Lords of Disgrace

Bachelors for life!

Friends since school, brothers in arms, bachelors for life!

At least that’s what The Four Disgraces—Alex Tempest, Grant Rivers, Cris de Feaux and Gabriel Stone—believe. But when they meet four feisty women who are more than a match for their wild ways these Lords are tempted to renounce bachelordom for good.

Don’t miss this dazzling new quartet by

Louise Allen

Read Alex Tempest’s story in

His Housekeeper’s Christmas Wish

And Grant Rivers’s story in

His Christmas Countess Coming December 2015

Look out for Cris and Gabriel’s stories, coming soon!

Author Note

Enter the world of four close friends: aristocrats known in their university days as The Four Disgraces, now very much grown up—and considerably more dangerous! This is the story of the first of them, Alex Tempest, Viscount Weybourn, a man hiding a wounded heart behind a cynical façade. Alex would never describe himself as a knight errant, but when he rescues Tess Ellery from her personal dragons he finds his self-sufficiency is no protection against a woman determined to heal those wounds—and even make him love Christmas in the process of turning his life upside down. As for his heart… Well, you’ll have to read the book to find out!

Next month will bring His Christmas Countess, the story of the second friend, Grant Rivers, who acquires a title and a new family all in the course of one very dark Christmas. And still to come are the stories of the other two—cool, reserved Cris de Feaux, Marquess of Avenmore, a man who has no intention of allowing any woman anywhere near his broken heart, and rake, gambler and walking scandal Gabriel Stone, Earl of Edenbridge, who would deny he even has a heart to be broken.

I hope you enjoy discovering how my four heroes discover the loves of their lives as much as I enjoyed writing their stories.

His Housekeeper’s Christmas Wish

Louise Allen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LOUISE ALLEN loves immersing herself in history. She finds landscapes and places evoke the past powerfully. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favourite destinations. Louise lives on the Norfolk coast and spends her spare time gardening, researching family history or travelling in search of inspiration. Visit her at louiseallenregency.co.uk,@LouiseRegency and janeaustenslondon.com.

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For the Hartland Quay-istas—Linda, Jenny, Lesley, Catherine and Janet—with love

Contents

Cover

Lords of Disgrace

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

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

Copyright

Chapter One

Alex Tempest did not normally trample nuns underfoot, nor anyone else, come to that. Alexander James Vernon Tempest, Viscount Weybourn, prized control, elegance, grace and athleticism—under all normal circumstances.

Skidding round corners on the ice-slick cobblestones of Ghent, however, was not normal, not in the gloomy light of the late-November afternoon with his mind occupied by thoughts of warm fires, good friends and rum punch.

The convent wall was high and unyielding when he cannoned into it. Alex found himself rebounding off the wall and into a nun, dressed all in black and grey, and blending perfectly with the cobbles. She was certainly yielding as she gave a small shriek of alarm and went flying, her black portmanteau bouncing away to land on the threshold of the convent’s closed gates.

Alex got his feet under control. ‘Ma soeur, je suis désolé. Permettez-moi.’ He held out his hand as she levered herself into a sitting position with one black mitten–covered hand. Her bonnet, plain dark grey with a black ribbon, had tipped forward over her nose, and she pushed it back to look up at him.

‘I am not—’

‘Hurt? Excellent.’ He could only make out the oval of her face in the shadow of the bonnet’s brim. She seemed to be young by her voice. ‘But you are English?’ He extended the other hand. Presumably there were English nuns.

‘Yes. But—’

‘Let’s get you up off that cold ground, Sister.’ Her cloak, which seemed none too thick given the weather, was black. Under it there was the hem of a dark grey robe and the toes of sensible black boots. ‘Take my hands.’ Probably nuns were not supposed to touch men, but he could hardly get excommunicated for adding that small sin to the far greater offence of flattening her to the ground.

With what sounded like a sigh of resignation she put her hands in his and allowed him to pull her upright. ‘Ow!’ She hopped on one foot, swayed dangerously and the next moment she was cradled in his arms. After all, one did not allow a lady to fall, even if she was a nun. ‘Oh!’

Alex braced his feet well apart on the slippery cobbles and looked down at as much as he could see of his armful, which wasn’t a great deal, what with her billowing cloak and ferocious hat brim. But even if he couldn’t see any detail, there was plenty for his body to read. She was young. And slender. And curved. He dipped his head and inhaled the scent of her. Plain soap, wet wool and warm, rapidly chilling, woman. Rapidly chilling nun. Pull yourself together, man. Nuns are most definitely on the forbidden list. Pity...

‘I’ll ring the bell, shall I?’ he offered with a jerk of his head towards the rusty iron chain hanging by the door. It looked like the sort of thing desperate criminals clung to when claiming sanctuary, although, judging by the small barred peephole set into the massive planks, the sanctuary on offer might be rather less welcoming than a prison cell. ‘It seems as though you have twisted your ankle.’

Mentioning parts of the anatomy was probably another sin, but she made no attempt to smite him with a rosary, although the body that was already stiff in his arms became rigid. ‘No. Absolutely not. Thank—’

‘I really think I should get someone to come out.’

‘—you. I am due down at the canal basin. Sister Clare is expecting me.’ Crisp, polite and obviously furious with him, but constrained through charity or good manners from saying so, he concluded. An educated, refined voice masking some strain or perhaps sadness. He was used to listening to voices, hearing what was behind the actual words; anyone was who did much negotiating. What are you hiding, little nun?

But the polite irritation was what was on the surface. That was fair enough. He’d knocked her down; the least he could do was to take her where she wanted to go and not to where, from the way her body arched away from the door, she did not want to be. ‘But you should see a doctor. What if there is a bone broken?’ Alex bent, juggled his armful of cross woman as best he could, caught the handles of the portmanteau in his fingers and straightened up. ‘Which canal, Sister?’

‘I am going to Ostend early tomorrow morning. Sister Clare runs a small hostel for travellers down at the port here and I will spend the night with her. But I am not—’

‘This way, then.’ Alex began to walk downhill. ‘It just so happens I can take you to a doctor on the way.’

‘I do not wish to be any trouble, but—’

‘You cannot walk and all the cabs have vanished as they always do when one most needs one. It is not out of my way.’

And they were not actually going to see a doctor, although Grant had virtually completed his medical education at Edinburgh when he’d been forced to give it up.

‘Yes, but I—’

‘Have no money?’ Nuns were supposed to be penniless, he seemed to recall. ‘Don’t concern yourself about that, it is my fault you were injured and he’s a friend. What is your name? I’m Viscount Weybourn.’ He didn’t normally lead with his rank, but he supposed a title might reassure her.

Her body shifted in his arms as she gave the sort of sigh that needed a lungful of air. She was probably mortified at being carried by a man, but if she wouldn’t go back into the convent then there wasn’t much option. He made another valiant, and unfamiliar, effort not to notice the feminine curves pressed against his body. He wasn’t used to getting this close to women unless they both intended to take things considerably further.

‘Teresa—’

‘Sister Teresa.’ Of course, nuns were named for saints, weren’t they? ‘Excellent. Here we are.’ The lights of Les Quatre Éléments glowed though the gathering dusk and he headed for them like a mariner spying a safe, familiar harbour.

‘An inn? Lord Wey—’

‘A very respectable inn,’ Alex assured her as he shouldered through the front door into the light and heat and bustle of a well-run hostelry. ‘Gaston!’

‘Milord Weybourn.’ The innkeeper came hurrying out of the back. ‘How good to see you again, milord. The other gentlemen are in your usual private parlour.’

‘Thank you, Gaston.’ Alex headed for the door on the right. ‘And some tea? Coffee? What would you like, Sister Teresa?’

‘Gentlemen? Private parlour? Lord Weybourn, put me down this—’

‘Tea,’ he ordered for her. Tea was soothing, wasn’t it? His little nun needed soothing; she was beginning to wriggle in agitation like a ruffled hen and, hell, if she didn’t stop she wasn’t the only one who’d need it. Soothing, that was, not tea. He really needed a woman. How long had it been? A month? That was far too long.

Alex kicked the door closed behind him and leaned back against it for a moment while he sought for his usual composure. Nuns apparently did not wear corsets. The discovery was seriously unsettling. The soft weight of a small breast against his forearm was damnably unsettling. He was reacting like a green youth and he didn’t like the feeling.

‘My dear Alex, why the drama?’ Crispin de Feaux lowered the document he was studying, stood up and regarded the scene in the doorway with cool detachment. Possibly if he had erupted into the room pursued by sword-wielding soldiery Cris might have revealed some emotion, but Alex rather doubted it. ‘Have you taken to abducting nuns?’

‘Nuns? Surely not?’ Over by the fireplace Grant Rivers swung his boots down from the fender and stood, too, dragging one hand through his hair. Characteristically he looked responsible and concerned.

‘What do you bet?’ Gabriel Stone dropped a handful of dice with a clatter and lounged to his feet. ‘Although it hardly seems Alex’s style. High-fliers, now...’

Alex narrowed his eyes, daring him to continue stripping her with that insolent gaze. Gabe grinned and slumped back into his chair.

‘I slipped on the ice and knocked Sister Teresa to the ground, injuring her ankle in the process.’ Alex pushed away from the door and carried his burden over to the settle by the fire. ‘I thought you should check it for her, Grant.’

* * *

‘There you are, Sister Teresa, you’re in safe hands now and tea is on the way.’ The infuriating creature deposited Tess on the settee opposite the handsome brown-haired man and sketched a bow. ‘This is Grantham Rivers, a very handy man with a sprained ankle.’ She caught the grin Lord Weybourn sent the doctor and the doctor’s eye roll in return as his friend turned on his heel and sauntered over to the other two men.

‘I am not—’

‘A nun. I know.’ The doctor sat down. He was polite, but didn’t seem too happy. ‘Unlike Alex, I know that nuns wear wimples and do not trot around the streets alone.’

‘Do none of you allow a woman to finish a sentence?’ Tess demanded. She had gone beyond miserable since her interview with Mother Superior a week ago had knocked all her certainties into utter chaos. She’d forced herself into the same state of stoical, unhappy acceptance that had kept her sane, somehow, all those years ago when Mama and Papa had died. Now the shock of being hurled off her feet had sent her into an unfamiliar mood of irritation.

Or possibly this was the effect men had on women all the time. As her association with the creatures since the age of thirteen had been limited to the priest, an aged gardener and occasional encounters with tradesmen, this could well be the case. For the first time in her life celibacy began to sound appealing. But now she was alone with four of them, although they seemed safe enough, sober and respectful.

‘Normally, yes, we have much better manners. Alex is doubtless disconcerted at his very unusual clumsiness in felling you to the ground, but I have no excuse. How should I address you, ma’am?’

‘Miss Ellery. Tess Ellery, Doctor.’

‘Not doctor. Plain Mr Grantham Rivers. But I almost completed my medical training at Edinburgh, so I am quite safe to be let loose on minor injuries, Miss Ellery.’ He regarded her as she sat there looking, she had no doubt, like a somewhat battered crow. ‘May I take your cloak and bonnet? I will need you to remove your shoe and stocking so I can examine your ankle. Shall I send for a maid to attend you?’

