Rakes Who Make Husbands Jealous

Only London’s best lovers need apply!

The League of Discreet Gentlemen has only one priority—providing the women of London with unimaginable pleasure. The secrecy demanded is expensive, but satisfaction is definitely guaranteed!

The League pride themselves on knowing everything about desire. But they’re about to discover that whilst seduction is easy falling in love can be very hard indeed…!

Don’t miss this incredible new quartet by dazzling Mills & Boon® Historical Romance author

Bronwyn Scott!

SECRETS OF A GENTLEMAN ESCORT

(Mills & Boon Historical Romance)

AN OFFICER BUT NO GENTLEMAN

(Mills & Boon Historical Undone!)

A MOST INDECENT GENTLEMAN

(Mills & Boon Historical Undone!)

LONDON’S MOST WANTED RAKE

(Mills & Boon Historical Romance)

Author Note

Here it is—the finale to my Rakes Who Make Husbands Jealous mini-series! I hope you’ve enjoyed it. I know I have. The series explores the different aspects of this premise: sex is easy, love is hard. In Nick’s story—SECRETS OF A GENTLEMAN ESCORT—we met (or, if you’re just joining us, you will meet) a man who defines himself by his bedroom abilities. It’s quite transformational for him to move beyond that definition of himself with his heroine, Annorah.

Even if we’re not professional escorts, how many of us end up defining ourselves by our jobs or titles? Or define our success in material gains and accomplishments?

In Jocelyn and Grahame’s Undone! short stories we met two men who are all about the thrill of the game—until they discover love offers something better: the thrill of for ever. Don’t miss their exciting tales.

That leaves Channing Deveril, the mastermind behind the agency. The series wouldn’t be complete without the leader of the League of Discreet Gentlemen meeting his match in Alina Marliss, the Comtesse de Charentes. She too is a ’gamesman’ when it comes to bedroom politics—the perfect opponent for Channing. The game is good fun until they realise being opponents isn’t enough—but perhaps their game has gone too far for it to be any different. Love will require exposing their secrets, revealing their pasts, and trusting each other with the hard truths behind their game.

Does Alina’s name sound familiar? If so, you probably remember seeing it in the Christmas anthology, A SPRINKLING OF CHRISTMAS MAGIC. She’s the guest Channing brought to the holiday house party. Now you know what happens after the party!

Enjoy the last of these gentleman escorts!

Check out my blog for updates and giveaways at www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com

London’s

Most Wanted

Rake

Bronwyn Scott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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DEDICATION

For my Brony, who firmly believes in the lesson of ‘The Quackling’ (a French nursery tale): you can never have too many friends.

BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is 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 on Bronwyn’s website,

www.bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog,

www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com—she loves to

hear from readers.

Previous novels from Bronwyn Scott: PICKPOCKET COUNTESS NOTORIOUS RAKE, INNOCENT LADY THE VISCOUNT CLAIMS HIS BRIDE THE EARL’S FORBIDDEN WARD UNTAMED ROGUE, SCANDALOUS MISTRESS A THOROUGHLY COMPROMISED LADY SECRET LIFE OF A SCANDALOUS DEBUTANTE UNBEFITTING A LADY† HOW TO DISGRACE A LADY* HOW TO RUIN A REPUTATION* HOW TO SIN SUCCESSFULLY* A LADY RISKS ALL** A LADY DARES** SECRETS OF A GENTLEMAN ESCORT‡

And in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone! eBooks: LIBERTINE LORD, PICKPOCKET MISS PLEASURED BY THE ENGLISH SPY WICKED EARL, WANTON WIDOW ARABIAN NIGHTS WITH A RAKE AN ILLICIT INDISCRETION HOW TO LIVE INDECENTLY* A LADY SEDUCES** AN OFFICER BUT NO GENTLEMAN‡ A MOST INDECENT GENTLEMAN‡

† Castonbury Park Regency mini-series *Rakes Beyond Redemption **Ladies of Impropriety ‡Rakes Who Make Husbands Jealous

and as a Mills & Boon® special release: PRINCE CHARMING IN DISGUISE (part of Royal Weddings Through the Ages)

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

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

Chapter One

The sex was killing him! Channing Deveril shifted carefully, so as not to wake the brunette asleep against his shoulder, and sighed. There, that was better. He hadn’t slept in his own bed for the last seven nights and he was sorely missing the luxury of a big bed all to himself where his long limbs could spread out at will.

It was a sentiment that would surprise a certain population in London who believed Channing Deveril was the luckiest man alive. While they strutted and postured their way through boring musicales and tedious outings to the park, and dedicated their nights to dancing at Almack’s without the benefit of strong drink, all in the effort of competing for the few true prizes on the marriage mart, Channing had women competing for him. Not just any women, but the best sort of women, the sort one could bed and not have to marry—the rich ones looking for exciting bed sport. And if rumour was to be believed, they even paid him for his presence in their beds. It was something else that a certain population’s pride would never admit to, but who couldn’t do with a little extra blunt and who wouldn’t mind earning it that way? In their opinion, Channing Deveril was living the dream; all the sex and money he could manage.

Right now he wasn’t managing the dream very well. That certain population would also be surprised to note that his first thought upon waking, other than the sex was wearing him out, was a calculation of the odds: what were his chances of getting out of Lady Bixley’s lavender-scented sheets and to the door before she woke up? Marianne Bixley had been a tigress. Nothing had slowed her down—not the ropes, not the blindfold, not even the extra shot of brandy.

This was closely followed by the third thought: he just wanted to go home. The ‘luckiest man in London’ was tired, his mouth tasted like stale liquor and he wanted a few hours’ sleep in his own bed before it began all over again. Channing blew out a breath and tried an experimental move. Marianne Bixley murmured, but didn’t move. His arm was free. Now all he had to do was wait a few moments and roll.

How was he going to last the Season if he was this tired already? The Season hadn’t even started. These last two weeks had merely been the preamble. The Easter break was coming and then the Season would begin in earnest. Already, the agency, his very popular League of Discreet Gentlemen, was struggling to keep up with demand.

The League of Discreet Gentlemen had become such a success he was having difficulty scheduling his men to fill the requested appointments while still keeping the League discreet, as its name suggested. The latter had been a problem ever since the previous year when Nicholas D’Arcy, one of his top men, had almost been caught tupping a lord’s wife in the lord’s town house, an episode that had done much for the League’s popular notoriety and little for preserving the secrecy Channing preferred.

Providing a woman’s pleasure was not a topic for public purvey in his opinion and he rather liked the idea that most of London’s ton hadn’t originally been sure if the existence of the League was fact or fiction. These days, it was becoming harder to preserve the mystique of the unknown. Everything was becoming harder.

But that wasn’t why he’d stepped in to take on a few additional assignments. Usually, most of his days were spent administering the programme and that was work enough. He could rationalise the decision to step back into the role of full-time escort as the business’s booming need, but he knew his motives were more selfish than that. Lady Marianne Bixley was supposed to be the cure for what ailed him. So far, he didn’t think it was working.

Beside him, Lady Marianne gave a soft moan. It was working for her, however. He’d done his job well last night. He’d be doing it again, too, if he didn’t extricate himself from her sheets quickly. Just the thought that he wanted to get out of a beautiful woman’s warm bed was testament to the cure’s failure. Not even the persuasion of a morning erection and the warm comfort of Lady Bixley’s lush curves could compel him to stay.

Channing lifted the sheets and rolled out of bed. He held his breath as Lady Marianne stirred briefly, then settled. He began to dress, quickly, quietly. Since when had sex not cured everything for him? From boredom to loneliness to physical satisfaction, sex had been his go-to antidote since he’d turned sixteen, his constant companion. Now, it was letting him down most thoroughly. The past year and a half had been peppered with disappointment in that regard.

Channing reached for his boots. He was almost free! He would put them on in the hall to avoid making additional noise. It wasn’t that he couldn’t perform. Lady Marianne was proof enough that he could please even the most demanding of sensual appetites. He gathered up the remaining package of French letters on the nightstand and stuffed them into his coat pocket. Leaving them behind might give her the idea he was hoping for a repeat engagement. He made for the door with stealthy footsteps.

He was almost out when her voice, sultry with sleep, caught him, his hand on the knob. ‘Leaving so soon? Come back to bed.’

Channing turned, pasting a regretful smile on his face. ‘I wish I could. Unfortunately, I have an appointment I need to prepare for.’ It was true. Amery DeHart, one of his up-and-coming new escorts, had requested a meeting, but that wasn’t until later this morning. He could see from the pouting frown on Lady Marianne’s lips she thought it was another woman.

‘I’m sure I’m more exciting,’ she purred, letting the sheet drop a bit to reveal the swell of full breasts. Her eyes lowered to his trousers where his morning glory still flowered heavily against the fabric. ‘Your cock certainly thinks so.’

‘I’m sure you are, but business is business.’ Channing made her a small bow and took the chance to exit while she unravelled his comment. She was a smart woman, she would understand the reference and, when she did, she would be none too pleased to be categorised as an appointment. Appointments with the likes of Amery DeHart were business, but appointments with the likes of Lady Marianne were business, too, even if they were conducted at night. The sun had come up and it was time to move on with his day.

