, tut. Quite incautious of you, Lord Greystowe."

Edward was grinding his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He relaxed it enough to speak. "I want to see her."

"I'm sure you do. She, however, doesn't want to see you. That's what happens when you treat a woman like a dog. She develops an aversion to being kicked."

"I did not treat—" he began, but a movement on the narrow stairs drove the thread of argument from his mind. Florence was coming down in one of her old gowns, this one a medley of pink and yellow flowers. The cotton was faded, the sleeves too wide for fashion, but to him the dress was as joyous a sight as the finest silk. He ran his eyes to her hem and back. How lovely she was, how womanly in every way.

"It's all right, Catherine," she said, her voice calm and soft. "I'll speak to him."

"But dearest—"

Florence squeezed Catherine's small bony shoulder. "Best to get it over with."

After a slight hesitation, Catherine agreed. "As you wish. I'll be in the parlor should you need me."

Florence took her place at the door. Apparently, neither woman intended to let him in. But that was fine with Edward. He had no desire to enter Catherine Exeter's home— as long as Florence returned to his.

"You don't know who you've run to," he said.

She lifted her head. "I do. And I've no intention of listening to you malign her. Tell me what you want and be done with it."

With an effort, Edward uncurled his fists. "I want you to return to Greystowe."

"Why?" She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. "So I can marry your brother?"

He thought he knew what she wished him to say, but he could not form the words. He wanted to, but then he thought of Freddie: of Freddie's future as an outcast. Even now he could not claim her as his own.

"I don't want you to hate me," he said, the statement sounding inadequate even to him.

"I don't hate you," she said. "I pity you."

But what he heard in her voice wasn't pity, just as what he saw in Catherine Exeter's eyes wasn't the
milk of human kindness.

"I care for you," he said. "I know that's hard for you to believe, but—"

"For pity's sake." Clearly scornful, she cut him off. "If you care for me, I'd hate to see how you'd treat someone you hate. You took my innocence, Edward, and you trampled it in the mud."

"I didn't take your innocence," he hissed, low enough to frustrate listening ears. "You're still a virgin."

"Yes, indeed," she said. "We couldn't have your brother taking a fallen woman to his bed."

Her thrust struck so directly home a tide of shame crept up his neck. Naturally, Florence saw it.
"You're despicable," she said, spitting out the words. "If I never see you again, it will be too soon."

She did hate him. She hated him just as Catherine Exeter had hated his father.

He couldn't handle this. He had to think. He stumbled twice on his way back down the path, his very muscles thrown into shock. Samson lipped his hand as he fumbled with the reins, then stood patiently while he mounted. Secure in the saddle, Edward turned one last time towards the house.

At first he thought he was seeing things: some nightmarish projection of his guilt. When he blinked, however, the image refused to disappear. Imogene Hargreave was gazing out the parlor window, her
pale eyes lit by the darkest sort of glee. Oh, Lord, he thought. Florence was in more danger than he'd dreamed.

Florence had removed his ring. It lay now in the pocket of her skirt. Over and over she turned the circle of gold—seeing his face, hearing his words—while Catherine knitted stockings for the poor. Her niece carried the burden of conversation, chattering amusingly of her many London conquests. Half the city
had fallen at her feet, it seemed, a claim Florence could not doubt with her wit and her elegance and her cat-sleek beauty spread like a feast before her miserable country self.

I care for you, Edward had said. I don't want you to hate me.

Why had he said those things? Was this a game for him? To see how cruelly he could treat her and
still keep her dangling on his string?

I care for you, Florence.

Even now she wanted to believe him. She clucked her tongue in self-disgust. If she wasn't careful, Edward's string would choke her.

She removed her hand from her pocket and straightened her skirt. "I'm afraid I can't keep my mind on anything today."