He looked serious and respectable. Considering that she had not shed so much as a glove in male company for years, Tess wondered why she was not more flustered. Perhaps being knocked to the ground and then carried by a tall, strong, over-masterful aristocrat might have reduced her capacity for flusterment. Was that a word? More likely the fact that her world was so out of kilter accounted for it.

‘Miss Ellery?’ Mr Rivers was waiting patiently. She searched for normal courtesy and some poise, found a smile and felt it freeze on her lips as she met his eyes. He had the saddest eyes she had ever seen. It was like gazing into the hell of someone’s private grief, and staring felt as intrusive and unmannerly as gawping at mourners at a funeral.

‘No, no maid. I can manage, thank you.’ Tess made a business of her bonnet ribbon and cloak clasp and murmured her thanks. He laid the garments at the end of the settle, then went to stand with his back to her, shielding her from the room as she managed her laces and untied her garter to roll down her stocking. ‘I cannot get my boot off.’

‘The ankle is swelling.’ Mr Rivers came and knelt down in front of her. ‘Let me see if I can remove it without cutting the leather.’

‘Please.’ They were her only pair of boots.

‘Have you any other injuries?’ He bent over her foot, working the boot off with gentle wiggles. ‘You didn’t bang your head, or put out your hand and hurt your wrist?’

‘No, only my ankle. It turned over as I fell.’ Removing the boot hurt, despite his care, so Tess looked over his head at the other three men for distraction. Such a strange quartet. Mr Rivers with his tragic eyes, gentle hands and handsome profile. Her rescuer, Lord Weybourn, tall, elegant and relaxed. Deceptively relaxed, given the ease with which he had lifted and carried her. The blond icicle who looked like a cross between an archangel and a hanging judge and the lounging dice player who seemed more suited to a hedge tavern frequented by footpads than a respectable inn in the company of gentlemen.

Yes, an unlikely combination of friends and yet they were so easy together. Like brothers, she supposed. Family.

Lord Weybourn met her gaze and lifted one slanting eyebrow.

‘Ah, that made you jump, sorry.’ Mr Rivers’s fingers were probing and flexing. ‘Tell me where it hurts. Here? When I do this? Can you wriggle your toes? Excellent. And point your foot? No, stop if it is painful.’

He certainly seemed to know what he was doing. He would bind it up for her and Lord Weybourn must find her some conveyance, given that the collision was all his fault and she wouldn’t be able to get her boot laced again over a bandage. None of these men were behaving in a way that made her uneasy. There were no leers or winks, no suggestive remarks. Tess relaxed a little more and decided she could trust her judgement that she was safe here.

His lordship was half sitting on the edge of the table, laughing at something the dice player had said. Now he had shed his hat and greatcoat she could see that the impression of elegance could be applied to his clothing as much as to his manner. Ten years in a nunnery did not do much for her appreciation of male fashion, but even she could see that what he wore had been crafted from expensive fabrics by a master who could sculpt fabric around broad shoulders and long, muscular legs, and that whoever looked after his linen was a perfectionist.

Unlike his friends, the viscount wasn’t conventionally good looking, Tess thought critically as Mr Rivers rested her foot on a stool and stood up, murmuring about cold compresses and bandages. Mr Rivers was the image of the perfect English gentleman: strong bones, straight nose, thick, glossy dark brown hair and those tragic, beautiful green eyes. The blond icicle belonged in a church’s stained-glass window, giving impressionable girls in the congregation palpitations of mixed desire and terror at the thought of his blue eyes turning on them or that sculpted mouth opening on some killing rebuke. Even the dice player with his shock of black hair, insolent gypsy-dark eyes and broad shoulders had the attractiveness of a male animal in its prime.

But Lord Weybourn was different. Very masculine, of course... Oh, yes. She gave a little shiver as she recalled how easily he had lifted and carried her. And he had a touch of something dangerously other-worldly about him. His hair was dark blond, his nose was thin, his cheekbones pronounced. His eyes, under winging dark brows, were, she guessed, hazel and his chin was firm.

It was his mouth, she decided, focusing on that feature. It was mobile and kept drifting upwards into a half smile as though his thoughts were pleasant, but mysterious and, in some way, dangerous. In fact, she decided, he looked like a particularly well-dressed supernatural creature, if such things ever reached a good six feet in height with shoulders in proportion—one who ruled over forests where the shadows were dark and wolves lurked...

He glanced across at her again and stood up, which snapped her out of musings that probably had something to do with Sister Moira’s frisson-inducing tales of Gothic terror, told at recreation time when Mother Superior was not listening. Only Sister Moira’s fantasy beings never provoked feelings of...

‘Is Rivers hurting you?’ Lord Weybourn came over and hitched himself onto the table opposite. His boots were beautiful, she thought, watching one swinging idly to and fro. It was safer than meeting his gaze. ‘I haven’t managed to break your ankle, have I?’

‘No, you haven’t, fortunately.’ Mr Rivers came back and hunkered down by her feet. ‘This will be cold,’ he warned as he draped a dripping cloth over her ankle. ‘I’ll bandage it up after you’ve had your tea and a rest.’

‘This seems a very pleasant inn,’ she said for want of a neutral topic. Conversation with men was a novelty. ‘Do you use this place frequently?’

‘From a long way back,’ Lord Weybourn said. ‘Even when the war was on some of us would slip in and out in various guises. Very handy, Les Quatre Éléments.’ He grinned. ‘We called ourselves the Four Elementals as our names fit so well.’

‘Elementals? I know the four elements—air, water, fire and earth. So which are you?’

‘Alex Tempest—air.’

‘So you are water, Mr Rivers? That works well with your soothing medical skills.’

He gave a half bow in acknowledgement. ‘Cris is de Feaux, hence the French feu for fire.’

‘Of course.’ She could easily imagine the blond icicle as an archangel with a burning sword. ‘And earth?’

‘Gabriel Stone is nothing if not earthy.’ Lord Weybourn titled his head towards the dice player, who was playing left hand against right hand, dark brows lowered in a scowl of concentration.

Mr Rivers changed the cold cloth on her ankle again. Tess smiled her thanks, then forgot both injury and elements as a maid deposited a laden tray on the settle beside her. Tea, she had expected, but not pastries dripping with honey, little cakes and dainty iced biscuits. Lord Weybourn stole a biscuit and went back to the others.

‘I should—’

‘Eat up. Sorry,’ Grant Rivers said. ‘Interrupting you again.’

‘I fear I will not know when to stop.’ Vegetable soup and wholemeal bread had made a warming midday meal, but they had tasted, as always, of practical, frugal worthiness and sat lumpily on a stomach fluttering with nerves. There was nothing worthy about the plate beside her. Mr Rivers simply nodded and strolled off to join his friends, leaving her to sip her tea—with sugar!—while she contemplated the temptation. Perhaps just one of each? To leave them untouched would be discourteous.

* * *

Half an hour later Tess licked her fingers, feeling slightly, deliciously queasy as she contemplated a plate empty of all but crumbs and a smear of cream.

Mr Rivers strolled back and shifted the tray without so much as a smirk or a frown for her greed. ‘I’ll strap up your ankle now. Let’s put this blanket over your knees and you can take a nap when I’m done. You were chilled and a little bit shocked, I suspect. A rest will do no harm.’

He was almost a doctor, he knew what he was talking about and she supposed there was no great hurry, provided she was with Sister Clare for the evening meal. And this was...interesting. Watching men, relaxed and friendly together, was interesting. Being warm and full of delicious sweets was indulgent. A mild sensation of naughtiness, of playing truant, was definitely intriguing. She knew she shouldn’t be here, but they all seemed so...harmless? Wrong word. Perhaps it was her innocence deceiving her...

Tess blinked, on the verge of a yawn. Last night had been cold and her head too full of churning thoughts, hopes and worries for her to sleep much. Mr Rivers was right—a little nap would set her up for an evening of doling out stew to humble travellers who would otherwise be huddled in their cloaks on benches for the night. Then she would have to try to sleep on a hard bed in a chilly cell alongside Sister Clare’s notorious snores before an even chillier dawn start. Sister Moira always said those snores counted as a penance in themselves, so they would be enough to pay for the consumption of a plate of pastries, Tess decided, as she snugged down in the corner of the settle and let the men’s voices and laughter wash over her. Just a little nap.

* * *

‘Mmm?’ Citrus cologne, starched linen... She was being lifted again by Lord Weybourn. It seemed natural to turn her head into his shoulder, inhale the interesting masculine scent of him.

‘You will get a crick in your neck in that corner, little nun. And we’re becoming noisy. There’s a nice quiet room just here, you can rest.’

That sounded so good. ‘Sister Clare...’

‘I remember. Sister Clare, down at the canal dock. Boat to Ostend in the morning.’

What is all this nonsense the sisters tell us about men? Anyone would think they were all ravening beasts... These four are kind and reliable and safe. And the mattress was soft when he laid her down and the covers so warm and light. ‘Thank you,’ Tess murmured as she drifted off again.

‘My pleasure, little nun.’ Then the door closed and all was quiet.

Chapter Two

Tess swum up out of sleep, deliciously warm and with a definite need for the chamber pot. Too much tea. ‘Ouch!’ Her ankle gave a stab of pain as she hopped across to the screen in the corner, made herself comfortable and then hopped back. It was still light, so she could not have slept long. In fact, it was very light. She pulled aside the curtain and stared out at a corner of the inn yard with a maid bustling past with a basket of laundry and a stable boy lugging a bucket of water. It was unmistakably morning.

She hobbled to the door, flung it open. The four men were still around the table. The dice player and the blond icicle were playing cards with the air of gamblers who could continue for another twelve hours if necessary. Mr Rivers was pouring ale into a tankard with one hand while holding a bread roll bulging with ham in the other. And Lord Weybourn, who she now realised was the most unreliable, infuriating man—regardless of her pulse quickening simply at the sight of him—was fast asleep, his chair tipped on its back legs against a pillar, his booted feet on the table amidst a litter of playing cards.

The fact that he was managing to sleep without snoring, with his mouth mostly closed and his clothing unrumpled, only added fuel to the fire.

‘Lord Weybourn!’

‘Humph?’ He jerked awake and Tess winced at the thump his head made against the pillar. ‘Ouch.’

The other men stood up. ‘Miss Ellery. Good morning. Did you sleep well?’ Mr Rivers asked.

‘I told him. I told him I had to be down at the canal port. I told him the boat left very early this morning.’ She jerked her head towards Lord Weybourn, too cross to look at him.

‘It is early morning.’ He got to his feet and she could not help but notice that he did not look as though he had slept in his clothes. He was as sleek and self-possessed as a panther. What she looked like she shuddered to think.

Tess batted an errant lock of hair out of her eyes. ‘What time is it?’

The blond icicle glanced at the mantelshelf clock. ‘Just past nine.’