* * *

Channing was finding it hard to move on three hours later even after a bath and a change of clothes. He’d had to forgo the nap and it had left him struggling to focus. Channing pushed a hand through his hair, trying hard to concentrate on whatever it was Amery DeHart was saying. His thoughts kept returning to the question that had taunted him this morning: when had sex failed to meet his needs? Maybe his dissatisfaction with the act was a sign he should retire, close up shop altogether or hand the business over to someone else who had an appetite for it the way he had when he’d started the whole affair. Either way, perhaps it was time for him to get out.

‘I think it’s time for me to get out.’

Channing didn’t hear the rest. Amery’s words roughly jerked Channing’s attention front and centre. For a moment he worried he’d spoken his own thoughts out loud. ‘I beg your pardon?’

Amery gave him a disapproving stare that suggested he knew Channing hadn’t been listening. ‘I said I think it’s time for me to get out to the country and see the family,’ he repeated patiently.

‘You’re not thinking of quitting, are you?’ The last time Channing had sent an escort to the country, it had been Nick D’Arcy and the dratted man had got himself married. Channing wasn’t sure what he’d do without Amery. He’d come to rely on the younger man quite regularly in the past year with the departure of his three veteran rakes. Amery had been good with training the new gentlemen Channing had hired as replacements and the ladies liked him.

‘Not permanently,’ Amery clarified. ‘I’ve had a letter from home. I’ll be gone three weeks to a month. My sister is getting married and there’s some other family business to see to.’ Channing knew Amery liked his job, but he loved his family. If Amery was going home for a wedding, he’d be bringing his sister the finest wedding dress to be had in London. Channing handled all the finances and was aware just how much money Amery sent home to his mother.

Amery sighed apologetically and there was no doubting the sentiment was genuine. ‘I don’t like the idea of handing off an assignment halfway through, but my client and I were slated to attend a house party out of town for the Easter break.’

Channing flicked his gaze to the calendar on his desk. The Easter break, the last dash to the country before the Season began in earnest, was just three days away.

‘There’s no way I can make it,’ Amery was saying. ‘It would hardly be fair to desert her halfway through.’ Amery winked. ‘In all honesty, I think she’d do better with you anyway. She’s rather mature.’

‘I’m only thirty, Amery, hardly in my dotage.’ Channing tried not to feel offended by the comment. Just because he was contemplating retirement and had spent the morning fleeing a lusty woman’s bed did not mean he was old, only that he might be in the market for a new adventure.

‘It’s not age, it’s the maturity of her thinking, her mannerisms. It’s hard to explain.’ Amery groped for words. Interesting. Amery was never at a loss for what to say. Then he came out with it. ‘Oh, hell, Channing, she’s beyond me,’ Amery admitted baldly. ‘She’s too sophisticated. She’s got the Continent written all over her.’

‘Who were you assigned?’ Channing did a mental sort through the recent placements, but came up blank. Amery was slated to take the Misses Bakers to the opera on Wednesday since their brother couldn’t come up to town just now; he was escorting a diplomat’s wife to a fête at the Belgian embassy on Thursday. Multiple assignments at once were one way of keeping everyone guessing about the fact or fiction of the League, but none of the women on Amery’s roster fit his description.

‘You wouldn’t know her. She’s one of the clients I took on while you were gone for your nephew’s birth. Her name is Elizabeth Morgan.’

Ah, that explained it. He’d left Amery in charge while he’d gone home for a few weeks in February to see the new family addition.

‘I don’t think any of the new fellows will do,’ Amery went on, making his case. ‘Perhaps Nick or Jocelyn could have done it if they were around, but...’ Amery gave a shrug as his words dropped off to imply the impossibility. Nick and Jocelyn were happily married.

‘Amery, do you ever feel as if you’re the only bachelor left in London?’ Channing gave a chuckle, but it wasn’t funny, not really. Dear lord, weddings were thick on the ground these past twelve months. Nick and Jocelyn had married, as had Grahame, all three of them his veteran escorts. Both of his sisters had married last August in a double ceremony at his family’s estate.

And, of course, his older brother, Finn, had married their childhood friend, Catherine Emerson, even before that and had wasted no time in begetting an heir, a squalling, red little thing with a shock of black hair who had melted his rather cynical heart on sight and had done much in resolving some of the lingering tension between he and Finn after his last visit home.

Amery merely smiled. ‘I’m a bachelor and proud of it. Marriage is fine for some, but men like you and I need the spice, the thrill of a single life.’

Channing knew the thrill Amery spoke of: the thrill of sex as a tool for pleasure or power. The games one could play were limitless. He’d learned years ago those games served him far better than anything more emotional, more meaningful. Sex in that particular arena left one too vulnerable. Although that specific game had been heady, he’d not cared for the aftermath of that experience or the woman who had served it to him. Since then, he’d limited himself to the business of pleasure and women like Marianne Bixley.

Amery leaned forward. ‘Will you do it, Channing? I would be for ever grateful.’

There was nothing for it. There was no one else to send and he did owe Amery for filling in for him in February. It was only fair. Channing nodded. ‘I’ll do it. Now, go on and pack.’

Channing leaned back in his chair, pushing his hand through his hair again, this time in restlessness. He hadn’t intended to be out of town. He’d hoped to use the Easter lull as a chance to catch up on paperwork, go over the League’s accounts and maybe work with some of the new escorts before the Season. But perhaps a house party was what he needed to shake himself out of these megrims. He did admit, even in his current state of exhaustion, a twinge of curiosity over meeting a woman who’d managed to rout Amery DeHart.

He hoped the party had a decent hostess. He should have asked Amery where it was being held. The right activities were the key to any house party’s success. If not, given his current state of mind, this was going to be the house party from hell, no matter how ‘Continental’ Elizabeth Morgan was.

Chapter Two

This was going to be the house party from hell. Lady Lionel’s Easter getaway was not where the sophisticated and worldly Comtesse de Charentes would have chosen to be of her own accord. The venue promised to be bland and boring, the mediocre tone of the guests currently assembled already attesting to her hypothesis. But the comtesse had a mission and it had to be accomplished here. She was looking for men, two men to be precise.

The comtesse surveyed Lady Lionel’s drawing room with a cool sweep of her eyes, her aloof exterior giving away none of the hot temper that simmered beneath the surface.

Her eyes landed briefly on her quarry: Roland Seymour. Her pulse quickened, her temper rising at the sight of him. The bastard stood twenty feet away and she could do nothing, yet. But when the time came, she was going to rip his balls off. Seymour had stolen money most insidiously from her family and then attempted to compromise her sister into marriage in order for the family to make their money back. But Seymour had made a tactical mistake there. No one touched her sister. One bad marriage in the family was enough. That was where ball-ripping came in. For that, she needed the second man, who was most notable by his absence.

Another sweep of the room confirmed Amery DeHart wasn’t there. She certainly hoped he’d arrive soon. At the least he’d liven things up, at the best she could start to put her plan into motion. Without him, she could not effect the introduction to Seymour she needed.

Aside from what was going to be a tardy arrival, she liked the young escort with his manners and wit. Her plans for his balls were somewhat gentler than what she’d planned for Seymour, although she couldn’t imagine actually bedding DeHart with any large degree of interest. In her experience, young men in bed usually lacked a certain finesse. She appreciated something a bit more refined when it came to the art of amour. Not that she was in the market for an affaire. There was no time for such a dalliance. She was, however, in the market for revenge and that made DeHart’s easy-going mannerisms useful.

She was counting on him to befriend Seymour and then introduce her. His introduction would make it easier for her to insinuate herself into Seymour’s circles without raising suspicions. Once in, she would take things from there.

A stir at the doorway drew the comtesse’s eye. A surge of energy flowed from the hall. Amery must be here at last. It was the kind of excitement his presence could generate. She smiled, relieved. She hated to be kept waiting, it made her anxious. But her smile froze when a different man stepped through the doorway: Channing Deveril. The most arrogant Englishman to walk the earth. Out of all the house parties in England, he’d chosen this one. Well, that made three sets of balls she’d have to deal with.

She wanted to be wrong, but even at a distance there was no mistaking those blond good looks, the tall, slender grace of his movements, the impeccable fashion with which he wore his clothes. Today it was a coat of blue superfine, the buff trousers tightly fitted to show the perfection of his physique and perfectly polished high boots. There was a sensuality to everything he did. Even the simple gesture of greeting their hostess took on an intimate cast as she watched him bow over Lady Lionel’s hand. She had not seen him in over a year, not since they’d parted badly at a Christmas house party she’d hired him to escort her to, and it was like seeing him all over again for the first time, so striking was his appearance. A woman could look at him all day and never tire of the view. But it would not be in her best interest.

The comtesse knew how dangerous all that handsome sensuality was. Beneath the good looks and laughing blue eyes lay a master of bedroom politics. She’d experienced a tangle in those sheets on two occasions. The first time had been in Paris, a brief but explosive affair during her marriage that had not been carnally consummated, but had not been less explosive for the lack of it. It had ended poorly and that had admittedly been her fault for even starting it. She’d been young, desperate, vulnerable. But the second time—oh, the second time she held him fully accountable.

