EVA LEIGH is the pen name of a RITA® Award-nominated romance author who writes novels chock-full of smart women and sexy men. She enjoys baking, tweeting about boots, and listening to music from the ’80s. Eva and her husband live in central California.

ALSO AVAILABLE FROM EVA LEIGH AND MILLS & BOON

The Scandalous Ladies of London series

FROM DUKE TILL DAWN

Counting on a Countess

Eva Leigh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-27263-0

COUNTING ON A COUNTESS

© 2018 Eva Leigh

Published in Great Britain 2018

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

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

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

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To Zack

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

London, England

1817

Though he had been the Earl of Blakemere for nearly six months, Christopher Ellingsworth rarely entertained sober or virtuous guests in his bachelor lodgings. Today was no exception.

Kit lounged on a sofa in his parlor, a glass of wine in his hand. Warm, indolent pleasure made his limbs and eyelids heavy. His other hand beat time on the back of the sofa as Jeanette plinked out a merry tune on the pianoforte and the unlikely named Bijou pirouetted around the chamber and twirled brightly colored scarves.

“Bravo, my dears,” he murmured as the melody and performance came to a stop.

“Another, my lord?” Bijou asked breathlessly. Her French accent wavered, revealing she was more likely born in Leeds, not Lyon, but it hardly mattered. She wasn’t in Kit’s rooms to provide lengthy discussion about the philosophy of Voltaire. He’d brought them home from the Royal Opera last night—or rather, very early this morning—and they had been such good company, he hadn’t sent them away. It was nearly dusk, and he contemplated with anticipation what the night had in store for him.

“Come and join me,” he said, patting his thigh.

“Which of us shall join you?” Jeanette asked.

“Both of you,” Kit replied magnanimously.

The two women giggled before fluttering over to where he sprawled. Bijou perched on his outstretched leg while Jeanette snuggled beneath his arm. They were silky and fragrant and lively—precisely what Kit wanted.

Bijou’s fingers trailed up his torso and dipped beneath the neckline of his open shirt. Agreeable curls of pleasure blossomed on his skin wherever she touched. “I thought earls weren’t supposed to have muscles,” she said with a playful pout.

“His lordship was a soldier,” Jeanette noted, her fingers toying with his hair. “He’s had to become very hard, you know.”

“I’m much harder in peacetime.” Kit grinned lazily as the two women twittered.

“Shall we put that to the test?” Jeanette nipped at his earlobe.

Before he could answer, a smart rap sounded at the parlor door. He frowned. His staff knew not to bother him when he entertained.

“Go away,” he called.

Yet the door opened anyway and his butler’s apologetic face appeared. The servant didn’t so much as glance at the two opera dancers draped over Kit. “Apologies, my lord. I told the gentleman you weren’t to be disturbed, but he insisted you had an appointment.” He held up a calling card.

Kit disentangled himself from Jeanette and motioned for the butler to approach. Taking the card from the servant, he glanced at the name.

Herbert K. Flowers, Esq.

The Law Offices of Corran and Flowers

Lincoln’s Inn Fields

“Damn,” Kit swore softly. He had a vague recollection of a letter from Flowers, requesting to meet at Kit’s earliest convenience, as the solicitor had a matter of some urgency to discuss. “Send him in.”

“Yes, my lord.” The butler bowed before hurrying away.

Bijou plucked the card from Kit’s hand and squinted at the writing. “What’s this mean?”

“It means that this Mr. Flowers deals with tedious and exhausting matters all day,” he answered.

She made a face. “How horrid.”

“Exactly.” Surely whatever this Flowers wanted, it would be dull and require the kind of serious, thoughtful consideration Kit avoided as much as possible.

Another knock sounded at the door, and after receiving Kit’s permission to enter, the butler stepped inside.

“Mr. Herbert Flowers, Esquire,” the butler intoned.

A hale, middle-aged man in well-tailored clothing entered the room carrying a leather portfolio. “My lord, thank you for . . .” Flowers’s steps slowed and his polite smile flickered as his gaze fell on Jeanette and Bijou. Face reddening, he coughed into his fist. “Forgive me, my lord, but it would perhaps be best if we conducted our meeting in private. The concerns are of a . . . delicate and confidential manner.”

Kit sighed. He did not, however, sit up. “Ladies, if you would be so kind as to await me upstairs.”

The women swayed to their feet and ambled past the solicitor, trailing perfume and laughter as they exited the chamber.

Kit waved Flowers toward a nearby chair. “Care for a drink? I might be able to cajole the cook into preparing something edible.”

“Your consideration is appreciated, my lord,” the solicitor said quickly. “But once we conclude our business, I am bound for home, where my wife and supper await me.”

“I suppose you could eat both,” Kit offered after taking a sip of wine. “Or take all of them to bed.”

Flowers’s cheeks blazed. “Ah . . . well . . . yes.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps we might address the matter at hand.” Smoothing a hand down his waistcoat, he said with gravity, “I understand you were an intimate of the late Lord Somerby.”

A throb of grief squeezed Kit’s heart just hearing the old man’s name. “I first met him in Roliça in ’08.”