‘That isn’t early, that is almost half the morning gone.’ Tess hopped to the nearest chair and sat down. ‘I have missed the boat.’

‘You can buy a ticket on the next one. They are frequent enough,’ the viscount said, stealing Mr Rivers’s unguarded tankard. The ale slid down in a long swallow, making his Adam’s apple move. His neck was strapped with muscle.

‘I do not have any money,’ Tess said through gritted teeth, averting her eyes from so much blatant masculinity. If she knew any swear words this would be an excellent opportunity to use them. But she did not. Strange that she had never felt the lack before. ‘I have a ticket for the boat that left at four o’clock. It arrives in Ostend with just enough time to catch the ship across the Channel. The ship that I have another ticket for. I have tickets, useless tickets. I have no money and I cannot go back to the convent and ask for more. I cannot afford to repay it,’ she added bleakly.

‘Ah. No money?’ Lord Weybourn said with that faint, infuriating smile. ‘I understand your agitation.’

‘I am not agitated.’ Agitation was not permitted in the convent. ‘I am annoyed. You knocked me down, my lord. You brought me here and let me sleep. You promised to wake me in time for the boat. Therefore this is now your problem to resolve.’ She folded her hands in her lap, straightened her back and gave him the look that Mother Superior employed to extract the admission of sins, major and minor. Words were usually not necessary.

She should have known he would have an answer. ‘Simple. Grant and I are going to Ostend by carriage later today. You come with us and I will buy you a boat ticket when we get there.’

This was what Sister Luke would describe as the Primrose Path leading directly to Temptation. With a capital T. And probably Sin. Capital S. No wonder they said it was a straight and easy road. Being carried by a strong and attractive man, eating delicious pastries, sleeping—next door to four men—on a blissfully soft bed. All undoubtedly wicked.

After that, how could travelling in a carriage with two gentlemen for a day make things any worse? She wasn’t sure she trusted Lord Weybourn’s slanting smile, but Mr Rivers seemed eminently reliable.

‘Thank you, my lord. That will be very satisfactory.’ It was certain to be a very comfortable carriage, for none of these men, even the rumpled dice player, looked as though they stinted on their personal comfort. She found she was smiling, then stopped when no one leaped to their feet and started to bustle around making preparations. ‘When do we start and how long will it take us?’

‘Seven and a half, eight hours.’ Finally, Lord Weybourn got to his feet.

‘But we will arrive after dark. I do not think the ships sail in the dark, do they?’

‘We are not jolting over muddy roads all day and then getting straight on board, whether a ship is sailing or not.’ The viscount strolled across to one of the other doors, opened it and shouted, ‘Gaston!’

‘They do sail at night and I am taking one to Leith at nine this evening,’ Mr Rivers remarked. ‘But I am in haste, you’ll do better to take the opportunity to rest, Miss Ellery.’

‘I am also in haste,’ she stated.

Lord Weybourn turned from the door. ‘Do nuns hurry?’

‘Certainly. And you know perfectly well that I am not a nun, my lord.’ The maddening creature refused to be chastened by her reproofs, which showed either arrogance, levity or the hide of an ox. Probably all three. ‘I am expected at the London house of the Order.’

‘The Channel crossing is notoriously uncertain for weather and timing. They will not be expecting you for a day or so either way. Unless someone is at death’s door?’ He raised an interrogative brow. Tess shook her head. ‘There, then. Arrive rested and, hopefully, not hobbling. Always a good thing to be at one’s best when making an entrance. Breakfast is on its way.’

He sauntered out, lean, elegant, assured. Tess’s fingers itched with a sinful inclination to violence.

‘You might as well contemplate swatting a fly, Miss Ellery,’ the blond icicle remarked. Apparently her face betrayed her feelings graphically. He inclined his head in a graceful almost bow. ‘Crispin de Feaux, Marquess of Avenmore, at your service. Rivers you know.’ He gestured towards the third man. ‘This, improbable as it might seem, is not the local highwayman, but Gabriel Stone, Earl of Edenbridge.’

Lord Edenbridge stood, swept her an extravagant courtesy, then collapsed back into his chair. ‘Enchanted, Miss Ellery.’ His cards appeared to enchant him more.

‘I’ll send for some hot water for you.’ Mr Rivers held the bedchamber door open. ‘You will feel much better after a wash and some breakfast, believe me, Miss Ellery.’

Tess thanked him, curtsied as best she could to all three men and sat down on the bed to await the water. It wasn’t their fault. She knew just who to blame, but because she was a lady—or, rather, had been raised to have the manners of one—she would bite her tongue and do her best to act with grace. Somehow. As for breakfast at this hour—why, it was going to be almost noon by the time it was finished at this rate.

* * *

As she had suspected, the carriage proved to be very comfortable. ‘I keep this and my own horses over here,’ Lord Weybourn explained when Tess exclaimed in pleasure at the soft seats and the padded interior. ‘Job horses and hired vehicles are unreliable.’

‘You come to the Continent frequently, my lord?’ Tess settled snuggly into one corner and submitted to Mr Rivers arranging her legs along the seat and covering them with a rug. A hot brick wrapped in flannel was tucked in, too. Such luxury. She would enjoy what good things this journey had to offer, especially as the future seemed unlikely to hold much in the way of elegant coach travel.

‘We all do.’ Lord Weybourn folded his length into an opposite corner while Mr Rivers took the other. They had given her the best, forward-facing position, she noted. ‘Cris—Lord Avenmore—is a diplomat and spends half his time at the Congress and half doing mysterious things about the place. Gabe enjoys both travelling and fleecing any gamester foolish enough to cut cards with him and Grant here buys horses.’

‘I have a stud,’ Mr Rivers explained. ‘I import some of the more unusual Continental breeds from time to time.’

‘And you, my lord?’

‘Alex.’ He gave her that slanting, wicked smile. ‘I will feel that you have not forgiven me if you my lord me from here to London.’

It seemed wrong, but perhaps that degree of informality was commonplace amongst aristocrats. ‘Very well, although Alex Tempest sounds more like a pirate than a viscount.’

Mr Rivers snorted. ‘That’s what he is. He scours the Continent in search of loot and buried treasure.’

‘Art and antiquities, my dear Grant.’ Alex grinned. ‘Certainly nothing buried. Can you imagine me with a shovel?’

Tess noted the flex of muscles under the form-fitting tailoring of his coat. Perhaps it was not achieved by digging holes, but the viscount was keeping exceptionally fit somehow. No, she thought, not a shovel, but I can imagine you with a sword.

‘I am a connoisseur, a truffle hound through the wilderness of a Continent after a great war.’

‘Poseur,’ Mr Rivers said.

‘Of course.’ Alex’s ready agreement was disarmingly frank. ‘I do have my reputation to maintain.’

‘But forgive me,’ Tess ventured, ‘is that not business? I thought it was not acceptable for aristocrats to engage in trade.’ And perhaps it was not acceptable to mention it at all.

‘Social death,’ Grant Rivers agreed. ‘So those of us who cannot rely upon family money maintain a polite fiction. I keep a stud for my own amusement and profit and sell to acquaintances as a favour when they beg to share in a winning bloodline. Alex here is approached by those with more money than taste. Gentlemen are so very grateful when he puts them in the way of acquiring beautiful, rare objects from his collection to enhance their status or their newly grand houses. Naturally he cannot be out of pocket in these acts of mercy. Gabe is a gambler, which is perfectly au fait. It is strange that he rarely loses, which is the norm, but you can’t hold that against a man unless you catch him cheating.’

‘And does he?’

‘He has the devil’s own luck, the brain of a mathematician and the willpower to know when to fold. And he would kill anyone who suggested he fuzzes the cards,’ Alex explained. ‘And before you ask, Cris is the only one of us who has come into his title. The rest of us are merely heirs in waiting. He’s a genuine marquess.

‘And you, little nun? Given that we are being so frank between friends.’

He knew perfectly well that she was not a nun, but perhaps if she ignored the teasing he would stop it. ‘I, on the contrary, have not a guinea to my name, save what Mother Superior gave me for food and the stagecoach fare in England.’ Tess managed a bright smile, as though this was merely amusing. It had been quite irrelevant until Mother Superior’s little discussion a week ago.

Dear Teresa had been with them for ten years, five since the death of her aunt, Sister Boniface. She had steadfastly declined to convert from her childhood Anglicanism, so, naturally, she had no future with the convent as a nun. Equally obviously, she could not go to her, er...connections in England. And then Mother Superior had explained why.

Teresa was twenty-three now, so what did she intend to do with her life? she had asked while Tess’s understanding of who and what she was tumbled around her ears.

I must have looked completely witless, Tess thought as she gazed out of the carriage window at the sodden countryside. She had been teaching the little ones, the orphans like herself, but that apparently had been merely a stop-gap until she was an adult. And, she suspected now she had a chance to think about it, until Mother Superior was convinced no conversion was likely.

But it was all right; even if there was no money left from the funds Papa had sent to her aunt, she would manage, somehow. The dream of a family in England, people who might forgive and forget what Mama and Papa had done, had evaporated. She would not repine and she would try not to think about it. She could work hard and, goodness knew, she wasn’t used to luxury.

Heavy clouds rolled across the sky, making it dark enough outside for Tess to glimpse her own reflection in the glass. What a dismal Dora! This bonnet doesn’t help. She sat up straighter, fixed a look of bright interest on her face and tried to think positive thoughts.

* * *

What was wrong with the little nun? Alex watched her from beneath half-closed lids. Beside him Grant had dropped off to sleep, and he was weary himself after a hard night of cards, brandy and talk, but something about the woman opposite kept him awake. If she was not a nun, what was she doing going to a convent, dressed like a wet Sunday morning in November? Her accent was well bred. Her manners—when she was not ripping up at him—were correct and she was obviously a lady.

A mystery, in fact. As a rule Alex enjoyed mysteries, especially mysterious ladies, but this one was not happy and that put a damper on enjoyable speculation. There was more to it than her sprained ankle and irritation over missed boats, he was certain. Tess was putting a brave face on things whenever she remembered to. No coward, his little nun.

Alex grinned at the thought of his nun. The nunneries he was acquainted with were very different establishments. She raised one slim, arching dark brow.

‘Comfortable, Miss Ellery?’

‘Exceedingly, thank you, my lord...Alex.’ Yes, that smile was definitely brave, but assumed.

‘Ankle hurting?’

‘No, Mr Rivers has worked wonders and there is no pain unless I put weight on it. I am sure it is only a mild sprain.’ She lapsed into silence again, apparently not finding that awkward. No doubt chatter was discouraged in a nunnery.

‘So what will you be doing in London? Making your come-out?’

She had taken her bonnet off and he remembered how that soft, dark brown hair had felt against his cheek when he had lifted her to carry her to her bed. It was severely braided and pinned up now, just as it had been last night, and he wondered what it would look like down. The thought made him shift uncomfortably in his seat and he wrenched his mind away from long lashes against a pale cheek flushed with rose and the impact of a pair of dark blue eyes.