It had been here in England a few years later. She had hired him as an escort who could help her reintegrate into decent society after so many years abroad. It was to have been business only between two mature adults who knew the rules. She had not understood how deeply he held Paris against her, or how compelling he could be, how he could make her believe it wasn’t only business for him. He’d made her believe what he felt for her wasn’t only a job, but genuine emotion, and then he’d dropped the pretence most cruelly. In doing so, he’d had his revenge. She had yet to forgive him. No one made a fool out of the Comtesse de Charentes. Roland Seymour was about to become one example of that and Channing Deveril could be the second if he chose to engage.

She could make it easy on them both and await Amery in the gardens just outside. But the thought occurred too late. Before she could quietly slip outside, Channing spied her and she was caught in the web of his blue gaze.

He inclined his head in her direction in sardonic acknowledgement and query, his eyes registering quickly veiled surprise over her presence. What was she doing here? She returned his nod with the cool, regal smile she’d cultivated for the men of Paris, the smile that invited men to look, but reminded them they touched at their own peril.

Well, at least she could take consolation in the fact that Channing’s presence meant Amery was close behind. It stood to reason that, as friends, Amery and Channing would have shared a coach and come together. It was not beyond the scope of possibility that Channing had been hired by another lady at the party. But a glance beyond Channing into the hall revealed nothing. Perhaps Amery was still out at the coach, making arrangements for his trunks.

A few minutes more passed and Amery had still not appeared, although Channing continued to linger by the door, talking with the hostess. Something was wrong. Lady Lionel’s fair brows had knitted together in consternation, just before Channing took his leave and began to cross the room towards her.

Within moments he stood before her, bowing over her hand much as he’d bowed over Lady Lionel’s. ‘The Comtesse de Charentes, enchanté, although I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.’ The blue eyes holding hers were full of mischief, secretly laughing. Channing was always laughing with his eyes, with his mouth. It had, unfortunately, been a rather endearing quality in the past.

‘I have a bit of a dilemma and I thought perhaps you could help? I am looking for a guest, only Lady Lionel is not familiar with her, which I find extremely odd. After all, it’s her party and her guest list.’

‘And you thought you’d ask me,’ she finished with cold politeness.

‘Well, yes, since you seem to know these sorts of things.’

She understood the mischief in his eyes now. It was true. She did know everyone. She’d made it a point to know as many people as possible since her return from the Continent over a year ago. She’d been gone too long and acquaintances had lapsed. She’d done her best to restore those lines of friendship, although not everyone had welcomed her overtures. But it was more than that. ‘These sorts of things’ implied Channing had his suspicions about the identity of Elizabeth Morgan. His mind was fast like that.

‘I will be glad to assist if I can.’ Alina smiled politely, but inwardly her concern was growing. Where was Amery? Her gambit was off to a shaky start. ‘I do need to let you know, however, that I am waiting for someone. He should arrive momentarily.’ It was a weak ploy at best. If Channing had come with Amery, he’d already know that.

Wherever Amery was, Alina wished he’d hurry up. Even so, it was too late to avoid explanations. She’d given Amery a false name when she’d applied for the League’s assistance this second time, wanting to avoid Channing. ‘Who are you looking for?’ she asked Channing. The faster she could help him, the sooner he’d leave her alone.

‘I’m looking for a Mrs Elizabeth Morgan. Perhaps you know her? Amery DeHart was to meet her.’

She’d been right to worry, not that she’d let Channing see it. Her stomach churned as she realised the implications of Channing’s presence. If Channing was looking for Elizabeth Morgan, it meant Amery wasn’t coming. She had two choices: either brazen it out and confess or deny knowledge of the name and send Channing home, which would leave her on her own with Seymour, unless the perverse man decided to stay and make the house party miserable for her anyway, something he just might do given their track record.

She opted for the former, her chin going up a notch in defiance. ‘Amery DeHart was supposed to be meeting me. I am Elizabeth Morgan.’

Channing’s face hardened. She could see that he’d already grasped the basic tenets of the situation. The quick acuity of his mind made him a dangerous opponent, a reminder that everything she’d counted on would have to be rethought. Amery would have done her bidding with no questions asked. But Channing would ask. He’d want to know why she was using one man to meet another. He would demand explication and perhaps much else—after all, he was a man of extraordinary passions. You are not in the market for the ‘much else,’ she told herself sternly. Things had a habit of going badly when she and Channing were together.

His mouth formed one word. ‘Liar.’

She took the verbal blow with aplomb. ‘Fabulous. I see you’ve come to ruin another house party.

Ah, so she hadn’t forgiven him for the débâcle at Christmas—not last Christmas, but the Christmas before that. ‘Angry and beautiful, just as I remember you,’ Channing said calmly, knowing it irritated her to no end that he wouldn’t rise to the bait of her temper.

Her pale blue eyes flashed with an icy fire. Beautiful was something of understatement when it came to describing Alina Marliss, Comtesse de Charentes, an Englishwoman turned French countess, and now a returned Englishwoman. She was like a living diamond with her platinum hair and flawless skin. She sparkled from every facet. Not all of those facets were physical. Her personality sparkled as well. She could be positively charming when she chose. She was not choosing to be so now when she was on the defensive. Channing decided to push his offence.

‘You lied. You gave Amery a false name. Why don’t we stroll in the garden and you can tell me all about it? I find it quite interesting you needed to give an alias when you already have so many other names to choose from. Now we can apparently add Elizabeth Morgan along with Miss Alina Marliss and the Comtesse de Charentes.’

‘Don’t call me that,’ she hissed, falling in step beside him, but she did not, he noted, take his arm. The minx was determined to declare her independence at every turn.

‘I thought a widow got to keep the title as a matter of honour. Was I misinformed?’ Channing answered in low tones. He’d known beforehand how much she despised the title. She’d tried to shun it, but society had forced her to keep it at every turn.

‘You were not misinformed. However, if it were up to me, I would prefer not to wear his brand.’ Her tone left no doubt about the unpleasant depths of that marriage. Of course she would detest it, would see it as a man’s attempt to label her from beyond the grave. Alina Marliss belonged to no one. It was what made her such an intriguing and delicious challenge. But despite her efforts to simply be Lady Marliss, society would not let her forget she’d once had access to a higher title, even if it was French.

Out of doors, the gardens were full of sunshine and the quiet conversations of others who strolled there. Channing guided them to a less-populated walkway and changed his tack. ‘Perhaps you could enlighten me about your arrangement with Mr DeHart?’ Part of him hoped that arrangement might be more superficial. He didn’t want to know if Amery was sleeping with her. It shouldn’t matter. This was just a job and objectivity was as important in this line of work as discretion.

‘Why isn’t he coming?’ she answered with a question of her own.

‘He has a family wedding to attend. His sister is getting married. Now, about that arrangement?’ Whatever her answer, they were both adults. They could muddle through a week together at a house party. They’d be surrounded by others. There would hardly be any time at all to be alone. Not all escort jobs included sleeping with the client. Amery certainly wasn’t sleeping with the Misses Bakers when he took them to the opera.

She gave him a coy smile as if she’d read his mind. ‘Do I detect a hint of jealousy beneath your attempt at bland enquiry?’

‘You detect a hint of self-protection,’ Channing replied. ‘I want to know what I’m up against. When we were last together, I ended up with a vase thrown at my head.’

She snorted at this and dismissed it with a wave of her hand. ‘You deserved it. You made me look like a fool.’

‘I’m sorry about Christmas. I can only apologise so much,’ Channing said stiffly. She was not without grounds to complain. The unfortunate incident had happened eighteen months ago. It was to have been her first foray into decent English society and she’d hired him at considerable expense to ease her return into that society, which he had. From an objective standpoint, he’d discharged his duty admirably. However, there had been what one might call ‘interpersonal complications’. But how had this turned into an interrogation of him when he’d meant it to be an interrogation of her? ‘I’m here now and I would like to fulfil whatever contractual obligations you had with DeHart.’

‘Really?’ She drew out the word into a provocative drawl as she gave the idea consideration, tapping one long, perfectly manicured finger against her chin. Channing felt another primal stab of possessiveness as the thought recurred. Was she sleeping with Amery? How did he feel about taking Amery’s place in her bed or, for that matter, how did he feel about Amery having taken his place? The League never shared clients in that regard.

She gave a throaty laugh. ‘DeHart and I have a purely social arrangement. He introduces me to people I want to meet and I’ve discovered that regularly having the same gentleman by my side has defused the amount of unwanted attention someone in my situation might attract.’

By ‘situation’ she meant widowed and wealthy and that made her available to all manner of advances. It did not help that her husband had been a French count and everyone knew life on the Continent was far looser, morally, than it was in England. There were even some who felt a good English lady was better off coming home than remaining among such a debauched set. That was a story Channing had spun.

Channing had spent a good deal of his time that Christmas setting the script into play for her and in the intervening months the story had hatched into plausibility, even if their relationship had hatched into disaster.

‘What is it that you need from me? An introduction or a shield?’ Thanks to his efforts, Miss Alina Marliss had been accepted back into society. But they both knew that acceptance was tentative. One false move on her part and society would not hesitate to expel her.

‘Both.’ Alina flicked open the fan she carried about her wrist, a pretty white-lace affair with painted pink flowers, the kind of accessory a decent Englishwoman would carry and a testament to how carefully she crafted this facet of her persona. ‘I need to meet Mr Roland Seymour.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know him.’ He didn’t sound like someone Amery would know either. Mere misters were not their speciality.

