Ambition vs love…

Which will the duke’s heir choose?

Cassian, Lord Trevethow, has a dilemma. To succeed in his aim of building Cornwall’s own pleasure garden, he must pursue the loveless tonnish alliance he sought to avoid. But how can he wed reclusive Lady Penrose Prideaux when he can’t forget the enchanting stranger he met at a fair? Then Cassian discovers a shocking secret about his bride-to-be. Might he claim both his passions after all?

BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and the proud mother of three wonderful children—one boy and two girls. When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch via Facebook, or at her blog, bronwynswriting.blogspot.com. She loves to hear from readers.

Also by Bronwyn Scott

Allied at the Altar miniseries

A Marriage Deal with the Viscount

One Night with the Major

Tempted by His Secret Cinderella

Captivated by Her Convenient Husband

The Cornish Dukes miniseries

The Secrets of Lord Lynford

The Passions of Lord Trevethow

And look out for the next book

coming soon!

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Passions of Lord Trevethow

Bronwyn Scott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90128-8

THE PASSIONS OF LORD TREVETHOW

© 2020 Nikki Poppen

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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For Ro, Catie and Brony.

I love living the fairy tale life with you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

The Elms, Cornwall, family seat of the Duke of Hayle —March 5th, 1824, St Piran’s Day

‘You can’t have the land.’ Those were fighting words. The surest way to guarantee Cassian Truscott’s interest in a cause was to tell him something couldn’t be done. That being the case, Inigo Vellanoweth, investment partner, best friend and utterer of said words, currently held all his attention.

Cassian looked up from the map spread before him on the long, polished surface of the estate’s library table. ‘What did you say, Inigo?’

The dark-haired Inigo fixed him with a challenging blue stare from his desk near the wall of long windows overlooking The Elms’s immaculate gardens. ‘You heard me. You can’t have the land. The Earl of Redruth won’t sell.’ He emphasised his point with a wave of the most recent letter in a series of failed attempts.

Cassian sighed. His solicitors and Redruth’s had been meeting all winter to make arrangements for the sale, to no avail. Spring was around the corner and he was no closer to breaking ground on his Cornish pleasure garden than he had been last year. Without Redruth’s acres, there was simply no ground to break.

‘There’s other land, Cass. Perhaps it’s time we consider other options,’ Inigo pointed out practically. ‘There’s the acreage over by Truro,’ he said, reaching for the numbers on the property, but Cassian cut him off. They’d been over this too.

‘No, not land like this,’ Cassian insisted, planting his hands on either side of the map, his gaze lingering on the spot marking the coveted thirty-two acres. Damn. He needed that land. It was the ideal location for accomplishing the achievement of his own dreams and for rejuvenating the Cornish economy. The coastal views were spectacular and sweeping, the distance to Porth Karrek or Penzance close enough to engage workers from several of the villages and to access other needed supplies to run such an establishment. ‘Doesn’t it gall you that the earl won’t sell?’ Inigo was his partner in the Porth Karrek Land Development Company, yet Inigo seemed less bothered by the downturn of events.

‘It’s just business to me, Cass.’ Inigo gave him a wry smile. ‘What do I always say? Don’t get attached to money, to things. It makes a person less flexible.’

Cassian looked up from the map and grimaced. ‘You think I’m being stubborn. You think I should move on and take the land near Truro.’ It might be just business for Inigo, but it was far more than business for Cassian. This project was redemption, a chance to restore a legacy, a chance to do penance to the community for his brother’s mistake. It had to be here. Putting it in Truro couldn’t accomplish those things. It was too far away from the people he wanted to help.

‘Offer Redruth double.’ Cassian sighed. He needed that land. He’d invested months in negotiation—he wasn’t going to give up now.

‘We’ve already offered double,’ Inigo reminded him.

‘I know. Double it again. I can’t imagine why Redruth remains obstinate. It’s not as if he’s using the land. It’s been dormant for over a decade.’ But even as he gave the order, Cassian felt the futility of it deep in his bones. Money would not coerce a man like Redruth, a man much like himself, who had money aplenty to spend, to whom doubling or quadrupling a price was no great stretch. He shook his head, cancelling the suggestion. ‘No. Don’t offer the money. We’ll look stinking desperate and then we’ll never get that land.’

Lord, this was maddening. The earl was well-known for his philanthropy in London. He supported numerous orphanages, championed the veterans of the Napoleonic wars and other causes in Parliament and out. Couldn’t Redruth see all the good that could be done here at home in his very own environs? It wasn’t as if Cassian was asking for charity. He was willing to pay handsomely.

Cassian left the table and went to the windows. He studied the green lawn before him. The sun had broken through the grey skies of the morning marine layer to make for a tolerable afternoon in early March. ‘If money won’t impress him, what will? He’s a hermit except for sitting his seat in London.’ Even in London, the earl barely socialised. He left that work to his son, Phineas. Cassian knew the son by sight only since Phineas was a few years younger. As for the earl, Cassian knew nothing of the man except that he craved seclusion and preferred to wield his power from the behind the walls of Castle Byerd.

‘It’s hard to know how to appeal to such a private man, Inigo. I don’t think he’s gone out in years except to perform his duties and attend church.’ And to host his annual charity ball, the only night of the year the doors of Byerd House in London were thrown open to society. Cassian had attended only once. Usually his father went.

‘What does Redruth need?’ Cassian mused out loud. ‘More importantly, what does he need that he can’t get on his own?’ But nothing came to mind. Surely the man wasn’t unassailable. Everyone had a weakness. ‘Did your digging discover anything?’ After the last refusal, Inigo had set about investigating Redruth’s situation.

‘Only what we already know. He is committed to the land staying in the family. I’ve said it before, but my professional advice is that you look elsewhere for your acres.’ Inigo left the desk to study the map. He tapped a finger. Cassian didn’t need to see the map to know the spot. ‘There are benefits to being near a larger town, Cass.’

Cassian turned from the window. ‘No. Absolutely not. That would be to admit defeat. It’s too far away to provide jobs for the people here, the people I want to help.’ There was nothing like telling a man who had everything that the one thing he truly wanted was beyond his reach. ‘The people of Porth Karrek and the surrounding area need economic relief now.’ His friend, Eaton Falmage and his new bride, Eliza, had begun establishing a string of mining schools to educate the children of miners so that the next generation might have a choice as to how and where they worked. Those benefits would be long-term. But in the meantime, something needed to be done about present conditions and he was determined to do it.

Having been raised on the Cornish coast, he was fond of the expression ‘a high tide raises all boats’. An amusement garden could do that by supplying three hundred jobs directly and countless other employment opportunities indirectly for those more intrepid entrepreneurs willing to set up in business on their own. A project of this magnitude could revitalise the region.

More than that, an amusement garden was Cassian’s dream, his grand vision to bring new experiences to people who never ventured further away from their homes than they could walk in a day. He’d had the luxury of travel. He’d ridden the ice slides of Russia, partaken in the grand amusements of the French. He’d seen and tasted the convergence of culture and food from all over the world in Venice.

Those experiences had enriched him greatly. He’d learned more from those encounters than he had from his time at Oxford. Why shouldn’t others be enriched in the same way? Why not bring those experiences to people who couldn’t go to the source? Why should such enrichment be limited to only the very wealthy? It was the philosophy that Richard Penlerick, the Duke of Newlyn, Cassian’s mentor and friend, had imparted to him for years, encouraging him to have purpose in his travel. ‘Travel for those who cannot. Bring it home for others,’ he’d counselled. ‘So that one man’s experiences might enrich a community.’ Richard Penlerick was dead now, the first anniversary of his death approaching in June, but his legacy was as alive as it had ever been in the schools Eaton and Eliza had founded. Cassian was determined to continue the legacy. Damn the Earl of Redruth for standing in his way on the basis of some reclusive shibboleths about keeping the land in the family.