His... No, Miss Ellery laughed, the first sound of amusement he had heard from her, albeit with an edge to it. Her hand shot up to cover her mouth, which was a pity because it was a pretty mouth and it was prettier still when curved.

‘My come-out? Hardly. No, I will stay at the London house until the Mother Superior there finds me position as a governess or a companion.’

‘With a Roman Catholic family?’ That might take a while, there were not that many, not of the class to be employing well-bred young females of her type. Rich merchants were a possibility, he supposed.

‘No. Not only am I not a nun, I am also an Anglican.’

‘Then, what the bl—? What on earth are you doing in a nunnery?’

‘It is a long story.’ She folded her hands neatly in her lap and seemed to feel that ended the discussion.

‘It is a long journey,’ he countered. ‘Entertain me with your tale, please, Miss Ellery.’

‘Very well.’ She did not look enthusiastic. ‘I will make it as concise as possible. My father’s elder sister, Beatrice, converted to Catholicism against the violent disapproval of her parents and ran away to Belgium to join an order of nuns.

‘But Papa, after he came of age, started writing to her. My parents enjoyed travelling, even though there was a war on, and besides, it was often cheaper to live on the Continent.’ She bit her lip and her gaze slid away from his. A prevarication? ‘So just after my thirteenth birthday we were in Belgium and Papa decided to visit my aunt.’

‘And that was when?’ How old is she? Twenty? Alex tried to recall what was happening seven years past.

‘Ten years ago. I am twenty-three,’ Tess admitted with a frankness no other unmarried lady of his acquaintance would have employed.

‘1809.’ Alex delved back in his memory. He had been seventeen, half tempted by the army, finally deciding against it for the very good reason his father would probably have had a stroke with the shock of his son and heir doing something his parent approved of for the first time in his life. ‘Most of the action was towards the east at that time, I seem to recall.’

‘I think so.’ Tess bit her lower lip in thought and Alex crossed his legs again. Damn it, the girl—woman—was a drab little peahen for all the rainwater-washed complexion and the pretty eyes. What was the matter with him? ‘Anyway, it was considered safe enough. We arrived in Ghent and Papa visited the convent and was allowed to see my aunt, who was Sister Boniface by then. But there was an epidemic of cholera in the city and both Mama and Papa... They both died.’

She became so still and silent Alex wondered if she had finished, but eventually, with a little movement, as though shaking raindrops off her shoulders, she gathered herself. ‘When Papa realised how serious it was he sent me to my aunt with all the money he had. I have lived there ever since, but now I do not want to become a nun and the money has run out, paying for my keep, so I am ready to make my own way in the world.’

‘But your grandparents, your aunts and uncles—surely you have living relatives? Cousins?’

‘There is no one I could go to.’

There had to be, surely? Her gaze slid away from his again and Tess stared out of the window. There was some story here, something she wasn’t telling him, and she was too honest to lie. Alex bit his tongue on the questions. It was no concern of his. ‘And the convent was not for you?’

Tess shook her head. ‘I always knew I was not cut out to be a nun.’ She managed a very creditable smile.

There must be relatives somewhere, Alex thought, forcing back the query. Perhaps the runaway aunt had caused the rift, which was hard on Tess. He understood what it was like to be rejected, but he was a man with money and independence, and these days, power of his own. He knew how to hit back and he’d spent more than ten years doing just that. This was a sheltered, penniless young woman.

‘Now I know you better I can tell that you’re not suitable for the cloister,’ he drawled, intent on teasing her out of introspection. ‘Too much of a temper, for one thing.’

Tess blushed, but did not deny the accusation. ‘It is something I try to overcome. You did provoke me excessively, you must admit, although I should not make excuses.’

‘Go on, blame me, I have a broad enough back.’ Alex smiled at her and noticed how that made her drop her gaze. Not at all used to men. A total innocent with no idea how to flirt. Behave yourself, Tempest. But she was a charming novelty.

‘I will spend December and perhaps January at the London convent, I expect. I do not imagine anyone will be looking to employ a governess or a companion just now.’ She fiddled with the fringe on the edge of the rug. ‘A pity, because it would be wonderful to spend Christmas with a family. But still, it is always a happy season wherever one is.’

‘Is it?’ Alex tried to recall the last Christmas he had spent with his family. He had been almost eighteen. His parents had not been speaking to each other, his batty great-aunt had managed to set the breakfast room on fire, his younger siblings had argued incessantly and at dinner on Christmas Day his father had finally, unforgivably, lost his temper with Alex.

There are some things that a mature man might laugh off or shrug aside as the frustrated outpourings of a short-tempered parent. But they are usually not things that a sensitive seventeen-year-old can accept with any grace or humour. Or forgive. Not when they led to tragedy.

Alex had left the table, packed his bags, gone straight back to Oxford and stayed there, taking care to extract every penny of his allowance from the bank before his father thought to stop it. When the news had reached him of just what his father’s outburst had unleashed he’d settled down, with care and much thought, to convince his father that he was exactly what he had accused him of being, while at the same time living his life the way he wanted to.

‘You will be going home for Christmas, surely?’ Tess asked.

Alex realised he must have been silent for quite some time. ‘I am going back to my own home, certainly. But not to the family house and most certainly not for Christmas.’

‘I am sorry,’ she said with every sign of distress on his behalf.

Beside him Grant gave an inelegant snort and woke up. ‘Christmas? Never say you’re going back to Tempeston, Alex?’

‘Lord, no.’ Alex shuddered. ‘I will do what I always do and hole up in great comfort with good wine, excellent food, brandy, a pile of books and a roaring fire until the rest of humanity finishes with its annual bout of plum pudding–fuelled sentimentality and returns to normal. What about you?’

‘I promised to call on Whittaker. I was with his brother when he died in Salzburg, if you recall. He lives just outside Edinburgh and I said I’d go and see him as soon as I was back in Britain.’ Grant shifted his long legs into a more comfortable position. ‘Can’t stay too long, though, I’ll go straight from there to my grandfather in Northumberland.’

‘How is he?’ Grant was the old man’s heir and he’d be a viscount in his own right when he went, given that his father had died years ago.

‘He’s frail.’ Grant was curt. He was fond of his grandfather, Alex thought with an unwelcome twinge of envy.

‘He will be helped by your company at Christmas,’ Tess said warmly.

‘He’d be glad to see Grant at any time.’ Alex managed not to snap the words. ‘What is it about Christmas that produces this nonsense anyway?’

It was meant as a rhetorical question, but Tess stared at him as though he had declared that it rained upwards. ‘You are funning, surely?’ When he shook his head she announced, ‘Then I will remind you, although I cannot truly believe you are really such a cynic.’ She paused, as though to collect her thoughts, then opened her mouth. ‘Well, first of all there is...’

Please, no, Alex thought despairingly. If there was anything as bad as Christmas it was someone who was an enthusiast about it.

‘Evergreens...’ the confounded chit began. ‘Cutting them and...’

Alex glowered.

Chapter Three

‘And it is so cold, but that is part of the fun, everyone wrapped up and the snow crunching underfoot, and that gorgeous smell of pines.’ Tess closed her eyes, the better to recall it. Memories of those wonderful English Christmases from many years ago, before Papa had said they must go abroad. There hadn’t been much money and it had been a different village each year.

She had never asked why they kept moving; she had simply taken it for granted, as children do. Now, from an adult perspective, she realised they had probably been keeping one step ahead of recognition and scandal and that was why they’d left the country—the Continent was cheaper and there would be less gossip.

But we were happy, she thought, recalling snowball fights at Christmas and unconditional love all the year round. When she opened her eyes again Alex Tempest’s mouth was pursed as though he had bitten a wasp. Grumpy man.

She pressed on, ignoring him, all the precious memories bubbling up, unstoppable. ‘And planning what presents you can give your friends and finding them or making them. That’s almost better than receiving gifts. There’s all the fun of hiding them away and wrapping them up and watching the other person’s face when they try to guess what’s in the parcel.’

Mr Rivers was smiling, even though his eyes were still sad. Tess smiled back. ‘And all the food to prepare. And church on Christmas Eve and the bells ringing out and being too excited to sleep afterwards and yet, somehow, you do.’

Lord Weybourn, Alex, looked as though he was in pain now. What was the matter with the man?

‘Have you done your Christmas shopping already, Miss Ellery?’ Mr Rivers asked. ‘You seem to be someone who would plan ahead.’

‘I had to leave my gifts with the nuns to give out. I sewed most of them and my stitchery is not of the neatest.’ She wished she believed the cliché about it being the thought that counts, but she could imagine Sister Monica’s expression when she saw the lumpy seams on her pen wiper. There was never any danger of Tess being asked to join the group who embroidered fine linen for sale, or made vestments for Ghent’s churches.

‘But next year I will have wages and I will be able to send gifts I have purchased.’ There, another positive thing about this frightening new life that lay ahead of her. She had been saving them up and had almost reached ten. Living with a family. A family. The word felt warm and round, like the taste of plum pudding or the scent of roses on an August afternoon.

Tess left the thought reluctantly and pressed on with her mental list. A room of my own. Being able to wear colours. Interesting food. Warmth. London to explore on my afternoons off. Wages. Control of my own destiny.

She suspected that the last of those might prove illusionary. How much freedom would a governess’s or companion’s wage buy her? She glanced at Alex, but his eyes were closed and he was doing a very creditable imitation of a man asleep. He really did not enjoy Christmas, it seemed. How strange.

Mr Rivers continued to make polite conversation and she responded as the light drew in and the wintery dusk fell. Finally, when her stomach was growling, the carriage clattered into an inn yard and, as the groom opened the door, she caught a salty tang on the cold breeze.

‘Ostend. Wake up, Alex. You sleep like a cat, you idle devil.’ Grant Rivers prodded his friend in the ribs. ‘May I take the carriage on down to the docks? You’ll be staying here the night, I’m guessing, and I’ll send it right back.’

Alex opened one eye. ‘Yes, certainly have it. Higgs, unload my luggage and Miss Ellery’s, then take Mr Rivers to find his ship.’ He uncurled his long body from the seat and held out his hand to Tess. ‘If you can shuffle along to the end of the seat, I will lift you down.’

She was in his arms before she thought to protest. ‘But I must find a ship, my lord.’

‘Tomorrow. We will both take a ship tomorrow. Now you need dinner, a hot bath and a comfortable room for the night. Now, don’t wriggle or I’ll drop you.’

‘But—’

‘Goodbye, Miss Ellery.’ Grant Rivers was climbing back into the carriage and men were carrying a pile of beautiful leather luggage, topped with her scuffed black portmanteau, towards the open inn door. ‘Safe voyage and I hope you soon find a congenial employer in London.’ He pulled the door shut and leaned out of the window. ‘Take care, Alex.’

‘And you.’ Alex freed one hand and clasped his friend’s. ‘Give Charlie a hug from me.’