‘But you will know him. That’s the point of house parties, isn’t it? To mingle and hopefully expand one’s social network in useful ways?’ Alina waved the fan back and forth in a slow languid gesture. The action called subtle attention to the expanse of bosom on display in a deceptively demure afternoon dress of soft pink muslin.

Channing gave a wry grin and tried to keep his eyes above her neck, but it was deuce difficult and he knew she knew it. ‘You want me to befriend him and then insinuate you into his crowd,’ Channing divined.

‘Essentially. Play a little billiards.’ She smiled at him over the top of her fan. ‘Shoot a few things, preferably not each other, whatever it is gentlemen do.’ She was trying awfully hard to distract him; smiles, fans and bosoms. It made him suspicious, especially coming from a woman who’d been icily distant a few minutes ago.

‘Why?’ Even knowing she was playing with him, he couldn’t help but flirt back. Channing leaned closer, breathing in the light rose fragrance of her soap. She’d even gone so far as to smell like an Englishwoman.

‘I wish to pursue some business with Mr Seymour.’

Channing raised an eyebrow at this. ‘Are you going to tell me what sort of business?’

‘No.’ She laughed and took a step backwards. ‘Now, you have work to do and I have ladies to ingratiate myself with. If you’ll excuse me?’

It was a clear dismissal and he let her go. Amery had not been wrong when he said the Continent was stamped all over her. She’d cut her teeth in the salons of Paris where Channing had first met her, the extraordinary Comtesse de Charentes. She’d been a married woman then, but that had not stopped the thrill of flirting with her. That same thrill had been present today even among all of his misgivings. She could get to him in ways the Marianne Bixleys of the world couldn’t. He wished all the lush perfection of her didn’t affect him so thoroughly, but it did and that didn’t begin to address the layer of intellect and wit.

She was every man’s fantasy. Perhaps that was her greatest trick. She could make herself all things to all men. He had yet to meet a man who had not fallen under her spell. It made Channing angry and intrigued all at once. Angry because he prided himself on being less susceptible than other men when it came to sexual politics, but in her case he seemed to be no different than the rest; intrigued because he did wonder who she was when no one was looking.

Was there anyone to whom she showed her true self? Once upon a time, he’d spent too many hours contemplating who that true self might be and how he might convince her to show that self to him. It was one of the innumerable fantasies he had about her.

He wasn’t alone. Channing watched the eyes of the other men in the garden track her progress to the French doors leading inside. Their thoughts were fairly transparent. Lord Barrett, married with three children, was thinking how he could arrange an affair back in London. Lord Durham was thinking of how he could get into her room at the house party, tonight even. Lord Parkhurst’s son, blond and indolent, was calculating whether or not his allowance could afford her if he set her up as his mistress, as if Alina would allow such a thing. Channing hoped he wasn’t as obvious as the rest of them. No wonder she felt she needed Amery’s presence as protection.

He eyed his own target across the garden, deep in discussion with Elliott Mansfield, whom he did know. He and Elliott were both members at White’s. It was time to presume upon that acquaintance. Channing couldn’t help but wonder: if he was there to protect Alina from unwanted advances, who was going to protect Roland Seymour from her? Business with Alina Marliss was guaranteed to be dangerous. He was living proof of it. The beginning of all his own woes could be traced back to her. Channing was starting to think it was the comtesse who had ruined him for other women.

Chapter Three

There was no competing with the Comtesse de Charentes when the company gathered in the drawing room for dinner that night. Alina made a grand entrance, alone, at five minutes after seven, exuding confident sensuality in a watered sage-green satin that commanded the attention of every male in the room and the jealousy of every female.

The choice was carefully calculated on her part. There was no doubt in Channing’s mind she’d done it on purpose. It was a bold strategy, one that said she was ashamed of nothing. She would meet head on the stories that had already started circulating in fits and starts after tea. They were the same stories that always accompanied her: her husband had died suddenly without reason. It made her both a tragic figure and a suspicious one. He’d heard the tale and had immediately gone to work steering it in a useful manner. He’d done so, he clarified for himself, not out of any lingering empathy for the comtesse, but because Amery would have done so if he’d been here. It was his job.

The rise of the old story was not unexpected. This was a crowd to whom the comtesse was only partially known. Some of the more highbrow guests like Durham and Barrett had encountered her in London, but the others present did not run in such high circles or stayed closer to home at their country estates. They were entirely reliant on gossip in forming their first impressions of this relative newcomer. Still, she had come to this house party where she knew what she’d be up against when surely there were easier invitations to accept, making this a most interesting and almost illogical choice. Now she stood among a room of strangers, garnering all their attention, both good and bad.

That, he could understand. Channing saw her stratagem at once. She had cast her net wide to catch all the fish in the hopes of catching the attention of the one that mattered most. In this instance, that fish was Roland Seymour. The gambit had worked, Channing noted. Seymour’s eyes followed her about the room just as every other man’s had.

For his part, Channing wasn’t much taken with Seymour and he was hard pressed to imagine what Alina saw in him. For that matter, he didn’t know what Alina saw in this house party. Lady Lionel’s circle wasn’t exactly the haute elevations Alina had so painstakingly cultivated.

The supper bell rang and Channing silently commended Alina’s choice of timing. Like all else about her, it was immaculate. She’d come down in enough time to command attention, but close enough to the bell so that she wouldn’t have to make small talk, or worse, risk a cold shoulder from jealous matrons.

Lady Lionel was fussing over getting everyone paired for the dinner parade, another sign that this was not the high set he or Alina were used to frequenting. In his circles, people knew their place in line implicitly and needn’t be herded. Channing rather resented the parade that separated natural couples and pitted social ranks against one another. When he was growing up, his mother had assured him it was to facilitate the meeting of new people. But Channing felt the only thing it facilitated was the prevention of people associating with others of an inappropriate station.

However, he did fight back a twitch of a smile as he watched Lady Lionel struggle with where to place Alina. As a countess, she was the highest-ranking woman in the room next to Lady Lionel, but she was a French countess who teetered on scandal, which was quite different than being an English countess of good standing. Lady Lionel erred on the side of caution and partnered Alina with her husband. Alina tossed Channing a smug victory glance over her shoulder.

He’d take that as a gauntlet being thrown down. So they were to play, were they? He wondered if she’d meant to play with Amery or if this was a signal that they were to resume their usual warfare. There was power in sex and they both knew it well. It didn’t matter that he was paired with a baronet’s daughter or that he was sitting a little further down on the opposite side of the table. He was adept at flirting at a distance. He smiled politely at something the baronet’s daughter said and offered her his arm. Supper was about to get interesting.

* * *

The meal turned into a covertly wicked affair. He cupped the bowl of his wine glass; she stroked the stem of hers, idly, of course, and without even looking at whom the message was intended. That was the trick of the game, not to get caught. He bit into the duck as if it were the most tender of flesh. She bit into a berry and used a quick flick of her tongue to wipe a droplet of juice from her lips.

That had been risky, almost too overt. The other trick of the game was to keep the gesture questionably vague so that anyone who happened to pick up on it could only wonder if the gesture was actually meant for them. Roland Seymour had caught the lick and from the sly smile on his face was even now contemplating whether that lick was meant for him.

By the time the cherry ices arrived, Channing was contemplating other things beyond spoon sucking that could be done with the refreshing after-dinner treat. He wondered if Seymour was as well. He rather regretted the ladies’ departure for the drawing room. Buttonholing the port around the table wouldn’t be nearly as much fun. But it would be a chance to further Alina’s agenda, whatever it was, with Roland Seymour. Channing settled into making himself agreeable. He knew two or three of the men present and Sir Lionel made it easy.

‘So, Seymour, Durham here tells me you’re an investor.’ Lionel filled his glass and slid the decanter to the right. ‘What do you invest in?’

Seymour gave an unnatural smile, one that Channing thought the man must practise in front of the mirror to achieve the proper amount of wryness. If so, he could use more practice. It didn’t quite ring true. ‘In land, it’s the one thing that will outlast us all. I believe it’s the only true investment out there. It won’t short-change you and it will always hold its value.’

A few of the older gentlemen at the table exchanged uncomfortable looks. They were weighing the acceptability of such a profession or even if it was a profession at all. That was the sticking point. A profession wasn’t acceptable at all. A real gentleman didn’t work. Did investing qualify as work? A few of the younger men present seemed intrigued, however.

‘Do you develop the land? What do you do after you invest in it?’ Parkhurst’s son asked. Channing’s gaze drifted back to Seymour. It was a trick question. Was Seymour well-bred enough to know it? Land development would definitely classify as work, whereas simple land ownership and real estate could be excused. Channing himself held several deeds for properties all over London. Buying was all right. It was a show of wealth.

Seymour took a swallow of his drink. ‘I hold on to it until it’s time to let it go,’ he replied vaguely. Channing was starting to dislike Seymour more and more. The conversation shifted to other things and Channing used the opportunity to take Seymour’s measure.

Dark-haired and of medium height, Channing supposed women would not find him unattractive. He’d probably appear more attractive one on one with no other males around for comparison. But there was an insincere quality to him that gave him the perception of being oily, a certain slickness that branded him as bourgeois. He wasn’t Alina’s type at all for business or for pleasure. She’d been adamant it was business in this case, but Channing had to wonder—why Seymour? If she wanted to dabble in real estate, he could recommend a better quality agent with more suitable credentials.