‘It’s a noble goal, Cass. But are you sure that’s the only reason you’re holding on so tightly?’ Inigo had a way of piercing through the truth to get to even deeper truths, darker truths. Heaven help the man who lied to Inigo. He wouldn’t stand a chance. ‘Don’t tell me this is about honouring Richard Penlerick. You can honour his legacy just as effectively in Truro as you can here.’

Cassian bristled. He didn’t like being called out. Inigo knew very well he was sailing in dark waters now, close to the things they never discussed. ‘Why don’t you tell me what my secret agenda is, then? What, pray tell, am I holding on to?’

‘There is no need to be testy. Sarcasm doesn’t become you.’ Inigo gave him a hard stare, his voice like the fine, thin, steel of his favourite rapier. Inigo the fencer, with blades, with words. ‘Tell me this isn’t about Collin.’

Collin. His younger brother. Dead now for five years, yet the single word still had the ability to suck all the air, all the life out of him. Anyone close to him knew better than to pull out that particular skeleton from the family closet. It was the Truscott family’s Achilles heel. Ducal families weren’t supposed to have such disasters, such tragedies. Maybe his family wouldn’t have had one either if Cassian had chosen differently when his brother had come to him. But he hadn’t and now Collin was dead. It took Cassian a moment to still his emotions before he could respond. ‘What does it matter if it’s about Collin? We all have our obsessions, Inigo. Vennor’s quest for justice regarding his father’s death. I have Collin and you have Gismond Brenley. Don’t pretend that you aren’t driven to bring down Brenley.’

‘The man has been a thorn in our collective sides for years. He deserves a reckoning, for the part he played in Collin’s death, for what he tried to do to Eliza Blaxland, for what he’s still trying to do to the industries of Cornwall,’ Inigo argued.

Cassian gave a dry laugh. ‘That’s hardly sporting, Inigo. You can justify your obsession, but you won’t validate mine? My revenge against Brenley is to build that park, to give workers a choice. They don’t have to work for Brenley. They don’t have to mine. They can work for me doing any number of things. Then, we’ll see what Brenley has to say when he has no work force.’ Revenge could be served in a variety of ways.

‘Your revenge is only theoretical at the moment, thanks to Redruth,’ Inigo reminded him. ‘That land is meant to stay in the family. If you’re not family, you don’t stand a chance.’

‘Then I need to become family.’ That sparked an idea. Cassian strode to the shelves, searching for his father’s copy of Debrett’s Peerage. Cornish families were tight-knit and old, with lineages that went back to William the Conqueror. He set the book on the table alongside the map and opened it, running a finger along the list of names and stopping beside Prideaux. Perhaps there was some remote connection between the Truscotts and the Prideauxes, or perhaps, failing that, there was some remote cousin in need of marrying.

His finger stilled at the thought. Would he really be willing to marry for the land? It wasn’t a preposterous strategy. His own lineage was something he could barter with. He was a duke’s heir, a wealthy man with a title of his own as Viscount Trevethow. He could, maybe, entice Redruth with that. It was always worthwhile to have a future duke on the family tree. If he did that, though, what would be the difference between him and his last mistress? Cassian suppressed a shudder, unable to shake the idea that such a trade reduced him to a high-class whore and not even an honest one. It would be backhanded to marry without disclosing the truth: that he was the chief owner of the Porth Karrek Land Development Company, which Redruth had already discouraged in its pursuit of the very land available to him in the marriage settlement. Of course, it would come at the cost of Redruth despising his new son-in-law for the deception. Hardly ideal grounds on which to begin married life, to say nothing of what his bride would think of the situation.

Aside from that, however, a marriage between the Earldom of Redruth and the Dukedom of Hayle would be a grand alliance of two old Cornish families, Cassian thought wryly. Many men of his age and social standing married for less. At the end of the proverbial day, he’d have his land—perhaps the rest didn’t matter as long as the dream could move forward. But the rest did matter. Achieving the dream by marrying for the land came with great cost, starting with his pride and ending with the loss of other dreams he held close, dreams that might seem fanciful to other peers. He’d like to fall in love with his wife. He’d like his marriage to be as grand in passion as it would be in politics. He’d like his marriage to be more than a contract, although that might be even more of a pipe dream than his pleasure garden.

In Cassian’s experience, men of his station were regular targets for matchmaking mamas and pound-wise papas who saw the financial as well as social benefits of such a match. One had to be on constant guard in order not to fall prey to their schemes. His brother and that unholy mess with Brenley’s daughter was indication enough that such caution was not misplaced paranoia.

Yet the notion persisted for Cassian that, despite the monumental evidence to the contrary, love inside of marriage was possible. His own parents were proof of it. The Trelevens were proof of it, Cador and Rosenwyn Kitto were proof of it as were Eaton and Eliza. Why shouldn’t he have the same? Why should he settle for a dynastic contract? Cassian scanned Debrett’s for the Prideauxes, his eyes landing on the list of the earl’s family members.

Countess of Redruth, Lady Katherine Prideaux, née Dunstan. Born 1783. Died 1814.

She’d been young. He’d been little more than a boy when she’d passed. There was Phineas Michael, the son and heir. His finger stopped on the name below it.

Penrose, Margaret. Born 1803.

Inigo’s gaze was steady on him. ‘You think to marry for it. I see it in your eyes and now you’ve found the daughter. So many forget about her.’ Inigo’s eyes narrowed as they studied him. ‘No one’s seen her. She doesn’t go about in society.’ Like father like daughter it seemed on that note.

There was a wealth of implication in those words. Cassian shut the book. Perhaps she was the reason for the Earl’s reclusive lifestyle. Perhaps there was a reason she hadn’t been seen in public. Was she crippled? Burned? Did she limp? Not that those things mattered to Cassian. He was not as shallow as to determine someone’s worth based on their physical abilities. But society was. Regardless of her potential afflictions, it seemed Redruth’s daughter wasn’t bound to be a beauty.

‘Certainly, though, her father’s title and her dowry are enough to guarantee she has suitors regardless of her looks,’ Inigo pointed out.

‘But not me among them.’ Not yet. Cassian wasn’t willing to engage in such manoeuvring. To sacrifice one dream for the sake of the other seemed to demean both dreams. Perhaps it would come to that, making himself into a placeholder for an exchange of titles and lands. For today, he was out of ideas until he could figure out what might persuade Redruth. Tomorrow, he would write to the earl one more time, outlining all the benefits of such a sale.

Cassian put the book away and stretched. ‘I’m going out. I’ll ride into Redruth and take in the St Piran’s Day festivities while the sun is shining. The town always puts on a good fair. The fresh air will clear my head. Perhaps I’ll think of a new angle for getting that land while I’m there.’ Maybe he wouldn’t need to. Perhaps once the earl read all the benefits that could come from such a project, he wouldn’t be so hard-hearted as to reject progress when it came with so many advantages and a substantial offer of cash.

Chapter Two

They were making no progress here. Lady Penrose Prideaux stifled her temper behind the osculation of her fan while Lord Wadesbridge conversed with her father. She knew what was afoot. Her father was matchmaking again. At first, it had only been a game to Pen, one she could win. Since she’d turned eighteen, her father had discreetly invited a select few men of good standing to Castle Byerd and, over the past two years, she’d repeatedly found something wrong with each of them. In the beginning, her father had not pushed her to reconsider. But with each rejected candidate the game posed an ever larger obstacle to her freedom. Two years in, it wasn’t a game any more, but a threat.