‘Who is Charlie?’ Tess asked as he carried her into the inn. It was seductively pleasurable, being carried by a man. For a moment she indulged the fantasy that this was her lover, sweeping her away...

‘His son.’ Alex’s terse answer jerked her out of the dream.

‘Mr Rivers is married?’ Somehow he had not looked married, whatever that looked like.

‘Widowed.’ Alex’s tone gave no encouragement for further questions.

Perhaps that was why Grant Rivers’s eyes were so sad. She closed her lips on questions that were sure to be intrusive as the landlord came out to greet them.

‘LeGrice, I need an extra room.’ Alex was obviously known and expected. ‘A comfortable, quiet chamber for the lady, a maid to attend her, hot baths for both of us and then the best supper you can lay on in my private parlour.’

‘Milord.’ Known, expected and not to be denied, obviously. The innkeeper was bustling about as though the Prince Regent had descended on his establishment. Perhaps she would see the Prince Regent when she was in London. Tess was distracted enough by this interesting thought not to protest when she was carried upstairs and into a bedchamber.

The sight of the big bed was enough to jerk her out of fantasies of state coaches and bewigged royalty, let alone thoughts of romance. ‘Please put me down.’

It must have come out more sharply than she intended. Alex stopped dead. ‘That was my intention.’

‘Here. Just inside the door. This is a bedchamber.’

‘I know. The clue lies in the fact that there’s a bed in it.’ He was amused by her vapours, she could hear it in his voice, a deep rumble that held a laugh hidden inside it.

Her ear was pressed against his chest. Tess jerked her head upright. ‘Then, please put me down. You should not be in my bedchamber.’

‘I was last night when I put you to bed.’

‘Two wrongs do not make a right,’ she said and winced at how smug she sounded.

‘Nanny used to say that, did she?’ Alex walked across to the hearthside and deposited her on a chair.

‘Sister Benedicta,’ Tess confessed. ‘I sounded just like her, how mortifying.’

‘Why mortifying?’ He leaned one shoulder against the high mantelshelf and lounged, as pleasing to the eye as a carefully placed piece of statuary, the lamplight teasing gilt highlights out of what she had thought was simply dark blond hair. She wondered how much of that lazy perfection was deliberately cultivated.

‘Because it was a commonplace thing to say and I have no intention of being commonplace.’

That faint smile curled Alex’s mouth again and Tess found herself staring at his lower lip and puzzling over why, when he smiled, which stretched his lips, the centre of the lower one seemed somehow fuller.

‘That is an uncharitable insult to Sister Benedicta,’ she said hastily. ‘Only sometimes, when she managed to string an entire conversation together consisting of nothing but clichés, I had to bite my lip to stop myself screaming in sheer boredom.’ Biting lips...why on earth should that image...? Stop it!

‘I will remove my dangerous male presence from your bedchamber and leave you to bathe in comfort.’ He straightened up and strolled to the door. ‘Supper in an hour, do you think?’

‘Yes. Perfect. This is lovely, thank you. A fire and a hot bath and a maid,’ Tess gabbled, as a pretty girl, all apple cheeks and blond braids, ducked under Alex’s arm as he held the door open. He simply grinned at her and went out.

This was indeed the Primrose Path to Perdition. Luxury, warmth, leisure, being waited on. And all because she hadn’t had the willpower to stay awake last night and insist she be taken down to Sister Clare to do her duty. It was not fair, she had thought she had conquered all those silly yearnings and what-ifs and if-onlys. Now she was having a taste of things she had dreamed about, all served up by an attractive man, and it would make her new life that much harder to adjust to. My dangerous male presence. Oh, yes, indeed.

It’s a hair shirt, that’s what it is, she thought wildly as a serving man lugged in a tin bath, set it in front of the fire and another brought buckets of steaming water to fill it. She was being given a hint of the life she might have had if Mama and Papa had not died, if she’d had a few pounds to her name. If she’d had a family.

If...if. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. And there’s another cliché. The maid said something and Tess grabbed her handkerchief, blew her nose inelegantly and made herself concentrate. ‘Dank u,’ she said and submitted to having her cloak unfastened and her gown unlaced. ‘Wat is uw naam?’

* * *

Damnation. Tess was crying, or on the edge of it, he could hear it in her voice. He was not used to feminine tears unless they were accompanied by a tantrum and demands for expensive trinkets. Alex pushed himself away from the wall outside her door and negotiated the ill-lit landing towards his own room. Her ankle probably hurt, she was tired, she was cross, cold and hungry and she wasn’t used to men. He shouldn’t tease her. In fact, he should probably find some respectable Flemish maid of at least forty summers and employ her to travel with Tess to London while he took another ship.

On the other hand, he knew he wouldn’t do anything out of line, she would probably feel fine in the morning once she was rested and he was enjoying her company. She was refreshingly different, was Tess. He was used to simpering young ladies who had been schooled in the arts of husband catching until they all appeared to have been pressed from the same gingerbread mould, or to experienced women of the world who would flirt and employ their charms on him, just as he amused himself in return.

Tess was as straightforward as a schoolroom chit, but with maturity and intelligence to go with it. Perhaps she was what all those little butterflies flitting around Almack’s in their pastel gowns would have been like if they hadn’t been spoiled. Anyway, he enjoyed her company, when she wasn’t prosing on about Christmas and families, so he would award himself the gift of escorting her. After all, she would be safer with him than just a maidservant if there were men up to mischief on the way. He knew all about men up to mischief, none better.

And the indulgence of observing innocence at close quarters was made safe by the fact of who she was. No one was going to descend like the wrath of God announcing that he’d compromised the chit and must now marry her. Marriage was not in his plans, and wouldn’t have been, even if he had every intention of infuriating his family. A wife, he had long ago decided, would mean a loss of freedom for no discernible gain, given that mistresses combined sexual expertise with no limitations whatsoever on his lifestyle. One day, perhaps...but not yet, not for a long while.

He grinned at himself for finding virtue in doing what he wanted, sobered at the memory of her wide eyes and almost trembling lip and peered at the next door in search of his chamber. The room numbers were hard to make out in the gloom. Where the devil was his? Ah, next one. His foot made contact with something soft, there was a muffled sound somewhere between a mew and a squeak and a weight attached itself to the toe of his right boot.

Alex lifted his foot, hopped to the door, opened it and in the light from several branches of candles examined the small ball of orange fluff attached to the immaculate leather of his Hessian. ‘Let go.’ No effect. The dratted creature obviously only spoke Flemish. Ignoring the hastily muffled laughter of the maid who was laying out towels on the bed, he hopped to the chair, bent down and attempted to prise off the kitten without leaving scratches that would give his valet hysterics.

‘You, I suppose, are a punishment for sending Byfleet on ahead with the heavy luggage.’ He held it up by its scruff while it stared cross-eyed at him and mewed pitifully. ‘He doubtless has a particular tool for removing kittens from footwear.’ He turned to hand the kitten to the maid, but she had gone, the sound of her giggles fading down the corridor. Alex put the animal on the floor and it gazed up at him, tail tip twitching, its pink tongue protruding a fraction beneath its whiskers.

‘I suppose you think you are endearing?’

The kitten mewed, then made a leap for the dangling tassel of his Hessian.

‘No!’ Alex caught it in midair. ‘You are a menace. On the other hand, females like cats and they dote on babies of all varieties. I suppose she might take to you. You’ll make her smile at any rate.’ The maid had left the basket she had brought the towels in. Alex upended it over the kitten, which squeaked piteously. ‘Humbug. You are obviously a loss to the acting profession. Here.’ He screwed up a scrap of paper, pushed it under the basket and then began to undress to the sounds of shredding and fierce miniature growls.

* * *

Tess straightened her back and lifted her chin with the vague feeling that perfect deportment might compensate for wallowing in wicked luxury. A hot bath instead of a chilly sponge-down, soft towels, fine-milled soap, a fire. Bliss. Even having to put on her drab grey gown again could not entirely suppress the fantasy that she was now a glamorous woman, perfumed, exquisitely gowned and coiffed, an exotic creature that any man would put on a pedestal and worship from afar.

At least afar would be safe. Tess knew perfectly well from observation and whispered gossip what men got up to in close quarters given any encouragement, and her fantasy did not quite dare explore that. Although when she contemplated a certain gentleman’s shoulders—

The door opened and Alex walked in, carrying, for some reason, a small wicker basket. ‘You are very pink,’ he remarked after one glance at her face. ‘Bath too hot?’

‘Er, no, I am sitting too close to the fire, I expect.’ And blushing like a rose, fool that I am. Apparently it would take more than one luxurious bath to turn her into a lady capable of stealing a man’s breath. ‘What is in the basket?’

‘A very early Christmas present for you.’ He placed it on her lap. ‘I thought you needed cheering up.’

He had bought her a hat! Or perhaps a muff, or a pretty shawl. A lady could not accept articles of apparel from a man, she knew that. Tess used to sneak into the back of the room when Mrs Bond had given the lectures in deportment that were intended to prepare the young ladies who had been sent to the convent to finish their education. Tess should not have been there because, obviously, she was not going to be launched into society or have a Season, so she had no need to know all about attracting eligible gentlemen in a ladylike manner. But it had been a pleasant daydream.

Those rules did not apply to her, she decided as her fingers curled around the sharp corners of the basket. I am not a lady. I am an impoverished...orphan. A bonnet is not going to compromise me.

The basket seemed to move as she opened it, and then a small ginger ball of fluff scrambled out and latched on to her wrist. Needle claws dug into her skin. ‘Ouch! You have given me a cat?’ Not a hat. Was he drunk?

‘A kitten.’ Alex came to his knees in front of her, tossed aside the basket and tried to prise the ferocious little beast from her arm. ‘Ow! Now she has bitten me.’

Good. ‘He has bitten you. Marmalade cats are usually male.’

‘Really?’ All she could see of Alex was the top of his head as he bent over her and wrestled with the kitten. The top of his head and those broad shoulders... What was it about that part of a man? Or was it only his? Tess had not reached the age of three and twenty without having admired some good-looking men from afar, and being closeted in a convent did nothing to suppress perfectly natural yearnings, however sinful those might be.

His big hands were gentle, both on her wrist and with the kitten, who was becoming more and more entangled in Tess’s cuffs. ‘Little wretch,’ Alex was muttering. ‘Infernal imp. If you were a bit bigger, I’d skin you for glove linings, I swear.’ But she could hear the laughter in his voice as he did battle with his minuscule opponent. ‘I wonder if tickling will work.’

Abruptly the needles were withdrawn from her wrist, there was a scuffle under her elbow and the marmalade kitten shot out, skidded across the polished boards and perched on the cross-rail of the table.

Alex lost his balance, pitched forward and for an intense, endless, moment her arms were full of his solid torso, his mouth was pressed into the angle of her shoulder and her face was buried in his hair.

He smelt of soap and clean linen, the now familiar citrus cologne and something...simply male? Or simply Alex? His hair was thick and tickled her nose, and when she shifted to support his weight her fingertips found the nape of his neck, bare and curiously vulnerable. His lips moved against her skin, she felt his hot breath and the tension in his body, then he was pushing back, rocking on to his heels, his eyes dark and his expression unreadable.