Not that it’s your business who she does business with, Channing cautioned himself. He had to remember she’d hired Amery, not him. He was not here as her friend—those days were long past. He’d offered her friendship, more than friendship once, and she’d shunned it. He was here only as a substitute and as the result of coincidence. He would do himself a favour by remaining detached. It was his job to act as a shield against unwanted advances if they arose and to help smooth any slanderous gossip. It was not his job to tell her how to do business or with whom. Still, he could make a polite suggestion before things went any further and leave it at that.

* * *

A well-placed hint here and there would redirect Alina’s ‘business’ as soon as the gentlemen rejoined the ladies for tea in the drawing room, but a quick scan of the drawing room indicated Alina was not present. Had something happened in the interval? With a reputation as precarious as hers, that was always a hovering possibility. Asking Lady Lionel was out of the question. It was too obvious and it made Alina a point of interest on his behalf, something he’d rather avoid. A flash of white in the darkness beyond the French doors caught his eye and Channing made his way discreetly towards it. She’d gone out. That decided it. He could do with a bit of fresh air himself.

He’d found her. Alina straightened at the railing, keeping her back towards the door, refusing to acknowledge him by turning around. ‘I knew you’d come.’ He’d had a few hours to contemplate the situation. Now the questions would start. Perhaps she could stall them with a polite freeze.

‘It’s uncanny how you do that. I tried to be extraordinarily quiet this time.’ Channing refused to be put off by her cold shoulder. He was all friendly affability as he moved to stand by her at the balustrade. Not that she believed the act for a moment. ‘What gave me away this time? Don’t tell me it was my cologne, it’s hardly heavy enough to be noticed.’

‘It was the warmer air and the slight change in light patterns when the door opened,’ Alina confessed in aloof tones, making clear that he was not welcome, that she’d come out here to be alone, not to invite private conversation. ‘How did you know I was out here?’ For two people who did not do well together, they had a knack for always knowing when the other was near.

Channing tapped his head with a finger and grinned. ‘Your hair. All that platinum is like a star in a night sky. Still, you’d make an admirable spy. Have you thought of offering your services to the Home Office?’ he joked.

‘I’ll pretend that’s a compliment, not a criticism.’ She was having none of it. A careless woman was too easily sucked into his easy flattery and then it was too late. Alina forced him straight to the chase. ‘What did you really come out here for?’

‘Fresh air and answers.’ Channing’s voice was sharp and quiet in the darkness as he, too, discarded any veneer of civility. The people they’d once been had been forged into new people who were harder, stronger, people who were built to last.

Of course he’d want answers. He’d had a few hours to contemplate the situation. Now the questions would start as he tried to fill in the pieces.

‘I met Seymour,’ Channing began. ‘He doesn’t seem like your sort. Perhaps you might tell me what you need an introduction for.’

She was not going to make it easy on him. ‘I’m the one paying your fee.’ Let him be reminded that for all his tricks and flattery, she was the one in charge here. She’d hired him, not the other way around.

‘I can terminate the contract at any point if I am not comfortable with the terms,’ Channing reminded her. ‘Perhaps you mean to lead me into nefarious crimes as an unwitting assistant.

‘Scandal? You? Hah!’ Alina snorted in a most unladylike fashion. What he posited was ridiculous, all things considered. ‘It won’t work, you know, you standing there posturing like a virgin with a reputation to protect. You’re Channing Deveril, the “luckiest” man in London; a new woman, a new bed, every night. You’re worried about scandals? You are a scandal.’

‘I will not blindly get you an introduction and find myself embroiled in scandal,’ Channing repeated calmly.

She met him with silence. This would be a perfect opportunity for him to go back inside and in his manly pride feel he’d emerged from the encounter triumphant. But the dratted man didn’t take the chance.

‘If you won’t tell me about Seymour, why don’t you tell me about dinner?’ Channing said rather drily. ‘I should point out to you that Seymour noticed our little table game. From his response, it wasn’t clear he understood the game wasn’t for his benefit. Or was it? You clearly have his attention. Why do you need me to approach him?’

Channing was a dog with a bone. This question wasn’t really about dinner. It was still about Seymour, just from a different angle. She gave a throaty laugh. ‘You should know, a lady never promotes herself to a gentleman on her own behalf. It would be too pushy by far.’

‘Yes, well, that being said, I must inform you that a lady also doesn’t stroke the stem of her wine glass as if it were a man’s phallus.’

Her voice lit with dark humour. ‘Why, Channing Deveril, what a naughty mind you have! And to think you got all of that out of the way I held my wine glass. Along those lines, one might think you were cupping the underside of a woman’s breast the way you held yours.’

‘Maybe I was.’ Something hot and dangerous sparked between them. At some point in their exchange they’d turned towards one another, neither of them looking out over the expanse of garden any longer. The space between them was negligible. If she drew a deep enough breath, her breasts would brush the front of his dinner jacket. This was where she had to be careful. The line was so very close, so very easy to cross. If she crossed it, she’d have to be cautious—what was work, what was pleasure?

For him it was always work. She would do best to remember it because she’d forgotten once to her detriment. This hot détente could not last. She glanced over his shoulder into the drawing room. ‘Shall we go in?’

Channing turned his head to catch the scene through the doors. ‘Ah, is it bedtime already?’

‘What a rather clumsy segue for you. Usually you are more...’ She waved a hand to indicate she was looking for a word.

‘Suave? Debonair?’ Channing supplied.

‘Subtle.’ She raised her brows, sensing her chance to even the playing field. He’d come out here looking to clarify their situation. She’d give him some clarity, then. ‘Since we’re not being subtle at the moment, let me remind you, I’m paying you for protection. I’m not paying you for sex.’ She gave him a knowing look and ran her gaze down the length of him in provocative suggestion. ‘I’ve had that from you before for free.’

‘I would remind you, nothing is free, comtesse. Bonne nuit.’ Channing bowed smartly over her hand and was gone.

Chapter Four

Had she done it on purpose; turned the conversation from business to an exchange of wits that fell somewhere into a grey area between flirtation and warning? Channing wondered as he undressed for bed. Such techniques might have distracted other men, but she’d have to try harder than that to distract him.

He knew better than anyone that she saw everything as a strategic seduction. Conversations, people, all were delicious games to be played and won. Such knowledge kept his own guard up. Only a foolish man would assume the comtesse needed anyone. He was far from a fool these days. He wasn’t the soft-hearted young man she’d encountered in Paris. She’d have to do a far sight better than flutter a fan and stroke a wine goblet if she meant to distract him.

Channing stretched out on the bed, revelling in the novelty of being alone. Maybe it was worth coming to the house party simply to have his own bed. Well, almost worth it. Alina made things tricky. He had a careful line to walk with her. Yes, he was here to honour Amery’s contract and that technically put her in charge. But, no, he would not blindly do her bidding if he questioned the legitimacy of her motives and he was questioning them.

On the most obvious front, something wasn’t right. This house party didn’t fit her profile, the one she’d worked so hard to cultivate since returning from France. Seymour didn’t fit her circles either. After listening to him talk over port, Channing didn’t care for the oily bastard one bit. Whatever business Alina had with him, it was no good. Both those items added up to trouble.

Alina had to be cautious here. Her image among society was not pristine. There were still those in London who took the conditions of her husband’s death and the accusations that followed quite seriously. She might have gained some respectability in certain circles, but one false step on her part and that thin cloak of respectability would be stripped away. If that happened, there would be no second chances, no benefit of the doubt extended to her another time. It made Channing wonder what she wanted from Seymour to justify such a risk.

Wondering was bad, Channing scolded himself. It led to curiosity and curiosity led to evil things when it came to the comtesse. He’d learned in Paris during their brief affair that she knew how to use a man and how willing a man could become to being used. He would not let curiosity make him that vulnerable to her again. He told himself, he was only wondering about her circumstances now out of a sense of self-protection. He hoped that was the truth. It was no wonder Amery had felt out of his depth. This was an assignment that pitted one master against another. She might be good at these games, but he was good, too. Damn good.

* * *

She’d been very good the prior night. Alina stretched in the morning sun as it fell across the wide expanse of her bed. She was still revelling in her little victory of last evening. Her strategy had worked divinely. A flirtation at dinner and then later on the veranda had neatly deflected Channing away from further enquiries about her business with Seymour.

It had been work of a sort, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t been energising. Flirting with Channing was invigorating, perhaps because it was dangerous. He would not hesitate to strike back, perhaps because it was a challenge. Channing embodied a healthy amount of resistance to her charms and that was novel in itself. He wasn’t overcome with her looks or her wit. Not like Parkhurst’s scion who was so obviously infatuated he might as well just offer her carte blanche on the back of a calling card and let her run roughshod over him. She was not interested.

Alina rolled over and yanked on the bell pull next to her bed. There would be more of the same kind of work to do today. Yesterday had just been the beginning. An easily obtained gentleman held no appeal for her. Perhaps that was why Channing’s parting comment, Nothing is for free, still lingered in her thoughts. She wasn’t even sure what he’d meant by that, but it had been enough to keep her thinking about it, keep her thoughts going back to a certain moment, to a time she wanted to remember as much as she wanted to forget it. Still, she could make use of it.