Her father was in earnest over today’s suitor, Lord Wadesbridge, who had an estate not far from Byerd. She could see why her father liked him. The latest candidate for her hand had more in common with the earl than he had with her. It wasn’t surprising considering Wadesbridge was her father’s contemporary, not hers. He was at least twenty years her senior. She knew what her father saw in him: an estate outside Looe close enough to visit, security, stability, sensibility. There wasn’t a more stolid man in Cornwall.

If she was an older widow with half of her life behind her, or a quiet, retiring wallflower with no eye towards adventure, she might find Wadesbridge more appealing. But she was none of those things. She was twenty years old and hadn’t been allowed outside the walls of Castle Byerd alone for the last decade. Whatever escape from Byerd she’d had over the years, she’d engineered covertly. She was full of wanderlust and a passion for living. She wanted to see the world she’d read about in her father’s library, wanted to make her own choices, live her own life. She wanted to do more than support unseen causes for the poor from behind the safety of Byerd’s walls. She wanted to help them first-hand. She wanted to travel, to see the places on the maps she studied, to dip her toes in the warm ocean of the Caribbean, to smell the spices in the Turkish bazaar, to ride in a Venetian gondola, maybe indulge in ordering gowns from a French salon, at the very least, to have a Season like other girls of her rank, to dance with a handsome gentleman who wasn’t her father’s age, to flirt, to fall in love, to meet someone that made her heart pound and her pulse race, who understood her dreams. Some days, like today, she felt as if she’d burst from the wanting of it all. There was so much to do beyond the walls of Byerd and she was running out of time. She couldn’t say no to every suitor for ever. Her father wouldn’t permit it. If she didn’t choose, she had no doubt he would choose for her. He was the most determined man she knew.

‘My daughter is honoured by your attentions, Wadesbridge.’ Her father shot her a sharp look, jerking her back to awareness. She’d missed her cue. ‘She will consider your suit.’

Pen’s eyes snapped to attention. What had just happened? She’d drifted for a moment and she was nearly betrothed. Wadesbridge smiled and rose, happy enough to conclude his visit on that note. He reached for her hand and bent over it. ‘I look forward to showing you Trescowe Park, my lady. The gardens are at their best in the spring. Your father tells me you enjoy flowers.’ She nodded non-committally, not wanting to agree to anything she might regret. She did like flowers, wild ones. She envied them their freedom to grow where they chose, to run rampant over hedges and moors, to climb stone walls and poke through cracks.

‘I have a greenhouse that would interest you, my lady.’ Wadesbridge was still talking. ‘Over the winter, I perfected some grafts with my roses in the hopes of producing a yellow rose tinged orange on the edges. If you’d permit me, I could send a cutting over.’

Wadesbridge was being kind. She could not shun him for kindness, but she wouldn’t marry him for it either. Pen responded carefully. If she showed too much interest she’d end up with a room full of cuttings tomorrow and both he and her father would take it as an endorsement of his suit. ‘You are too generous, my lord.’ Pen offered a polite smile. ‘I will look forward to seeing your new rose when we visit and perhaps I can select a few cuttings then.’ It was better to stall any potential outpouring of gifts. She smiled Wadesbridge out, but her smile faded the moment she and her father were alone in the drawing room.

‘I don’t want to marry him.’ Pen spoke first, her voice full of sharp authority.

Her father sighed, looking suddenly weary, his voice tired. ‘What’s wrong now? Wadesbridge is rich, titled, stable, local.’

‘He’s old.’

‘He’s only forty-five.’

‘He’s closer to your age than he is mine,’ Pen pressed. Only ten years separated her father and Wadesbridge, but two and half decades separated her from him.

Her father’s dark eyes studied her in frustration. He had a temper too. They were alike in that regard. At the moment, they were both struggling to keep that particular character trait under control. ‘The previous suitor gambled, another drank, another had debts. I should think Wadesbridge’s lack of vices would appeal after that parade, or is it your intention to find fault with every suitor?’ There was accusation in his tone. He was disappointed in her. She hated disappointing her father. She loved him and she knew he loved her. Too much sometimes.

‘I want to do something with my life, Father.’ She gentled her tone in hopes of making him see.

‘Marry, raise a family. There is no worthier calling in life,’ her father insisted. ‘Family is everything, it is a man’s life’s work and a woman’s too.’ But it wasn’t the only work of a lifetime. There were other worthy ways to spend a life.

‘Maybe, in time I would like those things, but not yet.’ How did she convince him? ‘I want to live a little before I’m handed off to a husband. I don’t want to go from my childhood home to my husband’s home without an adventure first. I haven’t even been to London for a debut.’ Other girls her age, girls like their nearby neighbour, Sir Jock Treleven’s daughters, had all gone to London for Seasons. Marianne was having her second Season this year and she was only nineteen, a year younger than Pen.

Her father’s eyebrows rose in censure at the mention of London. ‘The city is far too dangerous. Don’t you recall what happened last Season? The Duke of Newlyn and his wife were stabbed to death coming home from the theatre. They were practically our neighbours here all these years and now they’re gone. I wouldn’t want to risk you. Besides, with your dowry and your antecedents, what need do you have for a Season?’ He leaned forward and pinched her cheek affectionately. ‘You have no need to hunt for a husband. They come to you.’

‘I want to choose for myself and to do that I need time and a larger selection, Papa. How can I know what I want in a husband if I haven’t met anyone?’

‘You should be guided by the wisdom of your elders. I would not allow you to marry someone unworthy.’ No, he wouldn’t. She would be assured of marrying a decent man, but the thought of wedding a decent man didn’t exactly set her heart to racing. What about romance? What about stolen kisses? What about love? ‘I must insist you seriously consider Wadesbridge.’

‘And you must seriously consider what I want. Does it matter so little?’ She felt as if an invisible noose was strangling her. Her lovely home had slowly become a prison over the years. If she stayed, she’d scream with the futility of her life. She had to get out of here, if even for a short time. She needed a walk, a chance to clear her head.

‘I don’t want to quarrel with you, Penrose.’ His tone softened with love and she heard the old, familiar tinge of sadness that had been present in his voice for over a decade. ‘You grow more beautiful every day, Penrose. You look so much like your mother. You have her honey hair, her green eyes, like the Cornish sea at summer. A stunning combination.’ Her father was biased, of course. She might be striking in her features, but she was not beautiful. There was a difference. Her mother, however, had been beautiful and life had been beautiful when she was alive, every day an adventure from romping the hills to building hideaways in the vast attics of Byerd on rainy afternoons.

Her looks were a blessing and a curse Pen had lived with every day since the event that had claimed her mother’s life, a constant reminder to them all of the woman they’d lost to a violent, senseless act and the very reason her father was so protective. He feared losing her the way he’d lost his wife: instantly and arbitrarily. Pen felt her anger over the latest suitor slipping. It was hard to argue with a man who was still grieving after all these years, hard to hurt a father who loved his children so deeply. She couldn’t keep putting the discussion off, though. If she didn’t stand up for herself soon, she’d end up married to Wadesbridge or if not Wadesbridge, the next suitor who walked through the doors of Castle Byerd. But not today. She would not fight with her father today. Today, she would do as she usually did and simply escape.

She moved towards the door, and her father looked up. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Upstairs. I think I’ll lie down before dinner. I have a headache,’ she improvised. There were festivities in the village, even fireworks this evening, and she didn’t intend on missing them, especially if this might be her last time to see them. She wasn’t getting any younger and her father’s collection of suitors was only growing more insistent by the day. Desperate times called for desperate measures. She could either sit in her room and mope or she could go to a party.