‘Hell’s teeth—’ Alex huffed out a breath and smiled. It seemed a trifle strained. ‘Sorry, I do not mean to swear at you and I certainly did not mean to flatten you. I seem to be making a habit of it.’ Whatever he had felt in her arms it was not excitement, delight or any of the other things her fantasies had conjured up with a dream lover. Naturally.

‘Why did you give me a kitten?’ Tess asked, more tartly than she intended.

Alex shrugged and stood up. He had the sense not to carry on apologising, she noted. ‘You are miserable. I thought it would cheer you up. Ladies seem to like small baby creatures to coo over.’

‘I cannot speak for the ladies in your life, my lord, but I do not coo. And do they not prefer diamonds?’

‘I am surprised at you, Miss Ellery. What do you know about ladies who prefer diamonds?’

‘Why, nothing.’ Tess widened her eyes at him innocently. ‘But surely your mother or sisters—or your wife, of course—would prefer a gift of jewellery to kittens?’ She knew all about kept women from the whispered conversations when she joined the boarders after lights out. They all had brothers or cousins who were sowing their wild oats in London and they exchanged confidences about who were considered the worst rakes, the most exciting but dangerous young men.

‘Hmm.’ Alex shot her a quizzical look, but she dropped her gaze to her scratched wrist and began to wrap her handkerchief around it. ‘I do not buy my sisters or my mother presents, and I am not married.’

‘No, I suppose I should have deduced that you were not.’ Tess tied a neat knot in the handkerchief and looked up.

‘Indeed?’ His eyes narrowed and she discovered that relaxed, amiable Lord Weybourn could look very formidable indeed. ‘And how did you arrive at that conclusion?’

Chapter Four

‘How did I deduce that you were not married?’ Tess swallowed. She had strayed into dangerous personal territory and she could only hope he did not think she had been fishing...that she had any ulterior motive. She fought the blush and managed a bright smile. ‘It was easy from what you said about Christmas. If you were married, your wife would not allow you to spend it cosily beside the fire with your brandy and books. You would be out visiting your in-laws.’

‘So you imagine that if I were to be married I would live under the cat’s foot, do you?’ The relaxed, rather quizzical smile was back again.

‘Not at all. But visits to relatives are what happens in families.’

‘I wouldn’t know. I am out of practice with them.’

‘That is a shame.’ She dreamed about being part of a family, a real family, even if there would be bickering about whose turn it was to entertain the awkward relatives for the holiday season. It was a long time since she had experienced a Christmas like the ones she had enthused about in the carriage. A long time since she had known a family, and this man had that gift and was apparently happy to throw it away.

‘A shame? Not at all.’ Alex moved away as the landlord, followed by a maid, started to bring in their dinner. ‘It is freedom.’

They said no more until they were alone again. Tess ladled soup into bowls while Alex shredded roast chicken into a saucer and put it down for the kitten. ‘There you are. Now leave my boots alone. What are you going to call him?’

So I’m going to have to keep him, am I? Trust Alex to give me a kitten, not a bonnet. ‘Noel,’ she decided, adding a saucer of milk beside the chicken. ‘Because he is a Christmas present.’

‘You really are an exceedingly sentimental young woman.’ Alex passed her the bread rolls. ‘Butter?’

‘Thank you. And I am not sentimental, it is you who are cynical.’

‘Why, yes, I cry guilty to that. But what is wrong with a little healthy cynicism?’

‘Isn’t it lonely?’ Tess ventured. It was ridiculous, this instinct to hug a large, confident male. Perhaps that was how lust seized you, creeping up, pretending to be some sort of misguided, and unwanted, compassion.

‘What, forgoing gloomy evergreen swags, tuneless carol singers, bickering relatives and enforced jollity? I will enjoy a period of quiet tranquillity and then my friends return to town eager for company.’

Tess set her empty soup bowl to one side and waited in silence while Alex carved the capon. There was something very wrong within his family, obviously, if he did not give his mother and sisters presents and he preferred solitude in London to a festive reunion. She bit her lip and told herself not to probe. The atmosphere of plain speaking between the nuns that prevailed in the convent was not, she suspected, good training for polite conversation in society.

Alex passed her a plate of meat and she reciprocated with the vegetables, racking her brains for what might be suitable small talk. ‘I do not remember London at all well.’ Or at all. ‘Is your house in Mayfair?’ That was the most fashionable area, she knew.

‘Yes, in Half Moon Street, off Piccadilly. Just a small place because I travel so much.’

That appeared to have exhausted that topic. ‘Your valet does not travel with you?’

‘I sent him on ahead, along with my secretary and several carriages full of artworks. It was a most successful trip this time.’

Tess thought she detected a modest air of self-congratulation. Was that simply the pleasure at a successful chase or was Alex reliant on the income from his dealing? It seemed a precarious existence for a viscount. Maybe he could not afford lavish celebrations and entertainment at Christmas, she pondered, in which case she had been unforgivably tactless to have pressed him about it. Although he certainly seemed to spend money on his comforts without sign of stinting. Perhaps that was an essential facade, or he ran up large debts.

‘Have I dropped gravy on my neckcloth?’ he enquired, making her jump. ‘Only you have been staring at it for quite a while.’

‘I was thinking that your linen is immaculately kept,’ Tess admitted. ‘Your neckcloths and your shirts.’

Alex choked on a mouthful of wine. ‘Do you always say what you think?’

‘Certainly not. Should I not have mentioned it?’ But it had been a compliment...

‘Perhaps not comments about gentleman’s clothing?’ Alex suggested.

‘Goodness, yes, of course. The outside world is such a maze, full of pitfalls.’

‘Are you nervous of what you will find in London?’ He put the question in such a straightforward way, without any show of sympathy, yet she sensed he understood just how frightening this was. Mother Superior had certainly shown no such insight, only the expectation that Tess would obediently accept her lot in life despite the blow she had delivered.

‘Terrified,’ she admitted baldly. ‘But there is no point in giving way to it—that will only make it worse. I will soon find my way around my new world. I did with convent life after all.’

Alex watched her over the rim of his goblet, his hazel eyes intelligent, and not, for a change, mocking. ‘It must have been a shock to find yourself there. Wine? This is very good.’ He refilled his own glass from the decanter.

‘Thank you, but, no. I’ve hardly ever had it before and I do not think I should start now.’ Tess scrutinised her conscience and admitted, ‘You are offering me too much temptation as it is.’

The air went still, as though someone had taken a deep breath and not let it out. ‘Temptation?’ Alex said with care, as he set down his knife and fork.

‘Food, servants, luxury,’ she explained.

‘Ah. The temptations of comfort, you mean.’ He picked up his glass again and turned it slowly between long fingers. The heavy signet ring on his left hand caught red highlights from the claret. ‘This is not luxury, although it is very civilised. You are tempted by luxury?’

‘I do not know. I obviously have no concept of it if this is merely comfort.’

‘What are your expectations of your new employment then?’

‘Simplicity, I have no doubt. After all, I will be somewhere between a poor relation and an upper servant in the scheme of things. Mother Superior explained that very clearly.’ Along with everything else. ‘But I will be in a home and that is the important thing.’

‘It is? I would have thought that salary and security would be the highest priority for someone in, forgive me, your position.’

‘No, not for me. Being able to earn my own living and to have some security is essential, obviously. But being within a family is what is most important. If I am caring for children that is assured, but an elderly lady or an invalid will have family, too, people who care for them.’

There was movement around her skirts and Noel climbed up, claws pricking her thigh, before he settled down into a small, warm ball on her lap. Tess cupped one hand over him, felt his little belly tight as a drum with chicken and milk. The vibration of his purrs was soothing. ‘Warmth. I want warmth.’

The maid came in with an apple tart and cleared the used dishes. Alex watched in silence while Tess served them both, then took the cream with a murmur of thanks. ‘You will miss that from the convent, I suppose. The close community.’

She stared at him, almost confused that he could understand so little. How to explain? Impossible. ‘No. I will not miss it.’ Ever. That cool, detached, ruthless honesty that seems not to care how it hurt. ‘You are a bastard, Teresa. That is the fact of the matter and you must adjust your expectations accordingly.’ Horrid old woman...

Tess felt stupid with weariness and carefully suppressed worry. The tart was delicious, but it was an effort to eat now. She pushed back her chair and stood, the kitten nestled in one hand. ‘I must take Noel out into the yard or we will be dealing with an accident.’

‘Give him to me.’ Alex stood as she did. ‘You can hardly hop out there with your bad ankle and your hands full of kitten.’

‘What are you going to do with him?’ Tess asked, suspicious. Perhaps he was regretting his impulse to saddle them with a demanding baby animal. She steadied herself with her free hand on the table.

‘I will take him out to investigate a nice patch of earth, then I will put down yesterday’s news-sheets near the hearth, add a saucer of milk and upend the basket over the top. Will that do?’

‘Very well. I hope he will not miss his mother.’ She worried as she tipped the kitten into Alex’s waiting palm where it snuggled down, obviously feeling safe in the cage of his fingers. Who could blame it?

‘If he cries I will take him into my bed, give him one of my best silk stockings to play with and ring down to the kitchen for some lightly poached salmon,’ Alex assured her, his expression serious.

‘I wouldn’t want to put you to so much trouble. Perhaps I should have him in my room—’ Then she saw the crease at the corner of his mouth and the wicked look in his eyes. Tess drew herself up to her full five feet five inches. ‘You, my lord, are unkind to make a jest of me. Thank you for a delightful supper.’

She took a step to sweep past him in a dignified manner, forgot her sore ankle and twisted sideways with a yelp of pain.

‘Definitely best not to drink the wine. You are quite unsteady enough as it is.’ Alex caught her one-handed.

Her hip was against the table, her nose was buried in the V of his waistcoat and her hands, she discovered, were clenched around his upper arms. All she had to do was let go and straighten up, use the table as a support to make her way to the door. Let go. He felt so good, so warm and solid and...expensive. Fine broadcloth coat against her cheek, silk waistcoat against her chin, fine linen under her nose. Tess wanted to burrow into the luxurious softness with all that masculine hardness beneath it. His chest, those biceps, that big hand pressed against her back, the tantalisingly faint edge of musk.

‘Tess?’ His mouth was close to her ear—he must have bent down. His breath tickled, his lips were so near.

‘Yes.’ Whatever the question is—yes.

From the region of her diaphragm there was an outraged yowl, a wriggle and a small paw reached up and fastened onto the front of Alex’s waistcoat.

‘You little devil, that’s Jermyn Street’s best.’ He stepped back, the kitten hooked to the fabric.

‘I will leave you to deal with your kind present, my lord.’ It was not easy to exit with dignity, not hobbling, pink in the face and with ginger hairs clinging to her drab grey skirts, but at least Alex had the more difficult task of extricating tiny claws from intricate, hideously expensive embroidery. ‘Goodnight.’