"As you wish," Catherine said in her soothing way. The needles clicked pensively before she spoke again. "You may not believe this, dear, but once upon a time I had more than socks to offer. When Papa was alive, before my loathsome cousin, if you'll pardon the expression, took over the Grange—nothing so fancy as Greystowe, mind, but a good thriving property—ah, then we carried such riches to the poor! Smoked hams and preserves and, oh, my, all manner of lovely things, some of which you may believe
I'd be grateful to have today. But such is life. The Lord gives and the Lord takes, though why He had
to give so much to silly old Jeffrey I'm sure I couldn't say. He had money from his father. But this is
how men arrange the world. A girl may not inherit her father's home but must be kicked out willy-nilly
to fend as best she can. And if she doesn't find a husband—well! But I'm sure it's for the best. Women are stronger than men, you know. We can carry these burdens. And far better to scrimp beneath one's own roof than to share one with a bully."

"Indeed," Imogene agreed, her tapering fingers stroking her swanlike neck. "One must teach a man his place or avoid him altogether. A man one hasn't the ability to control is a danger too great to suffer."

And here she was wasting pennies feeding Florence.

"I'm sorry Freddie left," Florence said, a bit of intelligence Lizzie had managed to ferret out. "I know
he would have escorted me back to Keswick."

"You mustn't worry about that," said Catherine. "A spot of company is a treat for an old woman like
me. And for Imogene as well. As kind as she is to visit me, I know you—who have so lately been to London—are a better audience for her tales."

Imogene murmured something agreeable and untrue. Florence had never been a part of society the way Imogene was. Florence was not that sort of woman. Florence was simple and dull and pitifully forgettable. She sighed, a soft, mournful sound she could not repress.

"Now, now," Catherine chided. "Hold firm, dear. Time heals. Before you know it, you'll be free of the Burbrooke curse."

Would she, though? It seemed to her as if her heart would never be light again.

CHAPTER 14

Edward waited a cautious distance from the shepherd's hut. The construction was simple stone and
thatch but it was sound. The garden was groomed, the flowers bright, and a flock of fat white chickens pecked the ground outside their coop. Edward wasn't sure the inhabitants of the house would appreciate being the object of charity, but Lizzie had informed him of Catherine Exeter's intent to visit them today.

"If you're interested like," she'd said in a secretive tone, though no one but he was near.

She'd accosted him on the terrace on his way to his morning ride. Despite the heat, she'd pulled her hood over her face like a character in a sensation novel. The market basket dangling from her arm told the excuse she'd used to slip away from the Exeter home. Edward would have chuckled at her melodrama if he hadn't been desperate for word of Florence. Three days running he'd been turned away without a chance to see her. He was beginning to fear he'd have to abduct her to say hello.

Somehow, he didn't think that would improve Florence's opinion of his character.

Now, however, he had another chance because of Lizzie.

Edward hoped this would be the case. At least the damn rain had stopped. He felt a fool lurking behind a thicket while he waited for Catherine to leave. When she did leave, though, and alone, he knew the wait had been worthwhile. He straightened his collar, smoothed his hair, and told himself not to act like a schoolboy with a crush. The lecture didn't help. His palms were clammy as he knocked on the weather-grayed planks of the door.

Bartle's wife blinked to find him behind it, then smiled, slow and broad, as if she knew precisely why
he was there.

Perhaps she did. Perhaps his lovesick yearning was written large across his face.

"Lord Greystowe," she exclaimed, pushing the door wider in welcome. "How kind of you to come.
I was just making tea."

Edward stepped inside, his hat in hand. The Bartles' cottage consisted of three rooms: a large main room where the family cooked and lived and washed, a larder for storage, and a small curtained nook where Mr. and Mrs. Bartle slept. The floor was well-swept paving stone, the walls age-yellowed plaster. Wooden pegs for hanging clothes made an orderly circuit around the room. The clothing ranged in size from infant to adult, much of it displaying Mrs. Bartle's gift with needle and yarn. Her husband took part of his pay in wool and Mrs. Bartle spun it into gold.