The comment was the perfect launching point for the next level of her distraction game. She wanted Channing to be so busy sparring with her, pursuing her, he’d not be watching her transactions with Seymour. At least that was what she told herself. Her choice of gambit had nothing to do with a pair of disarmingly blue eyes and a ready smile set amid the perfect planes of elongated squared cheekbones and a length of straight aristocratic breeding.

Her maid, Celeste, was prompt, bearing with her a tray of morning chocolate. Celeste had been with her since her disastrous marriage to the French comte and was arguably the best thing she’d taken away from her time abroad. ‘Bonjour, madame,’ she sang out, always cheery, as she set the tray on a table by the window and turned to the wardrobe. ‘There’s a ride planned for this morning, madame. There’s to be two groups, one for casual riders and one for the more advanced group.’

‘I’ll need the blue habit with the jaunty little hat. We’ll put my hair up in that twist you do so well, Celeste.’ Alina got out of bed and went to sit beside the tray, her thoughts already starting to work: what to wear, what to say, where to ride, how to subtly create the right impression to draw Seymour in.

Celeste tossed a knowing smile over her shoulder. ‘Oui, the young blond lord will like that. He likes to look at your neck.’

Alina sipped her chocolate. ‘It’s not for him. It’s for Seymour.’

Celeste made a pouting moue as she laid out the riding habit. ‘I like the young lord better.’

‘This is business, Celeste.’ Alina said sternly. She’d decided last night after the veranda she could no longer wait for Channing to procure an introduction to Seymour. It wasn’t that she doubted Channing’s ability to get the introduction. He would get it and he’d have it by the end of the day. But he would make her pay for it with questions and enquiries. He’d want to know what she intended to do with the introduction and she had no intention of telling him. If he knew, he’d want to get involved. ‘Which group is Seymour riding with?’

‘The advanced group, madame. Mr Deveril is riding with them as well.’

‘Send word I’ll want a suitable horse for that group, too,’ Alina instructed, finishing the last of the chocolate. She would have liked to have lingered in the sunny bower of the window, but there was work to be done and elegance like hers didn’t come easy. Alina crossed the room to the dressing table where her pots and brushes were laid out. ‘Time to work your magic, Celeste.’

Then she would work hers. At least on the ride she’d have both men where she could see them. One could play with a man like Channing, flirt a little, but one couldn’t trust them—couldn’t trust them to leave well enough alone, couldn’t trust them not to get under one’s skin without even trying. And because of those reasons, she couldn’t wait for him to get the introduction. She had to do this her way and she had to do it fast before Channing could step in. She’d already paid twice in the past for his involvement in her life, once physically and once emotionally. The first time she’d been naïve. She could forgive herself for that. The second time, she’d simply been a fool who had trusted the wrong man. Well, no more. The Comtesse de Charentes had emerged from the fires of her marriage, wiser to the ways of men.

* * *

The drive in front of the house was full of milling people and horses by the time she arrived downstairs. A honey-bay mare was waiting for her, prancing eagerly. Alina eyed the prancing horse warily. She was a competent horsewoman, but she’d rather have ridden with the casual group, more time for talk and conversation. This feisty girl was going to demand her attention, starting with getting on. Alina looked around for a mounting block.

‘Need a leg up?’ Channing materialised at her side. He stroked the mare’s shoulder, looking golden and handsome in the morning sun. There was nothing for it. The mounting blocks were all busy. But she would have refused if she could. He had a way of touching a woman that made her feel special even when she knew better, even when the task was as mundane as mounting a horse. Perhaps she imagined his hand lingered at her leg a moment longer than necessary as he checked the girth.

‘Are you riding with this group?’ A line creased his brow between his eyes.

‘Yes,’ she answered smartly, gathering the reins. ‘You’re not worried, are you?’ She didn’t want him concerned. It made him warm, likeable.

‘Are you sure you can handle the mare? She’s a fine horse, well trained but spirited, too,’ Channing quizzed.

Alina gave him a confident smile. ‘I can handle her. I’ve ridden bigger horses than this one.’ The gelding she had had in France had been nearly seventeen hands.

He gave her a naughty look. ‘Size isn’t everything.’

She laughed and moved her horse forward. A line was beginning to form. She wanted to get closer to Seymour at the front. ‘You’d better mount up if you mean to come.’

‘Oh, the things I could do with that statement.’ Channing gave a loud laugh and drew several eyes their direction.

‘Hush, will you?’ Alina scolded.

He smiled and stepped back, relenting. ‘I’ll be along shortly. I need to find a servant to take care of something before I can ride out.

* * *

She couldn’t keep up. After the first two miles, it was apparent the mare was willing. It was her own skill that would not allow her to take certain risks. She could ride the flat ground well enough, giving the horse its head over the wide meadows, but she didn’t dare take the jumps over hedges and logs at full speed. She took them at a slower, cautious rate. That put her at a disadvantage and whatever ground she’d made up on the flat was soon lost, putting her at the back of the ride while Seymour continued to ride in the front.

Alina reined the mare to a trot, giving the horse a chance to breathe and herself a chance to think. She would never catch Seymour at this rate. She needed a short cut, a detour that would take her around the designated course and bring her up with the leaders. She caught sight of a path cutting through the woods to the side of the course. Ah, some luck at last. Alina veered to the path and into the woods.

This was better. There were no logs or hedges to jump, only the occasional tree root to navigate and her horse was sure footed enough. She’d make up time fast enough now. But that was before the screech of a hawk split the quiet of the woods and her mare took off as if it were a clarion call to arms.

She had no time to react. It was a testament to her competence that Alina stayed on as long as she did. A forest at full tilt was no easy trail. There were dangers aplenty in low-hanging branches and jutting roots. One stumble on the horse’s part would be all it would take to dislodge a rider.

Alina gave up any attempt at steering. The horse had a mind of its own and Alina sensed the mare was running not so much out of the crazed urgings of a spook as it was because it wanted to and nothing, certainly not she, was going to stop it. Her only option was to stay on and ride the mare out. That worked fairly well until they came to a tree lying across the path.

With no idea of what might lie on the other side, Alina pulled at the reins in a final attempt to stop the racing mare. It was the wrong choice. It slowed the horse, but not enough to turn away from the jump, only enough to take it with a little less momentum than she needed. The mare cleared the log, but the landing was shaky. The mare stumbled in the soft mud, depositing Alina in the shallows of a forest stream on the other side. It was a most ignoble finish to a gallant ride.

The mare recovered her feet and trotted to a stop on the other side, whinnying happily as if this were the greatest of larks. Alina smacked the water with an angry fist and shouted, ‘Don’t you dare laugh at me, you silly horse!’

It felt good to vent some of her frustration, but there was still plenty of it left. She’d never get to Seymour first at this rate. Her habit was soaked. ‘You’ve ruined everything, you know,’ she scolded the horse. ‘I’ll never get to the picnic now. I’ll have to go back to the house and change. You have no idea what you’ve done. Channing will get to Seymour first and then he’ll have all these questions.’ She hit the water again for emphasis.

‘Hey, don’t hurt the water!’ a cheery male voice called out and Alina froze. Within a moment, Channing appeared around the edge of the log, leading his horse by the reins. It occurred to her briefly to get up out of the stream. But why? Her humiliation was already complete. Of all the people who could have found her in this situation, it had to be Channing Deveril. Getting up now wasn’t going to change that or dry her clothes any faster. She might as well wallow in it.

‘Are you hurt?’ he asked, tethering the two horses together on a low bush.

‘Just my pride.’ She struggled to stand. Her skirts were heavy and she was embarrassed to find she couldn’t quite manage it.

‘Wait, let me help you or you’ll fall again.’ Channing extended a hand, his boots sinking into the muddy bank.

She took his hand and resisted the temptation to pull him in with her, but he’d already sacrificed his boots to the cause and she opted not to be petty. ‘How did you know I was out here?’

‘I was behind you, quite a way, but I saw you veer off into the forest. I wanted to make sure you were all right.’ He leaned against a tree trunk while she sat on a stump, wringing out her skirt. Channing shrugged out of his coat and offered it to her.

She didn’t want to take it, but it felt good after the cold water of the stream. The day itself was warm and she’d dry soon enough, but for now the warmth of his coat was irresistible. The coat smelled of him, all spice and vanilla. It was like being wrapped in his arms, a most dangerous place to be. She knew from experience it was a place full of a false sense of security. He was a seductive man, but he wasn’t for her, couldn’t be for her. Sons of earls didn’t marry women widowed under a cloud of suspicion. Besides, she didn’t want another marriage anyway. One disaster was enough. Although with Channing, it would be a disaster of a different sort.

‘What were you thinking, to strike off on an unknown trail with a horse you’d never ridden before?’ Channing stroked the long nose of her horse. His tone was less cheerful.

‘This is not my fault.’ Alina answered with a certain amount of terseness. ‘It’s her fault.’ She nodded towards the mare who was perfectly docile under Channing’s attentions. ‘We were doing fine until she heard a hawk and took off.’ She dropped the folds of her skirt. She’d got out as much excess water as possible, but the wringing had left the skirt wrinkled and she could do nothing about the mud stains.

‘I’ll have to go back to the house,’ she said, disappointed.