Tess closed the door behind her, then cracked it open again at the sound of muttered curses. She’d wished she knew some swear words: now she did.

* * *

‘Did you sleep well?’ Alex enquired. His little nun was decidedly wan as they stood at the foot of the gangplank of the Ramsgate Rose. Come to think of it, he was feeling a trifle wan himself, what with kitten herding and a night spent fighting inappropriate arousal and an unfamiliar guilty conscience. Although quite what he was feeling guilty about he was not certain. He might be feeling an unexpected physical attraction to an innocent young lady, but he was perfectly well able to resist it. He’d come across enough of them in the past and simply diverted any physical needs to the mistress of the moment. It was just that he had never spent so much time with one of the innocents before.

‘Thank you, yes.’ Tess was tight-lipped, her knuckles showing white on the handle of the wicker basket. They had eaten in their own rooms that morning and this was the first good look that he’d had of her in broad daylight.

‘Nervous?’ Alex ventured. A sharp shake of the head. ‘Do you get seasick?’ Oh, well done, Tempest, now she’s gone green. If not green, then certainly an unhealthy shade of mushroom.

‘I was when we came over to the Continent, but that was years ago. I am sure I will be fine. It is simply a matter of willpower, is it not?’

Not in Alex’s experience, not after seeing any number of strong-willed friends casting up their accounts over a ship’s rail. ‘Not so much strength of will, more a question of tactics,’ he offered, taking her elbow to guide her up the steep planks. ‘We stay on deck as much as possible, eat dry bread, drink plenty of mild ale.

‘And don’t try to read,’ he added. Even with his own cast-iron stomach the recollection of trying to study the Racing Chronicle in a crowded, overheated cabin brought back unpleasant memories. Grant’s appropriately named filly Stormy Waters—by Millpond out of Gale Force—had romped home by a head without any of Alex’s guineas on it that week at Newmarket.

Most of the passengers were making for the companionway down to the first-and second-class saloons. Alex steered Tess to a slatted bench under the mainmast and settled her on it with the cat basket, her portmanteau and his boat cloak. ‘I’ll go and see to my luggage, you set the kitten on anyone who tries to take my seat.’

At least that produced a smile, he thought, intercepting an icy glare from a beak-nosed matron as he made his way to the rail to watch his luggage being swung on board. Obviously she didn’t like the look of his face. He shrugged mentally. He hadn’t liked hers much, either.

At first it was easy to keep Tess’s mind off her stomach. The harbour was full of things to look at, the kitten needed tending to and, even when they cast off, the view was entertaining enough, the water sufficiently sheltered. Alex was rewarded with smiles and the colour in her cheeks and found himself experiencing a warm glow of satisfaction.

The chit would have him as sentimental as she was, he thought with an inward grimace, but if thinking avuncular thoughts was sufficient to stop him recalling that she was a grown woman only a few years younger than he was, then so be it. Tess Ellery was an innocent and he was not, which left him back exactly where he started—as an escort to a respectable lady.

She had fallen silent while he brooded. Alex glanced sideways and saw that the greenish tinge was back, the roses had gone and, from the set of her mouth, the smiles with them. ‘It is quite rough, isn’t it?’ Tess ventured.

Not as rough as it is going to get was the honest answer. ‘A little lively, yes,’ Alex agreed. ‘Tell me about your ideal employment. A cosy old lady or a pair of charming children?’ Some must be charming, not that he had ever encountered any for any length of time, other than his own younger siblings. He and Matthew had scrapped and bickered, and his sisters had been, by definition, girls, which meant they were as irritating and mystifying to a youth as females could be. He supposed he’d felt affection for them, he just didn’t feel he knew them.

‘I do not mind.’ Tess showed some signs of animation. ‘Just so long as it is a family.’

‘Otherwise you will miss the convent life too much?’ he suggested as he shook out his boat cloak and put it around her shoulders. Spray was beginning to blow back from the prow. It might be unusual to find himself acting responsibly, but at least he wasn’t being treated to the kind of spoiled tantrums his most recent mistress would have thrown under these circumstances. Which, come to think of it, was why she was no longer in his keeping.

‘Thank you.’ Tess snuggled into the heavy wool with a wriggle that reminded him of that dratted kitten making itself comfortable. ‘Miss the convent? Oh, no. It is worse being lonely in a crowd than by yourself, don’t you think?’

Alex tried to remember when, if, he had ever felt lonely. Alone, yes, but he was comfortable in his own company and always had been. When he wanted human contact he had a wide social circle; when he needed close friends he had them, the other three members of what the dean of his Oxford college had referred to bitterly as the Four Disgraces.

‘I suppose so,’ he agreed. ‘But in the convent, all those Sisters must have been like sisters, as it were.’

Tess gave a little shrug as though the cloak had developed uncomfortable creases. ‘Friendships are not encouraged. The sisters treat everyone the same and the boarders go home for holidays and they make friends within their own group. They all come from very good families.’

‘And you do not?’

‘I am an...orphan with no connections. But everyone was very kind,’ she added brightly.

Alex was conscious of a sudden and startling urge to box the ears of the unknown Mother Superior. He had no trouble translating very kind into impersonal, remote, efficient, cool. Tess had been fed, clothed, educated, kept healthy and respectable. Her body and her morals had been cared for; her heart and her happiness, it seemed, could look after themselves if she did not choose to become a nun. Although that was not so very different from a child’s upbringing in any aristocratic family. He was sure his mother had loved him, but it had never occurred to her to play with him, let alone talk to him outside the hour before she changed for dinner.

‘I’m sure they were kind.’ And now she was heading for a life of respectable drudgery, neither a member of a family nor an upper servant. But she seemed to realise already what her position was, even if she had rose-coloured ideas about the joys of family life. It would be no kindness to tell her that and, he supposed, a miracle might happen and she would find herself in the household of her dreams. He looked at the cloudy sky, then fished out his watch. ‘Have some bread and ale, best to eat a little, often.’

‘Thank you. In a minute.’ Tess got up and folded his cloak one-handed, clutching at the mast with the other. ‘I need...I mean, I assume that the...’

‘Ladies’ retiring room?’ Alex suggested. ‘Yes, that will be down below.’ He stood and gave her his arm as far as the entrance to the companionway. ‘Can you manage the stairs with your ankle? Sure? Hold on tight as you go.’

* * *

The smell hit Tess halfway down the steps. Hot, crowded humanity, food, alcohol, an unpleasantness that she guessed was the ship’s bilges and a clear intimation that several people had already been unwell.

Only urgent personal need made her fight her way through the crowded first-class cabin and whisper in the ear of an amiable-looking lady.

‘Over there, my dear. Wait a moment.’ She dug in her reticule and handed a small object to Tess. ‘Take my smelling salts.’

Five minutes later Tess hobbled back, returning the bottle with sincere thanks and a mental resolution to hang on, however long the rest of the voyage proved to be.

She picked her way back to the stairs and encountered a frigid stare from a middle-aged matron in a large bonnet. She looked vaguely familiar. She probably thinks I am an intruder from second class, Tess thought, avoiding her eyes. She certainly would have been if it were not for Alex’s insistence.

How easily things can change, she thought as she stumbled with the motion and caught hold of a handrail. If Alex hadn’t been in a hurry on icy cobbles I would have caught a boat yesterday, I wouldn’t have a sore ankle, I’d have been packed into the second-class cabin feeling ill, I wouldn’t own a ginger kitten and my life wouldn’t be complicated by proximity to a large, infuriating—and devastatingly attractive—male.

On the whole, even with the ankle, she rather thought she preferred things this way, an adventure before life became worthy and serious again.

Chapter Five

The infuriating male in question was waiting for her when she emerged into the fresh air on deck. ‘Hellish down there, isn’t it? Come on back to our roost and be thankful it isn’t raining.’ Alex sounded quite unconcerned about the effect of salt spray on his expensive greatcoat or the disorder of his wind-ruffled hair now he had abandoned the fight to keep his hat on his head.

‘What is it?’ he asked once he had her settled again. ‘I’m delighted to see that green tinge has gone, but I did not expect to see a smile.’

‘You dress so elegantly, but look at you now.’ She cocked her head to one side to study him in the waning light. It would be dusk soon. ‘You are not the slightest bit concerned about your clothes or your hair. I believe you are a fraud, my lord.’

‘I think not. I take my appearance very seriously. One has a reputation to uphold,’ Alex drawled, but there was an edge to his voice as he said it and the mischievous tilt to his lips had been replaced by a thin smile.

You are not what you seem, Lord Weybourn, Tess thought as she snuggled back into the embrace of the boat cloak. The problem was, he did not seem to be the same person from one hour to the next. He appeared the indolent man of fashion, yet was close friends with a trio of gentlemen who looked as though they could hold their own in a back-alley fight, and his body was hard as nails under that expensive tailoring. He sneered at her enthusiasm for Christmas, called her sentimental, threatened Noel with a future as glove linings—and yet he was kind to her, had given her a kitten and was infinitely patient with the creature’s attacks on his person.

He was also very—sinfully—attractive. She had no business acknowledging that, she knew perfectly well. She was a convent-reared young woman about to begin earning her living. Her antecedents were handicap enough, but any smudge on her reputation would mean an end to her prospects for decent employment, and the sooner she resigned herself to frugal, upright spinsterhood, the better.

‘What was that great sigh for?’ Alex enquired. ‘Hungry?’

‘No, I’m just...’ Wishing for the moon. Wishing I had never set eyes on you so my foolish imagination had nothing to work with. The angle of your jaw, the scent of your skin, the way your hair curls at the ends with the damp wind... The impossibility of a man like you in my life. ‘Cold.’

‘Me, too.’ He began to unbutton his greatcoat. ‘Let’s get rid of that coal scuttle of a bonnet and do something about it.’ Before she could protest the thing was off her head and jammed behind her portmanteau and she was on Alex’s knee, the flaps of his coat around her, the hood of the cloak over her head.

‘Alex! My lord, this is—’

‘Outrageous, I know. Stop squeaking, you sound like Noel.’ His voice by her ear was definitely amused. ‘This is shocking, but practical. The choices are go below and be warm but nauseous, sit up here in chilly isolation or share body heat.’ She felt his legs move, a most disconcerting effect. ‘There, the kitten’s basket is under the cloak, too. Happy?’

‘Ecstatic,’ she muttered. Alex’s snort of amusement was warm on her neck. ‘I suppose the sea crossing isn’t this bad in the summer.’ She did her best not to think about the grey sea under the darkening, slate sky, the tossing white wave crests, the icy water.

‘It can be delightful in the summer,’ Alex confirmed. ‘Go to sleep.’

‘Huh.’ It was her turn to snort. She might as well try to fly.

* * *

Tess woke cramped, warm and confused in a snug cave, huddled against something that moved in a steady rhythm. It took her a while to sort through the sensations. Someone else’s skin, a fresh cologne, salt, a seat that shifted slightly beneath her, a world that rocked and heaved. A ship. A ship and Alex.