Shining her own sort of gold, Florence sat in a sunny corner with a chubby baby in her lap. A young girl, no more than six, carded wool at her feet, her shoulder brushing Florence's knee as if she'd known her
all her life. Edward was careful not to look directly at the reason for his visit.

"I, uh, came to see how your husband is faring," he said. "I heard he caught a bad cough."

He had indeed heard this, though it had been weeks ago.

"I will," he said and, for the life of him, could not think of anything further to say. Florence's presence was a weight behind his back. He was afraid to turn and meet the censure in her eyes, but even more afraid of being asked to leave.

Thankfully, Mrs. Bartle took pity on him. She was a fine, fair woman, as Angus Bartle liked to say;
broad and blonde, though-not as blonde as her four young offspring. She had the calm, capable air
some women gain as their families grow.

"I'm sure you know your cousin," she said, turning him gently to face her.

"Florence," he said, eyes drinking her in. She looked a madonna with that child in her lap. His madonna. At that moment, he would have given his right arm for that baby to be theirs.

Her gaze remained on the bundled infant. "Edward," she answered, his name a mere whisper. Her face was pink, her breathing quick. Both could have been the effect of embarrassment, but Edward's body came so swiftly to attention his linens should have caught fire. That he had touched her most intimate parts, that he had heard her sigh with pleasure and could no more seemed utterly intolerable.

He barely heard Mrs. Bartle murmur something about the tea. He was crossing the room towards Florence. He was sitting in the pool of sunshine by her side. The window seat was just big enough for
the two of them. Florence's leg pressed his through her flowered skirts. At the contact he felt not an increase in lust, but a comfort so deep it scared him.

He wanted to sit in the sun with her all his life.

The baby fussed as Florence tensed.

"Let me have him." Wanting only to calm her, Edward eased the heavy bundle from her arms. The baby widened his eyes at him, then tried to bat his face. Charmed by his energy, Edward pretended to eat the dimpled fist.

"How's little Ivan?" he growled. "As terrible as ever?"

"You know him?" Florence said, her gaze finally on him.

"Of course I know Ivan. The Battles are my tenants."

"And a fine landlord he is," Mrs. Bartle put in, approaching with two steaming dishes of tea. "You couldn't wish for better." The tea dispensed, she handed her daughter a small sweet biscuit. Still leaning into Florence's knee, the girl looked curiously up at Edward.

"Did you bring socks?" she said.

"No-o," Edward answered, the question confusing him.

"Good," said the girl. "'Cause nobody's socks are as nice as Mama's."

"Hush," scolded Mrs. Bartle, though Edward could tell she was fighting a smile.

He wasn't sure he should ask for an explanation. Instead, he hitched young Ivan to a sitting position and anchored him to his chest with the bend of his arm. "Now I've got you, little man. We'll see if you can
get at my tea from there."

The baby squealed with pleasure and flapped his pudgy hands. His little feet pummeled Edward's thigh. He was strong, this boy, strong and full of life.

"What a bruiser." Edward chuckled.

"Like his father," Mrs. Bartle agreed, seeming pleased not to have to wrestle for once with her youngest child. She smiled cagily over the rim of her cup. "You're good with babies, your lordship. Almost as good as Miss Fairleigh."

"I suppose I remember when Freddie was this age." He set his cup on the floor so he could mop a bit of drool from Ivan's chin. "He was better than a new pony to me. A happy baby, just like this fellow."

Florence popped up from the seat as if something had bitten her. "I really should be going," she said,
her voice strained. "Catherine will wonder what happened to me."

"I'll walk you back," Edward said, rising just as quickly.

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Bartle agreed, already reaching for her son. "You shouldn't go unescorted."

"Are you well?" he asked when she maintained her stubborn silence.

She pressed her lips together and walked faster. Edward was amazed a little thing like her could cover
the ground so quickly. Apparently, country living had done more than pink her cheeks. In what seemed like no time at all, they reached the edge of the copse of beeches that led to Catherine Exeter's lane. Edward racked his brains. He had to say something. He didn't know when he'd get another chance.