Upstairs, Pen reached under her bed for an old dressmaker’s box that had once contained a gown. Now, it was home to a plain brown cloak, a simple dark blue dress made of homespun wool and a battered pair of half-boots. Pen smiled as she pulled them out one by one as if they were made of the finest silk. The clothes were her treasures. Once she slipped these on, she was no longer Penrose Prideaux who couldn’t leave the castle without an army for an escort. Now, she could be whoever she wished: a peasant girl, a farm girl, a girl who worked in one of the shops in the village, maybe even a stranger who’d walked here from another village. These clothes were freedom. She could be whoever she desired, do whatever she desired and no one would be the wiser.

Pen finished dressing and took down her carefully crafted hair, plaiting her long honey-hued skeins into a single, thick braid that hung over her shoulder. She critically studied her appearance in the pier glass, looking for anything that would give her away: a forgotten piece of jewellery or a silk ribbon in her hair. Satisfied that she’d erased any trace of Penrose Prideaux, she raised the hood of her cloak and set off to leave herself behind. Tonight, she would make some adventures of her own before it was too late.

Chapter Three

Cassian loved a good fair and the town of Redruth did not disappoint. It was a point of pride for the town as the nominal originator of the St Piran festivities. Many other towns in Cornwall had their own celebrations these days for the patron saint of tin miners, but Redruth had been the first.

Cassian stabled his horse at the livery, tossing an extra coin to the sulky young ostler left on duty while his comrades had gone off to join the festivities. ‘You’ll be rich when they come back with their pockets to let,’ Cassian consoled him, but the boy continued to pout. Well, he knew a little something about that. He wasn’t so far past boyhood himself that he’d forgotten how much he’d looked forward to an outing when he was younger. Fun was sparse in this part of the world. His pleasure garden could change that. It would have entertainments for all ages, unlike Vauxhall, which catered to an adults-only crowd. Children needed stimulation, too, especially when their imaginations were at their most fertile. Growing up, he’d loved adventure stories even though reading had been a labour for him. He’d loved any day that his father or Eaton’s father or Richard Penlerick had taken the four of them out riding or exploring. But those days had been rare. Perhaps he’d bring the sulky ostler a pasty when he came back. Cassian’s stomach rumbled at the thought of a hot pie, a reminder that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

Outside in the street, happy townsfolk jostled past as he let his nose lead the way to a pasty vendor. He purchased a pasty and bit into the flaky crust, the savoury meat warm in his mouth. It took the edge off the weather’s late afternoon crispness. March wasn’t really spring in this part of the world. Cassian wandered the booths, stopping every so often to admire goods that caught his attention. It was at the leatherworker’s booth, as he studied the workmanship on a bridle, that he noticed her out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t say what it was exactly that drew him: the swirl of her cloak, perhaps, or the way the woman beneath the cloak moved, all slender, straight-shouldered grace as opposed to the bustle of the fair-goers.

Cassian stepped back from the leatherworker’s booth to study her. She moved as if she were savouring each sight, lingering over each of the items in the stalls, treating them as if they were luxuries. Maybe they were. Not everyone who came to a fair had coins in their pocket to spend. The hood of her brown cloak was drawn up over her face, her hair. Cassian found himself wishing it wasn’t so. He wanted to see this woman who walked through a village fair with such reverence. More than that, he wanted to know her mind; what did the fair look like to her to inspire such awe? How might he capture that for his amusement park? It was precisely how he wanted guests to look when they visited. If he ever got it built.

She moved into the crowd and Cassian followed. Perhaps he would speak to her. She appeared to be alone, an odd condition for a woman at such an event. For all the excitement a fair could bring, there were dangers, too, if one wasn’t careful, especially as the day wore on and the men were deeper into their drink. At the edge of the village green the booths gave way to the pens of livestock and the crowd thinned. Here, she halted, suddenly surrounded by a gaggle of children who’d swarmed her.

Cassian quickened his steps in concern. There were too many of them. These were not village children. These were street urchins, some of them older boys who likely followed the vendors from fair to fair. A smaller boy, likely the decoy, said something to her, tugging at her and claiming all her attention. Cassian could guess what he was asking for. The woman hesitated and then reached beneath her cloak and produced a coin for the lad. That would never do. The boys would either beg the rest of her purse from her or come back to steal it later now that they knew where she kept it. From the looks of her clothes, she hadn’t the money to spare should she lose whatever her purse contained.

‘Hoy there, lads! Be off with you!’ Cassian strode into their midst, dispersing them with his sheer bulk. Smart lads didn’t mess with men built with height and breadth to match. They scattered like swatted flies in the wake of his broad-shouldered, baritone-voiced barrage.

The woman straightened, becoming taller, more slender, more graceful than she’d been in the marketplace. ‘That was hardly necessary, sir. They were just hungry children begging a coin.’ There was a slightly imperious tone to her voice. A proud woman, then, a woman who liked to be self-sufficient. He had two older sisters who had that same tone. He knew it well. A man had to tread carefully where such a woman’s pride was concerned. It was a lesson he’d watched his sisters’ husbands learn over the years.

‘They’ll have your whole purse off you if you aren’t careful. Those were no ordinary children,’ he scolded kindly.

‘I know their sort very well. It doesn’t make their plight any less pitiable. Out of concern for my fellow mankind, I’ll take my chances, every time,’ she answered staunchly.

Cassian nodded. ‘A noble sentiment, although I doubt they’ll extend you the same courtesy when they come back to take your purse. You exposed yourself, you know.’ He wished she’d expose a little more of herself, perhaps push that hood back from her face, show him the eyes, the mouth that went with her voice. In his experience, a confident woman was always attractive. He found confidence sexy in the bedroom and out. This woman’s confidence stirred him, intrigued him. ‘Perhaps I might escort you in case they return.’ If he was beside her, he was certain they wouldn’t.

‘Where might you escort me? A dark alley?’

‘Would you like me to?’ He flirted with a smile. ‘There are many things one can get up to in a dark alley, not all of them bad.’

‘You might be more dangerous than the gang of boys,’ she answered shrewdly. She was enjoying the exchange. ‘How do I know you’re not in on it with them?’ She gave a throaty laugh when he raised an eyebrow in approval of her quick wit. ‘See, I’m not as green as you think.’ Sweet heavens, the minx gave as good as she got. The open boldness appealed.

Cassian chuckled. ‘I never thought you were. I was merely concerned you were too kind-hearted for your own good. Might I interest you in a pasty or some other delicacy?’

‘I don’t even know your name, sir.’ She was serious about that. He’d reached the limits of what she’d tolerate. However, he was enjoying her far too much to ruin it by announcing his real name. It would change everything if she recognised it. Even if she didn’t recognise it now, she would be sure to recognise it later. A name was power, to be used for or against him. He would not put that kind of power in a stranger’s hands.

‘What would you like my name to be?’ Cassian flirted. ‘Choose one for me.’ Beneath the hood of her cloak, green eyes lit in liking and understanding. The idea appealed to her as well. His intrigue ratcheted. His lady liked games.

‘Matthew.’ She chose easily and quickly. ‘And what shall you call me?’ It was an interesting woman who saw the benefit of an alias, who perhaps was just as eager as he to keep her identity hidden. Maybe because it made the little game between them more exciting, or maybe there was something more to it.

‘Must I call you anything? I’d rather know your face than your name.’ Cassian cajoled. ‘Push your hood back a little farther so that I can see you better.’ He was starting to like this game. This was a woman with secrets, a woman who liked her privacy. He respected that. He had secrets of his own.

With her free hand, she pushed her hood back just far enough to reveal hair the colour of caramel and honey and eyes like sea glass, a mouth that was full and inviting. Taken together, her features were starkly, intensely riveting. Memorable. In the right clothes, the right setting, she would be a beauty. Amidst the plain folk of Redruth, she was remarkable, a faerie queen among mere mortals. He understood why she stayed cloaked. Remarkable women drew attention and hardly ever the right sort.