She sat still for a moment, inhaling the essence of warm, sleepy man. Somehow she had got between the flaps of his coat as well as his greatcoat and her cheek rested on skin-warm linen. Dangerous. Tess struggled upright on his knees, batting the edges of his greatcoat apart so she could see out.

‘Good morning.’ Alex pushed her to her feet, keeping one hand on her arm as she staggered. ‘There’s the English coast ahead.’

‘Thank heavens.’ She felt sticky and thirsty, but there was land, the sun was struggling out of the clouds low on the horizon and the long night was over.

‘Have some ale.’ Alex was on his knees beside the luggage. He passed her an open bottle and then scooped a protesting kitten out of its basket. ‘Yes, I know. We are cruel and horrible and you want your breakfast. You can share mine.’ He poured a little milk into his cupped palm from a stoppered jar and Noel lapped, purring furiously while Alex extracted cold bacon one-handed.

‘Do you want to eat or shall we wait until we can find a decent inn?’

‘Wait,’ Tess said with decision. She felt all right now, but there was no point in tempting fate, especially when she had to venture below decks again. That couldn’t wait, but she lingered a moment, hand braced against the mast, looking down on Alex’s tousled head as he bent over the kitten. Such a kind man.

‘I’ll just...’ She waved a hand towards the companionway. ‘I won’t be long.’

It was much worse below decks now after a rough, crowded night. Even the smartest passengers looked haggard and unkempt. The first-class saloon was crowded and difficult to negotiate and, when Tess emerged from the room assigned to ladies, she turned to see if she could make her way forward and up through a different hatch.

She skirted the second-class cabin, an even more unpleasant sight than the first class, and tried a narrow passageway with a glimmer of what looked like daylight at its end. It opened out into a small area at the foot of another set of stairs so she gathered her skirts in one hand, took the handrail with the other and started to climb, one step at a time.

‘What we got ’ere, then? You’re trespassing into the crews’ quarters, sweetheart. Lost, are you? Or looking for some company?’

A sailor, big and burly, was descending the steps towards her. Tess retreated backwards, away from the smell of tar and unwashed man, the big hands, the snaggle-toothed smirk.

‘I want to get back on deck. Kindly let me pass.’

‘Kindly let me pass.’ He mimicked her accent and kept coming. ‘I don’t take orders from passengers.’ His eyes, bright blue in his weather-beaten face, ran over her from head to foot and a sneer appeared on his face as he took in her plain, cheap gown. ‘I can show you a good time.’ He put out a hand and gave her a push towards a door that was hooked open. Inside she could glimpse a bunk bed.

Tess turned, clumsy with her painful ankle, and he caught her by the shoulder. ‘Not so fast, you stuck-up little madam. What the—?’

He broke off as one elegantly gloved hand gripped his shoulder. ‘You’re in the way, friend,’ Alex drawled, his tone suggesting they were anything but friends. His gaze swept over Tess and she stopped struggling.

‘And something tells me this lady does not welcome your attentions.’ His voice was low, almost conversational, his half smile amiable. ‘I suggest you remove your hand from the lady.’ Alex was as tall as the sailor, but looked about half his weight. The man shifted his stance to face him, his posture becoming subtly more threatening as he dropped his hand from Tess’s shoulder.

Tess looked at the great meaty hands and the knife in his belt and swallowed. Then she began to pull off her gloves. If he attacked Alex, her only weapons were her nails and her feet. ‘This brute—’

‘This little lady came looking for some company.’ He leered at Tess. ‘Then the silly mort got all uppity on me.’

‘And you are?’ Alex sounded almost comatose with boredom as he drew off his right glove and tossed it to Tess.

‘I’m the second mate of this ’ere ship and I don’t take any nonsense, not from bits of skirt what don’t know their place and not from passengers, neither.’

‘Hmm. I wasn’t intending nonsense,’ Alex remarked, the last word almost a growl. He bunched his fist and hit the man square on the jaw. The sailor went down like a felled tree, hitting his head on the handrail as he went.

‘Damn.’ Alex shook his hand. ‘I hope I haven’t killed him. It means such a fuss with the magistrates.’ He sounded like himself again.

He gave the unconscious man a nudge in the ribs with one booted foot. ‘No. He’s breathing.’ Alex stepped over the sprawled figure and frowned down at Tess. ‘Are you all right? Did he do more than touch your shoulder? Because if he did he’s going to wake up minus his wedding tackle.’

‘No.’ She blinked at him, trying to square the carefree figure in front of her with the dangerous-sounding man who had delivered that sledgehammer of a blow. ‘You hit him very hard.’

Alex shrugged. ‘He deserved it and if you give a lout like that a tap, all you do is make him angry and more dangerous. Now, where can we stow him?’

‘In there.’ She pointed at the open door.

Alex dragged the unconscious man inside, then hunkered down, felt the sailor’s head, rolled back an eyelid and pushed him onto his side. ‘He’ll do.’

Tess sat down on the bottom step. It felt safer down there, less as though the deck was going to come up and hit her. She wasn’t used to violence, and facing that leering creature had made her stomach heave, but Alex... Alex had been wonderful.

She should have been appalled and frightened by the violence, but it had been thrilling, that explosive, focused power. Tess looked at Alex. Most of the time he was so kind and carefree, but she now knew he was capable of behaving like a storybook hero. She had forgotten those muscles.

‘Let that be a lesson to you,’ said her hero flatly as he pulled on his glove and shut the cabin door. ‘Do not go wandering off, do not speak to strange men.’

Tess felt her warm storybook glow vanishing. ‘I didn’t wander off. And I did not speak to him. He accosted me.’

‘You are far too trusting—as bad as that blasted kitten. You let yourself be carried about Ghent by a strange man, you spend the night with four of them...’

‘That is totally unfair! You knocked me down, you assured me I’d be safe!’

‘Not so much trusting as gullible,’ Alex snapped. The image of Sir Galahad wavered and vanished altogether. There were shouts on deck; the motion of the ship changed. ‘We’re coming into harbour.’ Alex climbed up the companionway and looked round. ‘We’d better get on deck before someone removes our baggage.’

Tess stalked after him with as much dignity as she could manage with a limp. As they made their way past sailors hauling down sails and securing ropes she saw that the harbour was getting closer by the second. England. Home? It will be in time, she reassured herself, trying not to glare resentfully at Alex’s back.

He reached their place under the mast and turned, flexing his hand as though reliving that blow. ‘I’m sorry, I should not have snapped at you. I was concerned when you did not come back.’ When she did not speak, he shrugged. ‘Look, I wanted to tear his head off and I couldn’t, not once he was unconscious. I was...frustrated.’

‘That’s a very primitive reaction.’ And an exciting one, I fear. When Alex simply grunted Tess smothered her smile and picked up Noel’s basket. ‘There’s a good boy. Did you miss your uncle Alex, then?’ There was a yowl and a ginger paw shot out of a gap in the weave and fastened on Tess’s sleeve. ‘Poor little chap, you want to get on dry land, don’t you?’

* * *

‘I have not made any promises about that hellcat,’ Alex said. ‘Any more nauseating baby talk and Uncle Alex will start thinking about glove linings again.’

Tess slanted a look at him that said she knew perfectly well he was bluffing. Minx. She seemed to be all right after that unpleasant scene. No vapours, no wilting into his arms at the most inconvenient moment. In fact, he had a strong suspicion that she would have had a go at the man herself, given half a chance. He managed to suppress a grin and checked their bags. ‘Don’t try to carry the cat basket. Wait there and I’ll get someone to fetch the lot.’

He walked to the rail and waited while the ship bumped against the quayside and the gangplank was let down, then he hailed a porter and made his way back across the now-crowded deck to Tess. She was sitting patiently where he had left her, looking around with intelligent interest. Drab, neat, brave little nun, he thought. She looked serious, a little anxious. Then she saw him and her face lit up in a smile that held nothing but pleasure at his return and something inside him went thud.

To have a woman smile at him was no novelty. The respectable ones were always glad to welcome him to their homes and their social events; the unrespectable ones greeted his interest with attention that flattered his title and his pocketbook, if nothing else. But Tess’s warmth, her lack of artifice, were like an embrace. He was going to miss the chit when he handed her over, and he never thought he’d feel that about a respectable female. Or a lightskirt, come to that.

‘Those bags there.’ He pointed them out to the porter, who reached for the cat’s basket, as well.

‘Oh, be careful!’ Tess caught it by the handle.

‘I’ll carry it.’ Alex picked it up, gave Tess his other arm and offered up a silent prayer of thanks that no one he knew was likely to be around to view one of the ton’s most stylish gentlemen in a travel-stained condition and escorting a nun and a ginger kitten off a cross-Channel ferry.

‘Thank you.’ She was still limping a little and he tucked his arm close, trapping her hand against his side to make sure she was safely supported. She was just the right height for him. ‘You are kind, Alex.’

‘No, I am not.’ He steadied her down the gangplank, then directed the porter to follow them to the Red Lion. ‘I’m too selfish to be kind.’

‘Nonsense.’ She gave his arm a little shake.

‘I am. And too indolent to make the effort to be unkind,’ he added.

‘I don’t believe that, either. Perhaps you don’t care enough,’ Tess murmured, just loud enough for him to hear.

‘Care? Of course I care.’

‘What about?’ She tipped her head to one side to look up at him. ‘Other than your comfort?’

‘My friends.’ He’d die for them if he had to, not that he’d ever say so. A man didn’t need to; friends just knew. ‘Hunting down art and antiquities.’ My honour. That was something else you didn’t talk about, but it was why he lived as he did now.

‘Your family?’

Damn it, she was as persistent as that little cat once she had her claws into something. ‘No.’ Tess gave a little gasp and it stuck him that he might have been tactless. She had lost her own family and she probably did not need telling about someone who would mourn his mother and his sisters if anything happened to them, but who would be quite happy never to set eyes on his father and brother again.

‘Here we are.’ The open door of the Red Lion was a welcome sight and a distraction from uncomfortable thoughts. Alex dealt with the landlord, checked that the chaise was waiting, ordered hot water and a meal and paid the porter.

‘There’s your chamber over there.’ He gestured towards the door out of the private parlour as they found themselves alone. ‘They’ll bring some hot water in a moment.’

Tess ignored the gesture and suggestion. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She stood in front of him, her face a picture of concern.

‘Why? What for?’

‘I’m sorry that you are estranged from your family and that I raised the subject. It must be so difficult.’

‘Don’t be sorry.’ He shrugged. ‘Certainly it isn’t difficult. I just ignore them, they ignore me. They say you choose your friends but not your family, but you can choose how much you see of any of them.’ Had home ever really felt like a good place to be? It must have done once, before his father had decided that he was so utterly unsuitable to be his heir, such a disappointment to him.

‘But what if something happens to them?’

‘It won’t.’ He took her by the shoulders, turned her around and walked her to her chamber door. ‘My father’s like an ox.’ Certainly has the sensitivity of one. ‘Now freshen up, then we’ll eat and be on our way.’

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