He cleared his throat. "That's a handsome family Mrs. Bartle has."

Florence came to a standstill. "Stop," she said, as if he'd covered her in curses. "You're not being fair."

"How am I not being fair?" he asked, glad they'd halted but confused.

"You were dandling that baby as if you liked it, as if it were your own."

"I do like it... him. Ivan is a nice baby and I've known Angus Bartle since I was small."

This explanation did not satisfy Florence. She brushed impatiently at a fallen wisp of hair. "I know what you're thinking," she said. "You're thinking I can marry Freddie and have babies with you. Well, I won't do it. I won't!"

Edward hadn't been thinking anything of the sort. That she would accuse him of it intrigued him. Despite her fierce denial, Florence didn't sound as sure as she might have liked. Heartened, he ventured to stroke her arm. She yanked her hand away before his fingers could catch it up.

"Don't," she said, and pressed her fist to her mouth. Her eyes glittered with pent emotion, their color richer than the summer trees.

"Don't be angry, Florence," he whispered. "I'm only trying to make amends."

"There are no amends for what you've done." Her words were muffled, hovering on the edge of tears.
He murmured her name and pressed his lips to the smooth warm skin of her temple. Longing shot through him like a knife: longing and a pleasure too deep for words. He wanted to take her mouth with
his until the wanting melted like wax and drowned them both. Unfortunately, the kiss he did take, gentle though it was, seemed to remind her of what had gone before. With a cry of impatience, she pushed at
his chest until he freed her.

"Stay away from me," she said, the warning shaking like a leaf. She backed away, her skirts swishing in the bracken beside the path. She put the length of two men between them before she turned. Edward wanted to follow, but instinct told him to let her go. He watched until she disappeared among the dancing shadows of the trees. He remained where he was, rooted to the damp earth-scented ground.

Something was happening inside him, a subtle shifting, like the changing of a tide. Her accusation had turned his imagination down a frightening path.

Florence thought he wanted her to marry Freddie but sleep with him.

He didn't understand how she could let such an arrangement cross her mind. Couldn't she see it would make a travesty of what they felt? They had cared for each other; still did, he was certain, not just with their bodies but with their hearts. Florence would never have been intimate with him if that were not the case. She was no jaded daughter of the peerage. She was a vicar's child, and a good, sweet woman in
her own right. That she could consider a duplicity of this magnitude, even for a moment, meant she
must love him very much.

Perhaps as much as he loved her.

The possibility sent a tingle of shock across his scalp. If it was true ... If he had become as necessary to her happiness as she was to his, how could he offer her less than his all? How could he not marry her?

The question dizzied him, rocking foundations he'd thought were granite firm. Marrying Florence would mean putting her first, ahead of Freddie. He'd never set a woman ahead of his brother. He'd never even set one ahead of his holdings. The thought of taking a wife had always made him feel impatient, boxed
in. But Florence . . .

He couldn't live without her, not with any ease of heart or mind.

And he no longer believed Freddie would make her happy.

But perhaps Edward could. Perhaps, of all the men in the world, only Edward could. Her tears said she thought so, even if she wasn't willing to admit it.

Freddie wanted to be free to love where he pleased. Maybe Edward should finally let him. Maybe, in spite of all the arguments against it, Freddie knew what was best for him. Edward's heart thudded his
ribs as if he'd run a race. Fear was part of what drove its swift percussion, fear and something he
thought was hope.

"I will," he whispered to the cloud-flecked sky, to the wind-ruffled leaves and the birds that chittered busily in the trees. "I will marry her."

A whoosh of lightness swept his body. Once he'd made the decision, it seemed inevitable, as if he'd been moving towards it from the moment he saw her at Madame Victoire's. He would marry Florence. He, Edward Arthur Burbrooke, earl of Greystowe, would take the vicar's daughter for his bride. He remembered the way the Battles' girl had leaned against her knee. The vision made him grin. He and Florence would have beautiful children together.