‘I saw an opal once the shade of your eyes, but I think Emerald makes a better name.’ Cassian let her draw her hood back up. ‘That way I can call you Em. It sounds friendlier.’

‘Are we to be friends, then, for the night?’ They’d begun walking back towards the stalls, the decision to share the evening already implicitly made.

‘We shall be whatever you want, Em.’ He let his voice linger on the last, the caress of his tone carrying the nuance for him; they could be strangers, lovers, friends. Em suited her, his cloaked minx with her throaty laugh and her bold mystery. He purchased two pasties stuffed with hot, sliced potatoes. He passed one to her and watched her bite into it.

‘Oh, that is good.’ Her eyes closed as she savoured the food, chewing slowly, and Cassian felt himself grow hard at the sight. If she looked this delicious eating a pasty, what might she look like in the throes of taking her pleasure? Her hair loose from its braid, her long neck arched?

A droplet of juice dribbled on her lips and Cassian felt the wicked urge to lick it from her mouth. She smiled coyly as if she guessed the direction of his thoughts, but before he could lean forward, the tip of her tongue darted out to claim the drop.

He wanted to kiss her, this handsome, dark-haired man. A little frisson of excitement raced through Pen at the realisation. She’d read enough novels to know. The drop of the eyes, the lingering gaze on one’s mouth. Those were the signs. Only she’d beaten him to it with her tongue.

Perhaps she ought to have let him kiss her? But it was too soon. He’d think her easy. They’d only just met and she’d broken so many rules already: talking to a stranger, walking with him, accepting food from him, flirting outrageously, saying wickedly witty things she’d only ever practised in her mind and taking on a false name. Em, he’d called her, only when he said it, she imagined it as M. M for mystery, perhaps. Perhaps he might try for a kiss again when they’d known one another a little longer and she could oblige. It was naughtily delicious to think she might get kissed tonight; her very first kiss, and from a tall, dark, handsome stranger at the fair.

They finished their pasties and began to wander the booths, stopping when something caught their eyes: a belt here, a scarf there, a pretty bauble, a scented bar of soap and a never-ending stream of conversation. Matthew was easy to talk to and easy to listen to. He had stories about everything from how the French soap was milled to how many crimps of a crust it took to make a true pasty to how Brussels lace was made.

‘You’ve seen them make the lace?’ She fingered a delicate sample in renewed appreciation for the labour. At home in her wardrobe, she had several gowns with lace collars and yokes. She’d not stopped to think of the effort those yards had taken.

‘Yes, it’s a very elaborate, time-consuming process. It can take months to produce a design.’

She gave a sigh. ‘I’m envious of you and your travels! How wonderful to see the world. I’d give anything to leave here, at least for a while. Where else have you been?’ They stopped to sniff little vials of perfume. She held up a vial of sandalwood mixed with an exotic scent. She sniffed and handed it to him. ‘Try this one. It’s very masculine.’

He sniffed and put the stopper back in. ‘It’s nice. It reminds me of Russia.’

She smiled. ‘So, you’ve been to Russia. Tell me. What is Russia like?’

He winked. ‘I will, but first we need sustenance.’ He was a bottomless pit, she discovered. The pasty they’d consumed earlier was followed by a sampling of every sweet available as they shopped and talked and he regaled her with stories of his travels. They ate, turning the night into a parade of scones with jam and clotted cream and saffron buns warm from the oven. When they stopped at a stall selling fairings, she gave a laughing groan as he bought a bag of the biscuits and offered her one. ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t eat another a bite!’

Matthew grinned mischievously and waved a ginger treat under her nose. ‘Are you sure? I have it on good authority from my nieces and nephews that fairings are generally irresistible and these are fresh. Try one, for me, please.’

He smiled at her and it seemed to Pen that the crowd disappeared, that the whole world vanished when he looked at her like that with whisky eyes and long black lashes. She was lost. ‘Well, perhaps I could find room for one,’ she teased.

‘Open wide, then, Em.’ Her pulse raced as she divined his intentions. He meant to feed it to her from his own hand! She took the fairing from him with her teeth, aware of his fingers lingering on her lips, aware of the spark that leapt between them. Around them, the lanterns began to cast their glow as light faded, the day was changing and they were changing with it. There was a charge between them. Matthew’s eyes were on her as she swallowed the fairing, searing into her as if his gaze could see into her mind, her very soul, into every fantasy she’d ever harboured of a night like this—a night with a stranger who wanted her, just her; a stranger who knew nothing of her family’s tragedy, of her seclusion, her private fight for freedom; a stranger who didn’t want her for her money, her land, her family’s title, a man not curated for her by her father.

She was aware, too, that the fantasy had to end very soon. She’d already stayed longer than she’d intended. Matthew fed her another fairing and she took this one more slowly, revelling in the brush of his fingertips at her lips as she summoned the willpower for the words that must come. ‘I have to go.’ Her maid, Margery, would cover for her, of course, but she still had to walk back and that walk would now occur in darkness.

‘Soon,’ he said, taking her hand in his and beginning to stroll again. ‘But not yet. We haven’t seen the Venetian glass-blower.’

‘One more booth and then I must go.’ She could not resist the temptation of a few more minutes with him, a few more minutes of freedom.

The glass-blower did not disappoint. In the darkness, the flame of his forge was inviting and warm. They joined the semi-circle of onlookers gathered around the stall to watch him work his magic. Pen gasped as the man blew through a tube and a fragile shape took form at the other end. She’d never seen glass blown and the process mesmerised her almost as much as the man standing behind her. She was acutely aware of him, of his height, of his body so close to hers in the crowd, the breadth of his shoulders beneath his greatcoat, the heat of him rivalling the heat of the glass-master’s forge. She felt the gentle grip of his hand at her waist as they watched the demonstration. No man had ever dared touch her so intimately, so possessively, but he did it easily as if his hand belonged there, as if it had a right to belong there.

A hungry, curious, lonely part of her wished he had that right, but she knew better. She was an earl’s daughter, a woman destined for a match that went far beyond the means of this whisky-eyed stranger. He was not a peasant. His bearing, his confidence was too grand for that with his greatcoat and boots. Perhaps he was a squire’s son, a man of decent means, but no substantial wealth, a man who could never be a contender for the hand of an earl’s daughter. She could only be his for the night. And who knew? Perhaps he had obligations elsewhere as well? Perhaps he could no more be hers beyond tonight than she could be his?

The glass-blower completed his demonstration to applause and the crowd dispersed. Pen lingered to look at the items on display in the case: a clever glass heart that could be hung as a pendant, a menagerie of little glass animals of all sorts, tiny thimbles and teardrops. ‘Amazing,’ she whispered under her breath. ‘To think that Venice has come all the way to Redruth. What a world it must be.’ It was worth it to be late getting back to have seen this and to have seen it with him, her Matthew. She slid a glance his way and smiled. ‘I’m glad you insisted I see this.’

He did not look away, his gaze holding hers long after her words faded. ‘Will you permit me to offer you a souvenir?’ His voice was low and private, for her alone.

‘I should not.’ Her voice was equally as quiet.

‘But you will. Your heart’s not in the refusal,’ he said softly, gesturing for the glass-blower. ‘The lady would like the pendant.’

Pen blushed furiously. It was too much, too intimate, far more intimate than Wadesbridge’s rose cuttings. The necklace wasn’t fine diamonds or even Austrian-cut crystal. She had a jewel box full of items that were more expensive, but she was cognisant this was a trinket of some expense for a common man. Yet Matthew handed over the coins easily. ‘May I put it on you, Em?’ He was searing her with his gaze, burning her alive here in public where everyone could see. Did he see what he did to her?