Channing shrugged. ‘Maybe. We might have an alternative to that. First, tell me why you came this way? You haven’t answered my question yet. Does it have to do with Seymour?’

From anyone else, it would have been a shot in the dark. From Channing, it wasn’t a lucky guess. ‘You always could read minds,’ Alina admitted ruefully. ‘I wanted to put myself in his sphere of influence.’ She could confess that much at least. It was no more than what he would have heard her shouting to the horse about as he came upon them.

Channing pushed off from the tree and came to stand in front of her. ‘Tut-tut, that’s almost a lie. As in I almost believe you, but not quite. Why would you do that when there’s no need? Your little flirtation at the table last night securely put you in his sphere of influence. Seymour noticed you. I told you that much on the veranda. Second, I am going to befriend him at the picnic, at your request, I might add. By nightfall you would have had your introduction just as you planned. Thus, there’s no need to further your efforts.’

At this declaration, Channing began to pace in front of her, giving her a fine view of long legs and tight buttocks encased in riding breeches, her absolute favourite piece of male attire. She was regretting not pulling him into the stream after all. The breeches would be spectacular wet. Other things would be spectacular, too.

‘What?’ Channing stopped his dissection of her motives, which were all too on the mark for her taste. She hated how he could see right through her. It was time to change that, time for him to be the one off balance for a change.

She closed the small distance between them and twined her arms about his neck, her voice low and sultry. ‘I was just thinking it’s been a while since I’ve seen you naked.’

‘It has been.’ Channing’s teeth nipped at the column of her neck. A tremor ran through her at the delicious contact. Her mouth claimed his in a long kiss full of tongues and tastes.

She pressed her hips lightly against his. ‘You’re wrong, you know, size does matter.’ He murmured something hot and husky against her neck and she reached for him through his breeches, intending to cup his length. But he stepped back.

‘I’m not that easy, comtesse. I’m sorry if you felt I was.’

‘What I felt wasn’t “easy,”’ Alina shot back, letting anger disguise her disappointment. The little interlude had been nice until he’d gone and ruined it along with her plans for distraction.

‘Perhaps I should clarify. When I said easy, I meant easily distracted.’ Channing returned to his tree and folded his arms, an amused smile playing across those kissable lips.

‘Can’t a girl just give a man satisfaction in the forest?’ Alina retorted. She would have been more coy about it if she thought it would have worked.

Channing laughed. ‘You never change. Do you really think I don’t know what you’re doing?’

‘I don’t know. Why don’t you explain what it is you think I’m doing and I’ll tell you if that’s right?’

‘I’ll do better than that. I’ll cut straight to the chase.’ He fixed her with an intense blue stare that would have singed lesser mortals. But Alina knew how to stand her ground against anyone, even handsome Englishmen who thought they had her best interests at heart.

‘Others would conclude your haste in rushing to Seymour’s attention is that you doubt my ability to get you the introduction. But that’s not it. It’s just the opposite. You know I’ll get that introduction and you’ve decided you don’t want me to. I wonder why? Am I close?’

‘Amery has more tact than you.’ Alina snorted. She pulled off his coat and handed it to him

‘Amery isn’t here. Perhaps that’s for the best. He doesn’t know you the way I do.’ He reached out and took his coat, but instead of taking it, he used it to tug her to him. His hands rested at her waist. When he spoke again the edge was gone from his voice. ‘Since I’ve known you, you’ve never let anyone help you. You rush your fences and not always for the best. There’s a difference between taking decisive action and being impulsive. You’re rushing your fences now with Seymour. I think you’re missing the potential consequences. It will not look good if you are too forward with him. You know what people will say.’

He meant the gossips—anyone looking for her to behave inappropriately would say she was throwing herself at Seymour. She knew Channing was right. She’d thought the same thing herself. It was why she’d decided to bring Amery to the house party. But the risk of Channing becoming too involved had outweighed her need for caution.

Alina shook her head. This was how he’d got to her the last time, pretending all this concern. ‘Don’t do this, Channing. One minute you’re castigating me for a little flirtation, the next you’re my sincere adviser. I have hired you to be neither.’ She tried to step away, but he held her fast. ‘The truth is, I’d rather not have you involved in this business I have with Seymour. You and I aren’t good together.’

‘Except in bed,’ came Channing’s answer, ‘and Lady Medford’s gardens, the Duke of Grafton’s library, that little closet in Lady Stanhope’s town house—do you remember the one, it was at the end of the hall on the second floor?’

‘Except in bed,’ she echoed, refusing to be goaded. He was simply mirroring her technique from last night of mixing business with reminders of pleasure, reminders of a time when she’d thought he was more than a hired escort. She held his hot eyes, letting his gaze burn her. What was in the past needed to stay there except for the lessons it had taught her.

‘I’m afraid, in this case, it won’t be enough.’ She had to be firm here or she’d regret it. She could not afford to let those lines blur again. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go back and change out of these clothes.’

‘No, you don’t.’ A smile played across Channing’s mouth. ‘I had a spare outfit sent ahead to the picnic.’

‘When did you do that?’ The gesture touched her unexpectedly, but she couldn’t think of when he’d have had time to do it. He’d been in the drive with everyone else long before she’d arrived.

‘Do you remember that I had something to do before I could leave this morning?’ Channing was grinning now as he boosted her into the saddle. He swung into his own and winked. ‘I suspected you might be over-horsed.’

‘I was not over-horsed,’ Alina protested. But yes, she recalled he’d mentioned something about an errand. She remembered it just as clearly as she remembered that closet at Lady Stanhope’s.

Chapter Five

Channing was as good as his word. By the time Alina sat down at the tables for cards after dinner, all was in order. Channing had arranged to partner her while they played against Roland Seymour and a Mrs White from Richmond. It was the most subtle of organisations from which natural conversation and association could grow. She couldn’t have asked for a better opening. Seymour would have no reason to be suspicious of her motives.

But that didn’t make sitting down next to such a man any easier. It galled her that she had to sit there, concentrating on cards, laughing and pretending to have a good time, while all she wanted to do was strangle him, or call him out and expose him to the present company for the fraud he was. Strangling was unfortunately against the law. She wasn’t sure about ball-ripping though, there might be some potential there. Either way, torture would have to wait. She didn’t have the proof she needed, not yet. But she would soon. The house party was just the beginning of what she intended for Mr Roland Seymour, deceiver of widows and unsuspecting families. Under the table, Channing’s foot kicked her leg. ‘It’s your play, comtesse.’

‘Thank you, my mind must have wandered.’ She gave Seymour an apologetic half-smile and fingered the pearls at her neck while she studied the current trick in play. ‘Perhaps you could remind me what was led?’

‘Your partner has led the ten of hearts, Mrs White has followed with the jack,’ Seymour supplied helpfully with a touch of the patronising in his tone.

Alina kept her tongue in check. There were things she’d like to say to that tone, but demure was the watchword for tonight. If last night had been more dramatic, tonight was about showing a slightly softer side to the comtesse. Seymour might be more open to the tragic, exposed French comtesse. Goodness knew he had a penchant for helpless women.

Channing kicked her again under the table. This time it had nothing to do with wool-gathering. He knew she was out of hearts and wanted her to trump the trick so she could lead back with a spade that played to his voided suit. Alina would have sluffed a club just to be irritating if she thought he wouldn’t risk another kick. Her shin was likely to be black and blue tomorrow if he kept it up and she was already sore from her fall in the stream. But Channing was competitive and she was, too. If she had to choose between giving in to Channing or losing to Seymour, she’d choose the former. Alina tossed down the trump.

* * *

‘That gives us the second game,’ Channing declared an hour later, setting down the pencil beside the score pad. They’d won the first game, too, although it had been close. Mrs White and Seymour had played well, or perhaps, Alina thought, she and Channing had played well enough to give the illusion of closeness. Around them, other games were breaking up and people were beginning to mill about the room, waiting for the evening tea cart.

Alina rose and smoothed the aquamarine folds of her skirts. ‘I thought I might take a stroll before tea. I’ve wanted a moment to admire the painting on the far wall.’ She gave Seymour a hopeful glance and played with her pearls, drawing the eye to her discreetly displayed expanse of bosom.

‘Might I accompany you?’ Seymour predictably offered.

‘I would like nothing better.’ Alina smiled coyly through her lie. There were a million things she’d like better, starting with seeing him deported for his crimes, both those he’d committed and the ones he’d meant to commit. How many young women had there been before he’d tried to marry her sister?

‘Are you enjoying the house party, comtesse?’ Seymour began with the usual small talk as they strolled the perimeter of the room. Others had followed suit, perhaps exploring potential new relationships formed at the picnic that afternoon.

‘Yes, very much. It’s a blessing to be away from town for a while.’ Alina sighed. ‘There’s so much business to take care of and I often fear I haven’t the head for it. What do I know of rents and crops? I know fashion and parties.’ She forced herself to brighten. ‘But those are my troubles, not yours. I should not burden you with them. It’s just that I didn’t think being alone would be so difficult.’ She let her words drop off, infused with a reflective tone while she waited to see if he would bite.

‘My dear comtesse, I know we are but new acquaintances. Still, I would offer my services. I cannot bear to see a lady in distress. I have some knowledge of land matters. If I could help, I would be glad to do so.’

Alina smiled softly as if she couldn’t believe her good luck. ‘I would be grateful. Your offer is most generous.’