Forence flurried up the narrow stairs as if she were being chased. Her room was a snug little nest on the second floor, small but bright. It had a bed, a chair, a chest of drawers, and a washstand and basin so
like the one she'd had at home it might have been its twin. Simple things for a simple life. Her shoulders did not relax until she shut herself among them.

She'd been wrong to want to escape this, to aim any higher than what she had. A simple girl like her
could not navigate the snares of the upper class.

It was just as Catherine said. The Burbrookes had a fatal charm.

She sagged back against the door, her hands pressed flat to the wood as if to bar her fears from entry.
It was far too late for that. The danger lurked within. Seeing Edward had brought it back: not just the erotic things he'd done, but the sweet ones.

She remembered how protective he was of Freddie. How he'd pulled her by the hand through the Royal Academy of Art, flaunting propriety just to show her a picture he admired. She remembered his rare smiles. His common frowns. The way he'd held her tucked against him in the night. The way they'd danced at the Vances' ball like angels twirling on a cloud. She missed his company with an intensity that made her ache.

Disgusted, she thumped the wood behind her with her fists. Those memories were lies. The real Edward had ice water in his veins. The real Edward cared for nothing except his family name. He was a devil in noble clothes.

But the baby, her torn heart cried. A devil couldn't make a baby laugh!

She swallowed hard and pushed herself from the door. Edward wasn't a devil. He was a man, a man
who might well find entertainment in bouncing a baby and still not give a fig for her. He wouldn't have been dreaming of having a child himself. He wouldn't have thought: what a good mother she'd be, or
how I'd love to have a daughter with her eyes. No. His only concern had been tricking her into saving
his brother, a brother who—quite obviously—didn't want to be saved.

Be firm, she thought, taking Catherine's advice for her own. Be firm, be firm, be firm.

When her legs crumpled beneath her, Edward's ring, still hidden in her pocket, hit the floor with a
fateful clink.

Though Lizzie kept Edward informed of Florence's schedule; he hadn't been able to catch her alone
since that day at the Bartles' cottage. She clung to Catherine Exeter as if the woman were a lifeline in
a storm.

From what Edward could see, she was the opposite. Day by day, the duchess's friend was sucking the
life from his beloved: stealing her glow, her smiles, her very spirit. And who knew what tales Imogene
had been telling? Each time he engineered the crossing of their paths, Florence looked paler and thinner. Haunted, he would have said if he'd had a romantic turn of mind.

He worried for her. He would have done anything to help and yet he could do nothing. Nothing but wait, that is, for another chance to speak, to touch, to somehow convince her of his care.

He began to wonder if it was he, by his pursuit, who had put those shadows beneath her eyes. The thought hurt but did not sway him. If it were true, it was only because Catherine Bloody Exeter and her viper of a niece were dripping poison in Florence's ear. He could cleanse her of it, if only she'd give him
a chance.

Assuming he didn't lose his mind before he got one.

Edward wished it were as easy to make her smile at him.

He positioned himself carefully as the congregation filed out. People whispered when they saw him. Greystowe was not so large they didn't know him by sight. A few of the men nodded and a few of the women smiled, but mostly they were curious. If the earl felt a need to worship, he had a chapel on his land. They couldn't imagine what he was doing here. With them. In the back of their simple church.

Edward didn't care what they thought. Florence was drawing closer, her head averted in a manner that suggested she had seen him. Her arm tightened on Catherine Exeter's and then she was there, in front of him. Gently, he caught her elbow. She yanked away as if he'd burned her.

"Florence," he said, fighting through hurt for calm, "you must speak to me."

"She must do nothing of the kind," said Catherine Exeter.

Edward ignored her. The crowd had bottled up in front of them at the door. He had a few precious seconds before Catherine hastened her away.

"Florence, please." He stroked one finger around her down-turned cheek, the soft still heat of her
causing his eyes to sting. "You're breaking my heart, Florence."