She gave him her back, pushing off the hood of her cloak and lifting the thick braid, giving him access to her neck. His fingers were cool against her skin where he tied the ribbon, where they lingered at her neck as he whispered, his mouth at her ear as if they were lovers, old familiar lovers who knew one another’s bodies, ‘You have the neck of a swan, Em.’

‘Thank you.’ Was that the right response? What did one say when one’s neck was complimented? Somewhere in the distance, music began for dancing as he pushed up the hood of her cloak, covering her hair, his hands lingering at her shoulders.

‘Do you insist on leaving? I would ask you to dance if I could entice you to stay?’

She fingered the glass heart at her neck. ‘I must go now. Thank you for a wonderful evening.’

‘Where are you headed? My horse is at the livery. I can take you.’

Pen hesitated. She was tempted. A horse would be faster than a walk, yet her father’s sense of caution and danger was deeply ingrained in her. Here at the fair, they were surrounded by people. Matthew couldn’t do much to her here where she could cry out for help. But on a horse, on the dark road…her mother had died on a dark road.

‘You’re thinking of dark alleys again, aren’t you, Em?’ He chuckled softly. ‘You don’t owe me anything for the necklace. I’m not the sort of man who demands payment for trinkets. That wasn’t why I bought it.’

‘I know,’ she whispered softly. She knew it was true in her bones. Fantasy or not, she was safe with him. Em was safe with him. Pen might not be, though. She didn’t want him getting close to Byerd. He might try to find her there later. She couldn’t risk him showing up, exposing her. ‘Still, I must leave you here.’ She had to insist although it saddened her to see the evening end. She would never see him after tonight. He would become a treasured memory.

But Matthew was determined. ‘Can I see you again, Em?’

‘I don’t know.’ She was faltering now, unsure. She hadn’t thought further than tonight. How would she manage it again? Not just getting out of Byerd again without her father knowing, but keeping her identity secret? How would she explain if she were caught?

‘There’s an abandoned gamekeeper’s cottage between Redruth and Hayle just off the coast road. Meet me there tomorrow at one,’ he urged. ‘I will wait all afternoon for you.’

She should absolutely say no now. No good could come of meeting a man in an empty cottage. Instead, Pen found herself saying, ‘I will try.’

‘Do more than try, Em.’ His eyes glittered dangerously in the lantern light, all hot whisky. ‘I want to see you again. Tonight was magical, being with you, talking with you. I want more of that. If you don’t come, I’ll know you felt differently.’ He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. A bolt of white-hot awareness shot up her arm. ‘Until tomorrow, Em.’ Then he let her go, let her have her way to make the journey home alone with her thoughts. Her hand burned from the imprint of his touch, her heart wishing he’d dragged her into a dark alley after all and kissed her on the mouth instead of the hand. Her mind debated whether or not she was crazy enough to keep the rendezvous tomorrow with all its potential risks and whether or not he’d really wait all afternoon for the likes of her. He’d not struck her as the sort of man who had to wait on a woman.

Chapter Four

Em was keeping him waiting. Cassian snapped shut his pocket watch for the third time in fifteen minutes and retraced his steps back across the room to the hearth where his haphazard fire burned, built from the scraps of kindling he’d picked up on the cliffs. A half of an hour he’d been here, lighting a fire, setting out the parcels of his picnic on the scarred table and pacing the floor of the gamekeeper’s cottage, first in anticipation, then in a little self-deprecating irony, reflecting on the intrigue this whole interlude raised in him. Certainly, he’d had more sophisticated affairs and yet this one had him vacillating between anticipation and anxiousness. Would she come? Perhaps she wasn’t merely keeping him waiting—the very concept implied she was coming. Maybe that was a fallacy. Maybe she wasn’t coming at all.

Perhaps she’d woken up this morning and realised the insanity of what he’d proposed—that two strangers meet in an isolated location for an afternoon of undisclosed activity. Such an adventure was always more dangerous for a woman. She would be taking all the risk. Perhaps last night had been risk aplenty for her and yet she’d enjoyed his company, that had been plain enough in her smile, her wit, the flash of her sea-glass eyes.

He’d definitely enjoyed her, the delicious directness with which she’d spoken. She’d been quick to challenge him when she thought he was too bold. She’d been open and unguarded when she’d told him of her dreams to travel. Her joy in the vendors had been natural, spontaneous. Without artifice. Those two words described her appeal completely. There had been no dissembling from her, no posturing. Everything between them—from eating messy, juicy pasties to wandering the booths—had been organic in a way no London ballroom or exquisitely coached debutante could replicate.

It felt good to put his finger at last on the source of his attraction. However, it felt less than good to realise why that had been possible. She didn’t know who he was. If she did, all that naturalness might be sacrificed. She’d be intimidated into curtailing her open speech, into second-guessing what she shared, or maybe she’d realise the futility of meeting him. There was no future for a peasant girl and a duke’s heir. Nothing could come of this except enjoyment of the moment, as it had last night.

Would the promise of continuing that enjoyment be enough to compel her out in the light of day to the cliff lands between Redruth and Hayle? He hoped it would be, but hope hadn’t been his friend today when it had come to appointments. Today was taking on a potentially disappointing theme in that regard. The Earl of Redruth had written a vituperative letter in quick response to his latest missive. Redruth’s letter had outlined his reasons for refusing to sell to the Porth Karrek Land Development Company. Such a project would attract ‘outsiders’, the earl’s letter had cited with contempt. Redruth felt that such a plan would not only bring the desired tourists to the depressed region, but also strangers, people who would take jobs from the people the project intended to help here at home. Moreover, Redruth believed there would be other more nefarious types who didn’t intend to work, but who came to prey on the unsuspecting, such as the families taking a holiday thinking they were safe, but instead finding themselves at the mercy of a cutpurse or worse, citing the tragedy of the Duke of Newlyn in London.

The last had boiled Cassian’s blood. Redruth couldn’t know how close to his heart that arrow struck. Redruth didn’t know that the Duke of Hayle and his son, the Viscount Trevethow, along with Inigo Vellanoweth, Earl of Tintagel, and his father, the Duke of Boscastle; all close intimates of the late duke, were the driving force behind the Porth Karrek Land Development Company. Cassian had wanted to write back, to argue that the duke would have been the first to champion such an innovative project to restore the region’s economy. But Redruth would not care and such a self-satisfying measure would risk exposing the land company’s ownership. Other than being neighbours, Redruth knew little about the progressive thoughts of the Duke of Newlyn past or present. Redruth, in fact, knew very little of what happened outside the walled fortress of Castle Byerd. It was a pity. His own people would suffer for it.

Cassian threw another stick on the fire in the little hearth and watched it blaze. It was at times like these, where he could not effect change, could not break an impasse, that he felt most impotent. How could it be that with all his resources he could not breach the walls of the earl’s disregard? He would try again. He’d find a way. He did not give up easily. He’d not given up when it had proven hard to read while others around him seemed to pick it up naturally. He’d not given up when the deans at Oxford had said he’d never complete his degree in history, a subject that required much reading. Instead, encouraged by his father, his close friends and Newlyn, he’d found a way to appreciate history through travel, to appreciate the world through other more experiential means than solely through texts. Newlyn was gone now, but he’d left Cassian with a legacy of perseverance and success. Hard work paid in rich reward. And, of course, he knew the opposite was true as well. Quitting, giving in, only bred more defeat. He had quit only once in his life. How might things have been different if he hadn’t given up on Collin? Might Collin still be alive if he’d made different decisions where his brother had been concerned?