The tea cart arrived shortly after that and Alina made sure to mingle carefully, not spending any more time in Seymour’s company although he was certainly willing to continue their association. It would be best to leave him wanting more. There was no need to appear too clingy, too desperate. Even snakes like Seymour appreciated a small show of strength. It served to make the appeal for assistance all the more sincere—here was a woman who didn’t ask for help often, but she’d asked him. He would be feeling quite assured. She was careful also to avoid Channing. No good would come of being too closely associated with him. It would make Seymour wonder why she’d simply not asked Channing for help, why seek out a stranger when Mr Deveril was prepared to dance attendance on her?

Channing was among the first wave of guests to head upstairs. She waited and exited with the last so that Seymour could clearly see she was unattached. Not that such visual evidence meant anything at house parties when one dissected the logic of it. Everyone knew there would be several furtive journeys in the dark to various bedrooms not one’s own before the sun rose.

Alina opened the door to her bedchamber and stifled a scream. She would not give Channing the satisfaction of knowing he’d startled her. The arrogant man hadn’t even bothered to be furtive. He’d come up and directly helped himself to her bed. There he lay, hands behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles and looking entirely too comfortable. She boiled to take him down a notch. ‘I think the rule is that you’re supposed to wait until the house settles for the night.’

Alina set down the lamp on the dressing table and crossed her arms. For all her bravado, she was startled to see him. After his lecture at the stream about the need to protect her reputation, this seemed to do the opposite. ‘Did anyone see you come in?’ She had just put the next step of her plan in motion and it depended on convincing Seymour she was alone.

‘Of course not,’ Channing scoffed at her worries, arrogant in his own way.

‘What are you doing here? I’m sure there’s nothing that can’t keep until morning.’ Alina unfastened her pearls. ‘Unless it is an apology for kicking me all night.’

Channing snorted. ‘I kicked you twice and you deserved it. You were flirting with Seymour. Which raised a burning question in my mind. I don’t think I could sleep without an answer.’

‘If I tell you, will you go away?’

Channing shrugged. ‘Maybe. This bed is pretty comfortable, though.’ He paused and fixed her with his gaze, the humour fading. ‘Why is it you insist on seeking out men you don’t like?’

There was a great riposte in that, but this was not the time for teasing. ‘What makes you so certain I don’t like Seymour?’ Alina slowly pulled the pins from her hair, gathering her thoughts. It was easier to think when she was doing something. There was less time for her brain to be distracted by the sight of Channing lying on her bed.

‘You wanted to eat him alive at cards tonight, not exactly an attitude that matched the soft colours, and innocent pearls.’ Ah, Channing had noticed. He was far too perceptive. ‘Whatever “business” you have with Seymour, I’m starting to think it’s not friendly.’ And now he was meddling, too, just as she’d feared.

She shook down her hair, letting it fall over her shoulders. Channing shifted on the bed. He was in a poor position to hide any effects of her toilette. Well, good, let him be the uncomfortable one for a change. ‘Are you going to come over and help me with my gown?’ She made a show of reaching for the impossible back fastenings.

Channing rose from the bed and came to her, standing close enough to smell, close enough to kiss. She thought she had him, aroused and distracted. Even in dark evening clothes, the former was evident. But apparently she hadn’t succeeded with the latter because his answer surprised her. ‘No. I am not going to help with that gown. We both know what will happen if I do. It won’t stop there.’ His words were a whisper between them, part anger, part a seduction of his own. ‘I don’t want you like this, Alina. I’m not a game. I will not be used.’

Alina would not retreat. Her arms went about his neck, her lips kissed his throat. ‘I thought you said those two weeks in France were the best of your life,’ she whispered.

‘They were, which is why I refuse to tarnish them with something like this,’ Channing growled, setting her away from him. ‘Not all men are like your husband, Alina. Not everyone can be manipulated with sexual favours, nor does everyone expect to be.’

She froze at the words, all thoughts of distraction fleeing in the wake of her anger. ‘Are you calling me a whore? Considering your line of expertise, that would be quite like calling the kettle black.’

‘Am I mistaken? I thought it was you who was so fond of saying there wasn’t much difference between prostitution and marriage because we all did it for money in the end.’

‘You would know. You’ve done it more times for money than the rest of us.’ They were hurtful words. She knew what the League of Discreet Gentlemen meant to him. She knew it was about more than the money and the sex. But she hurled the words anyway because he’d hurt her and she was angry. She made a sharp gesture towards the door. ‘Get out!’ She was shaking with rage. ‘Don’t even think you can lecture me on the way I managed my marriage. You don’t know what that man was like. You don’t know what I had to do to win my freedom.’ She’d told no one about the degradations that had gone on behind closed doors. Not even Channing with his keen intuitions could guess at half of it.

‘A thousand pardons, comtesse.’ Channing gave her a frigid stare and exited the room.

Well, at least he’d dropped the matter with Seymour. But it was small consolation. This had not been how she’d wanted to do it. Still, she’d known from the start how things could explode with Channing. They’d been too intimate, too close, once upon a time. They knew each other far too well for objective games of manipulation to work without consequence. They knew just how to prod the sleeping lions each carried within them as this last demonstration had proved.

Alina rang for Celeste, disappointment blooming where anger had resided. Channing had been a source of strength for her once. Those two weeks had given her power, had taught her that she was strong, that she had value, the taint of a bad marriage could not diminish.

She was facing another important trial right now in exposing Seymour. Channing’s strength would be welcomed. But she couldn’t risk it. She didn’t want him involved. He had the League to protect. If her plans went sour, there’d be a scandal and she couldn’t promise he wouldn’t be exposed along with it. She’d never contemplated involving Amery when she’d hired him. She had no intentions of involving Channing now no matter how much he pushed, which was why she’d be sleeping alone tonight.

* * *

He’d be sleeping alone tonight because he hadn’t pushed, not in the right direction at least. Channing yanked off his cravat with an angry pull. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been thrown out of a woman’s bedroom. He had only himself to blame. He’d done it all wrong, broken every basic rule of relationship management. He’d called her attempt at seduction a manipulative ploy and by extension he’d implied rather blatantly she was prostituting herself in order to distract him from the true issue.

It had been a low blow no matter what. A gentleman never called a lady a whore. It was an especially low blow because he knew what her experiences would cause her to make of the situation. He’d accused her of being no better than the comte, a man whom she had thoroughly despised.

Channing undressed himself without assistance. He was in too poor of a mood to inflict himself on the unsuspecting valet. He should apologise. Once he did that, he could seduce her, which is what he should have done in the first place. Everyone knew you caught more flies with sugar than vinegar and he’d been nothing but vinegar. He’d rebuffed her efforts in the forest and he’d picked a fight with her tonight. Neither of those were classic recommendations for winning a woman’s favour or her trust. He needed both if he was going to uncover her business with Seymour and, if need be, protect her from her own impetuosity. She was paying the agency for protection and he was damn well sure she was going to get it even if it was protection from herself.

Why do you even care? his mind challenged. She’s been nothing but trouble to you since the day you met her and likewise she thinks the same of you. Yet you can’t seem to stay away from her. But Channing knew why. She was beautiful and strong and yet more vulnerable than she understood. There was a joie de vivre in her laugh, a magic in her wide smile, an exhilaration in the lightest of her touches. He’d never met a woman like her who could captivate a room so effortlessly by simply walking into it, who could captivate him, a man who had known so many women in his time and who could have any woman.

And yet you remember everything about her. You remember the first time she looked at you from across a Parisian salon, how she smells, how she freezes a man with a glance and how she stokes him with one as well. Channing blew out the lamp and climbed into bed, knowing full well the night was a lost cause. He was going to dream of Paris until the sun came up.

* * *

The comtesse might be genuine. Roland Seymour yawned sleepily from his discreet post in the hall. Perhaps she was truly alone. There’d been no questionable entrances or exits from her room since he’d taken up his position shortly after one in the morning. To have come sooner would have aroused suspicion. The house had not yet settled. He didn’t think he’d missed anything though; the comtesse’s maid had only left a few minutes ago, suggesting to him that there was no man inside her room. He’d give it another hour and then take himself to bed. No one would be showing up at three only to have to be out by five before the house servants started their rounds.

He intended to enjoy his brief association with the comtesse. She was everything a Continental woman should be, elegant and refined, sensual and passionate. He’d seen the tenacity with which she’d played a simple card game, perhaps an indicator of what awaited a man who garnered her favours. And yet, she was a woman and that meant she had limitations, limitations which she had freely admitted to him during their stroll. The business of running estates weighed on her. He fully expected she’d come forward with a more specific request for help tomorrow. Hopefully, she was in her room right now contemplating the wisdom of taking his offer. If not, he’d gently push that direction. He was fully confident he would know her situation by tea time.

Of course, he knew a little of her situation even now. She was a widow of two years according to the rumours circulating the house party. But rumour also suggested the marriage had been bad and the husband’s death somewhat suspect. What could one expect when one married a Frenchman? Still, there were those at the house party who were less generous in their thoughts: Why marry a Frenchman in the first place?

He’d listened to the gossip because it proved that she was alone. Even at the party there were no staunch allies for her, no one she could turn to with real problems. He would make himself that man. If he could bed her all the better. Women gave up all kinds of secrets in bed.

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