"You have no heart to break," snapped Catherine Exeter, but Florence lifted her head. Tears streaked
her skin in glistening crisscrossed trails. Her face had hollows he'd never seen before.

"Leave me alone," she said. "I can't bear this anymore."

He fell back, shocked by her appearance, by the dull misery in her voice. Had he done that to her? Had he? Before he could gather his wits, Catherine pulled her briskly through the door and down the steps. Edward could only stare and catch his breath.

"There, there," said a plump older woman, giving his arm a pat. "She'll come around, your lordship.
Girls that age don't know what's good for 'em."

It was proof of his distress that he took comfort in a stranger's touch.

He retreated to Greystowe, to pace his study and write a thousand letters in his head. Finally he sent
one, then half a dozen in quick succession. They all came back in pieces and he honestly didn't know whether Florence had torn them up herself. He imagined Imogene reading them, and laughing, and couldn't even bring himself to care. No one's opinion mattered except for Florence's.

He missed Freddie, then was glad his brother could not see him in this state. Hypatia he avoided like
the plague. He grew disheveled. He did not drink, but looked as though he had. His eyes were red from lack of sleep, his jaw shadowed with the beard he could not be troubled to let Lewis shave. He could not read; he could not sit; he could not follow a train of thought for more than a minute. At night, he walked to town and stood in the lane beneath her darkened window, yearning for her with all his blood and bone.

A different man would have climbed the trellis and carried her away. Edward wished he were that man; wished he didn't fear Florence would scream for help. And what if she were right to do so? What if he were the danger Catherine claimed? He didn't know who he was anymore. All the rules by which he'd
lived were gone.

He only knew he loved her to the point of madness.

One sultry gray morning, when the clouds hung as heavy as his spirit, Lewis and his aunt came together to his study. Lewis thumped a mug of cider on his desk, Hypatia a plater of roast and bread. Edward doubted she'd carried anyone a meal before in her life.

'Enough of this self-pitying nonsense," she said. "I'm not leaving until you eat."

"And I'm not leaving until you shave."

Edward looked at them, his aunt and his valet. Worry and anger mixed in their expressions; a bit of fear as to how he'd react, but even more concern. They knew, he thought, his own eyes burning. Everyone knew he loved her.

"You can't go on this way," said the duchess. "You've done that girl wrong. We all have. But you won't begin to undo it unless you pull yourself together."

"She's just skittish," Lewis added. "Women get that way. You wouldn't let a horse hide in the brambles
if it was scared. You'd catch it and you'd gentle it and then you'd lead it home."

"I don't know how," he said, the words a gasp. "She won't—she won't let me."

"Eat," said his aunt, nudging the plate within reach. "Nobody thinks well on an empty stomach."

He stared at the meat, red and glistening with juice, just the way he liked it. Cook had outdone herself. His mouth watered. He cut a piece and took a bite. Amazingly, it tasted good. After the second bite, his head began to clear. "You don't have to stay," he said. "I'll be all right."

His aunt narrowed her eyes. "I want that plate cleaned, Edward. I am not going to tolerate two idiots in one family."

To his surprise, he smiled. "This was very kind," he said. "Thank you."

"Hmpf," said the duchess. "You can thank me when that girl is back where she belongs."

"There's still the matter of a shave," said Lewis, and Edward smiled at him, too.

He wasn't any wiser than he'd been before, but at least he didn't feel alone.

Fed and shaved and bathed, Edward put.his mind to work. He had to find the key to coaxing Florence back. He had to remember everything he knew of her. Then he'd be able to formulate a plan. Hoping for inspiration, he returned to her rooms. He touched her remaining dresses, recalling how she'd looked and what she'd done in every one. He took her novels and read them. He dipped his handkerchief in her perfume. He visited her favorite corners of the garden and drank her favorite tea. He steeped himself in memories, letting himself miss her until it hurt. He took a perverse but definite pleasure in the pain.