‘Matthew?’ Em’s sweet voice broke into his darkening thoughts. Cassian looked away from the fire.

‘Em!’ Her presence chased away the guilt that was always present when he thought about Collin. His day was better already just at the sight of her. Her cheeks were rosy with exertion. Her hood had fallen back and her hair sparkled with droplets of mist. Her boots were muddy and her cloak damp. Cassian moved to help her out of her wet garment. He spread it before the fire, noting how thin it was. ‘It will be dry by the time you leave,’ he promised.

‘You needn’t fuss. It’s only a light mist.’ She held her hands out towards the flames, warming them, and Cassian felt a twinge of guilt. ‘I hope the walk wasn’t too far? I should have asked last night. I should not have presumed.’ A slip on his part. He was privileged. He had sturdy boots to wear, a warm coat. He should not have assumed her shoes would be adequate for the task of tramping through the mud or that her cloak was warm enough for her to choose to be out of doors voluntarily.

‘It wasn’t too far. I like a good walk, rain or shine,’ she assured him, but her smile was tremulous, her eyes glancing about the room, taking in the door and the two windows as if she might need to know their location for an escape. She wore the same blue dress he’d glimpsed beneath her cloak at the fair. The pretty glass heart was at her neck and it warmed him that she’d worn it. She was much the same Em in daylight as she’d been at the fair, but today she was nervous.

Cassian strove to put her at ease. ‘I’m glad you’re here. I thought you might not come.’ He dragged over the two chairs from the table and set them near the fire.

‘I’m sorry I’m late. I couldn’t get away as soon as I’d wanted. I hope you weren’t waiting for too long?’ She sounded flustered as she cast about for conversation. Perhaps she was realising how alone they were, how different today was from last night. There were no lights, no vendors, no fair magic to guide their conversation. It was just them.

‘It’s never too long to wait for you.’ Cassian absolved her tardiness with the wave of a hand. The wait had been worth it to have her all to himself. Without her cloak to hide her, he could see the details of her face. Not just her eyes, but the minutiae of her: the tiny scar at her chin, the freckle at the corner of her mouth, the things that gave her features nuance and depth, that made them uniquely hers. When one struggled to read books, one learned to read people instead.

‘Do you flatter all the strange girls you meet?’ She blushed becomingly and dropped her gaze to her lap. ‘Why did you think I wouldn’t come?’

Cassian stretched his booted feet out before the fire and gave her a winsome smile. ‘I thought you might have realised how insane it was to meet a stranger in a cottage.’

Oh, she had definitely realised that. She was still thinking it, in fact, now that she’d arrived and the very space they occupied seemed intent on reminding her of the remoteness of their location and the precariousness of her position. To be caught here would be devastating. Pen fidgeted with her hands in her lap. What did one say to that?

She jumped up from her chair and began to walk the length of the room, expending her nervous energy. ‘It is crazy. But you’re here, too, so I guess that makes two of us with questionable grips on sanity. Although, to my credit, I did turn around once.’ It accounted for being late, that and the rather lengthy debate she’d held with herself on a rock overlooking the sea.

The admission seemed to intrigue him. She felt his whisky eyes linger on her, studying her as she moved about the room. ‘Why did you come?’

‘I had to know, for myself, if this was crazy. I’d never know if I could trust you if I didn’t show up.’ More than that, she didn’t want her father to win. She didn’t want fear to win, to steal her one chance at an adventure. But now that she’d come she hardly knew what to do with herself. What did one do on a rendezvous? Would there be kisses? More than kisses? She hardly knew the man she’d braved fear and rain to meet in an old cottage. For all she knew, he was a practised rake.

‘Do you meet girls out here all the time?’ It was possible she was just another in a long line of clandestine seductions. A hundred horrid thoughts had crossed her mind on the walk, thoughts not just about him, but about her. If he was a seducer, what did it say of her that she was still willing to meet him?

‘No.’ He sounded insulted by the idea. ‘Why would you say that?’

‘You’ve come provisioned, a man with a plan.’ Pen opened the picnic basket at the table and sniffed appreciably. There were meat pies inside. Her stomach rumbled.

‘We might get hungry. Bring it to the fire and stay warm.’ He left his chair and sat on the floor, taking the basket from her as she sat down beside him.

‘You mean you’ll get hungry. You’re always ravenous. If I ate as much food as you did at the fair, I’d outgrow my clothes in a week.’ Pen laughed, some of the ease of the prior evening returning to her. She’d not realised how much she’d relied on the fair last night to direct their conversation, to give them something to talk about.

‘See, you already know me far better than you did yesterday.’ He passed her a meat pie. ‘You have an unfair advantage on me, I’m afraid. I don’t know anything about you.’ He slanted her a teasing look. ‘I know what we’ll do. I propose of game of questions so that by the end of it, we shall no longer be strangers.’ He grinned mischievously at her, offering the jug of ale. ‘First, the rules. Rule number one: we shall take turns asking each other questions. Rule number two: we must answer with the truth. Our honour requires it. Rule number three: our honour also requires the question cannot be refused. I’ll go first.’ He stretched out to his full length before the fire, his dark head propped in a large hand, looking indolent and perhaps a bit smug. He was too certain of himself for his own good and too certain of her. Perhaps he was used to women always following his lead. Her mother had always said a gentleman must never be too sure of himself when it came to a woman’s attentions. A little dose of humility was a welcome quality in a man.

Pen decided to do something about that humility. ‘You will go first?’ she teased. ‘What happened to ladies first?’ She lifted the jug to her lips and took a swallow before passing it back, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. How many governesses would cringe if they could see her now? ‘I will start, thank you.’ She cleared her throat in mock authority. ‘Question one: Why did you notice me at the fair?’

Chapter Five

Matthew laughed at her audacity, a low rumbling sound that shot through her with a bolt of warmth, like his lips on her knuckles. ‘You’re just going to start with the hard stuff, aren’t you, Em? No easing into it with the usual “what’s your favourite colour?” or “what do you like to eat”?’

‘No, absolutely not.’ Pen shrugged, boldly unapologetic. Between the ale and the fire, she was losing her nervousness. Surely, if he’d wanted something from her, he would have taken it last night and forgone the trouble of a second meeting. ‘Answer the question, Matthew. You’re stalling.’

‘All right.’ His smile melted her and her boldness was in jeopardy. She’d poked the sleeping bear and now he was going to make her pay. His eyes lingered on her, amber pools, rich and deep, inviting her to drown in him, with him, for him. ‘I liked how you moved. Even beneath that cloak there was grace and I liked how you looked at the goods. You had a reverent appreciation for them. I thought to myself, “There’s a woman who knows how to enjoy herself, a woman who takes nothing for granted.”’ His words were as bold as his gaze, searing her with a heat that had nothing to do with the fire and everything to do with the man stretched out beside her. Good lord, she must be as red as one of Wadesbridge’s roses.

He smiled, proof enough that she was flushed. ‘You asked, Em. Now, it’s my turn.’ His grin widened and she held her breath. She’d been too daring with her question. He would make her pay. She’d have to be on her guard, careful not to give anything away that might alert him to who she was, or what she was. ‘What was your favourite part of the evening?’

She let out her breath with a relieved sigh. There was nothing to fear there. She could answer simply and honestly. ‘Watching the glass-blower. My turn. What is—?’

‘No, wait. That’s not fair,’ Matthew broke in with laughing chagrin. ‘You have to say more than that. I gave you details.’

‘That was your choice. The rule was to tell the truth, not to offer details—that was entirely optional.’ It was an option she could have exercised as well. She could have said she’d liked his hand at her waist as they’d watched the demonstration, that she’d liked feeling the heat and power of his body behind her, that it had made her feel safe despite not knowing him. But to say those things exposed her too thoroughly. Wasn’t she exposed enough as it was? Perhaps he’d only said those things to trick her into reciprocating.

His amber eyes narrowed in speculation as he gave the issue feigned consideration of the most serious sort. ‘Well, perhaps I must concede the point. This time.’ The glint in his eyes said she wouldn’t win that argument twice. He was on to her. She’d have to tread cautiously.

‘In return, I’ll take it easy on you, for now. I’ll ask you something basic. What’s your favourite colour?’

‘Maybe I won’t take it easy on you, Em, with my answer.’ His reply was low, private, just for her. She loved the way it caressed her name. Em. But that wasn’t really her name any more than Matthew was his. She couldn’t lose sight of that. They might be telling each other bold things beside the fire, but they were still strangers. ‘My favourite colour is sea green, the colour of the ocean on a sunny day, the colour of your eyes when they caught the glass-blower’s flame, the colour of your eyes right now as you ponder whether or not my answer is flattery or truth.’ He was definitely not taking it easy on her. Each answer he gave was a verbal seduction that went far beyond flirtatious banter. A lady shouldn’t allow a man to talk like that. But she wasn’t a lady, not here. Lady Penrose Prideaux was three miles away in the castle, lying down with a lavender cloth. Only Em was here and Em wasn’t a lady. Em was just… Em. Em could allow the indiscretion, although she ought to protest just a bit to keep him honest.

‘You shouldn’t say such things.’ She reached for the ale jug and took another swallow. She might start to believe them, that she was beautiful, enticing, that she could intrigue a man such as Matthew, a man who could have any woman he wanted on charm alone. The words would be easy to believe. She had nothing to compare them with.

‘Why shouldn’t I if they’re true? You’re a beautiful woman.’ His hand reached out to stroke her cheek and she felt the game spiral out of her control, the conversation becoming one intimacy upon another: the fire, the floor picnic, the long stretch of his body alongside the hearth, the truth game. Even the rain outside had contributed to the cosy familiarity of their grey-skied afternoon.

‘My question. If you could only travel to one other place in the world, where would you go, Em?’

She finished her pasty, thinking hard. When she had her answer she licked her fingers. No doubt somewhere in England another governess fainted. ‘Venice.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s two questions, sir,’ she scolded, but there was no heat in it. ‘I am willing to allow you this one transgression.’ In truth, she might allow him more than one. Somehow during their questions, they’d moved closer together, their voices choosing to be low and private although nothing required it of them, their questions and answers becoming serious. ‘I choose Venice because that is where the world still meets, where east comes together with west. I can find the silks of the Orient there, the spices of the Middle East, and the magic of Venice itself, a whole city built on a lagoon, with canals instead of roads. The best of the world is there.’

‘Venice is past her zenith, an ageing queen,’ Cassian probed. ‘Perhaps you would be disappointed? It stinks in the summer.’

She shook her hair forward over one shoulder and began to comb through it with her fingers. ‘No, Venice is like me. I, too, am an ageing queen. Girls younger than me are married, have children, while I am tucked away at home, waiting and waiting and nothing comes.’

‘Waiting for what? What do you think will come?’ His question was a whisper barely audible above the crack of the fire.

‘For adventure, for life to start again or perhaps for the first time. My father is a man full of fear. He fears for me, he wants to keep me safe, but it has turned my home into a prison.’ How freeing it was to talk to him, to tell him things she’d shared with no one, not even Phin, out of fear of making her father look bad to others. Perhaps sometimes it was easier to trust a stranger with one’s secrets. Matthew didn’t know Lady Penrose Prideaux, didn’t know the father of whom she spoke, or the legacy of fear she referred to.

Matthew gave her a lazy smile. ‘You didn’t tell me the whole truth earlier, Em.’

‘I told you I came here today to conquer fear, so that I would not be ruled by it,’ she protested.

‘Like your father? Yes. But you didn’t tell me about the adventure part.’ His eyes were on her mouth again. ‘Am I your adventure? Remember, you must answer truthfully.’

She licked her lips, unsure how to answer. To say yes might be to objectify him. He might feel used. To say no would be a lie. ‘I’ve never met anyone like you who has seen the world I want to see. You are my adventure in the very best of ways.’

‘And you are mine.’ He reached for her, drawing her down alongside of him, their bodies stretched out before the fire. ‘In the very best of ways,’ he echoed.

Her breath caught at the nearness of him, the sheer size of him. Matthew was a big man, built like a hero; broad through the shoulders, strong in the chest. Achilles or Odysseus, she thought, straight from the stanzas of the Iliad. This was not proper, to lie with a man before the fire, to see his every thought flicker in his eyes, to let him rest his hand at her hip, his thumb massaging low on her abdomen. It was not proper to resent the layers of clothing that kept them separated. But this had never been about being proper. If it had been, she’d never have come at all.

‘Have you ever been kissed, Em?’ His eyes were on her, intent on her answer. ‘Remember, only the truth.’ At his words, the game and its remaining questions were forgotten entirely. There was a new game to play.

Her answer was a mere whisper. ‘No.’ Who would dare to kiss Lady Penrose Prideaux, cloistered daughter of the Earl of Redruth? But here in this cottage, Em was a woman who belonged to no one but herself, who ate meat pasties with handsome men at fairs, who admired Venetian glass-blowers and met with strange men in abandoned cottages to play games of revelation.

‘Would you like to be?’ came the question, the dare. It would be easy to close the remaining distance, to part her lips, to issue the invitation he was asking for without a word. But he’d want the words. He would want to hear her consent. ‘Would you, Em?’

She brought her hand up to stroke the stubble of his cheek, her own voice pitched low and throaty. ‘You are terrible with rules. It’s my turn to ask the question.’

His eyes darkened, guessing her game. ‘Then, ask, Em.’

‘Will you kiss me?’

A smile shimmered across his face. ‘Absolutely. It would be my privilege.’ A tilt of her head, a parting of her lips, and his mouth was there on hers, inviting her to join him in tasting one another. She gave him her mouth, all of it, savouring the remnants of sweet ale on his lips, the tease of his tongue as he explored her depths, the press of his hand cradling her jaw, the deepening of the kiss a reminder of their afternoon, an afternoon filled with simple pleasures, meat pies and conversations, and she didn’t want it to end. A purr of desire purled up from her throat as she arched into him, her body wanting more of his touch, of him. She’d never been so warm, so hungry for another’s touch. He would burn her and she would flame for him gladly.

She did flame for him, for a while, one kiss leading to another kiss and another as their mouths and hands explored one another. She could have lain there all afternoon, revelling in those kisses, those touches. She would have burned for him if he’d asked, but he did not. Instead, he separated from her, breaking the kisses, the touches, his own eyes dark.

A wave of desperation welled in her. She did not want the kiss to end. If she did not take her chance now, when? His hand brushed her cheek, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘It grows late. We don’t need to rush. We have tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that. We have as long as we need,’ Matthew whispered his promise and helped her up from the floor, but his gaze said he was as reluctant as she to end the afternoon.

He gathered up her dry cloak and draped it over her shoulders, his hands lingering in his familiar gesture. ‘Will you allow me to give you a ride home? I have my horse out back.’

She turned beneath his touch, called to action with sudden urgency at the risk of exposure. As tempting as it was, it was the one thing she could not allow. ‘No. Please, Matthew, I must insist on this discretion. You cannot follow me home, not even the briefest of distances.’ If anyone recognised her with him, word would reach her father before she even made it home and there would never be another afternoon like this. ‘Please, kiss me goodbye here.’ And maybe by the time she was home she’d have her wits back.

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