Flowers’s businesslike expression shifted into restrained melancholy. “The marquess had been an esteemed client of my firm for four decades. The news of his death was met with considerable sorrow.” The solicitor gazed at Kit with sympathy. “I imagine that you must also feel distress at the passing of your friend.”

Kit gave a wry half smile. “I keep expecting him to show up at my door and demand that I join him at his favorite chophouse. He never allowed me to beg off. Said my wenching and carousing could wait two hours.”

Flowers echoed Kit’s smile. “A forceful gentleman, Lord Somerby. It stands to reason that he served his country so admirably during the War.”

“No one said no to him,” Kit agreed. “Well,” he added with a self-deprecating shrug, “I tried. He had his ideas about troop movements and I had mine.”

“And that is precisely what he admired about you,” Flowers noted. “The marquess told me so, himself. Always had good things to say about ‘young Captain Ellingsworth.’ Courageous, he called you. A born tactician.”

Kit glanced away. “He was fulsome in his praise. I merely did my duty—nothing more.”

“With all due respect, my lord,” the solicitor ventured, “he was not the only man of influence with this opinion of you. His Majesty the Prince was much moved by Lord Somerby’s accounts of your heroism. You would not have been given an earldom if you had merely performed your responsibilities.”

Nothing in the parlor could hold Kit’s attention. He kept shifting his gaze from the paintings on the walls to the windows to the plaster friezes on the ceiling. “I suppose so.”

Sadly, the title was almost entirely decorative. It came with a middling estate at the very uppermost border of Northumberland—and hardly any income. Much as Kit appreciated the elevation of his status from marquess’s third son to earl, it had done little to alter the course of his life.

But he was grateful to Lord Somerby, just the same. Kit’s parents loved him dutifully, yet only Somerby had truly believed in him, even when Kit himself did not.

“So you and Lord Somerby were close,” Flowers noted.

Kit nodded. “He was a lieutenant general on the Peninsula for most of the War, so our paths crossed many times. He had a fondness for pastel de nata, and we’d have them in his tent, chasing them with strong whisky and talking about our favorite public houses back in London.” Kit smiled wryly. “We talked strategy, too, and the welfare of our men.”

Some of the senior officers Kit had met during his time in the army had been cruel or heartless, concerned only with upholstering themselves with glory. Not Lord Somerby. He remained steadfastly focused on the human cost of war.

“Did his lordship ever discuss marriage?” Flowers asked. “Specifically, yours?”

Kit frowned, the question catching him by surprise. “Occasionally.” In truth, Lord Somerby had often harangued Kit about taking a wife, particularly when discussion turned toward life after wartime.

“You need a woman,” Lord Somerby had often declared. “And not one of those actresses or demimondaines you insist on keeping company with. A proper wife. Someone who’s got the backbone and sense to keep you in line. A man’s got to have a woman of strength by his side.”

Once, Kit had dared to retort, “I don’t see you writing letters to an adored helpmeet.”

A look of such profound sorrow had crossed Lord Somerby’s face that Kit had immediately regretted his rash words. “I am married, my lad,” the older man had replied quietly. “She and the babe she carried were brought to the Lord. I’ll not replace Lizzie.”

Kit swallowed hard. Lord Somerby and his wife were together now.

“Why do you ask about marriage, Mr. Flowers?”

Instead of answering, the solicitor set his portfolio on the edge of a low table. “I do not want to take up too much of your time, my lord.” He opened the folder and removed several documents covered in tiny, precise handwriting. “It is regarding Lord Somerby’s demise that I requested a meeting with you today.”

Kit set his glass aside and sat up, unease plucking along the back of his neck. “You’re his executor.”

“Precisely so.” Flowers glanced at the papers in his hand. “This is a copy of his will, and it concerns you.”

“I cannot see how. We were not related by blood or marriage.” His mind churning, Kit rubbed at the stubble along his jaw.

“Perhaps not,” the solicitor allowed, “but Lord Somerby named you as one of his beneficiaries.”

“He what?” Kit demanded.

Flowers pulled a pair of spectacles from his coat’s inside pocket and set them on his nose. His eyes moved back and forth as he perused the will. “While it is true that the majority of his considerable fortune has gone to relatives, the marquess earmarked a portion for you upon his death. You are to receive an initial sum of ten thousand pounds and an annual allowance of one thousand pounds for fifty years.”

Kit’s heart seized before taking up a fast rhythm. “Surely not.”

The solicitor drew himself up. “I, myself, transcribed Lord Somerby’s words as he lay on his deathbed. There is no mistake, my lord. The money is yours, and should you decease before the fifty years has elapsed, then your issue shall be the recipient or recipients.”

“I . . .” Words had always been Kit’s ally. They were reliable and came to him easily. Yet now, they were nowhere to be found.

His pulse hammered as though he had just liberated a town from enemy forces. Was it true . . . ? Could he believe it?

His allowance as a third son was, at best, modest, and seldom lasted long. The selling of his commission had provided a small increase—but it was short-lived. Like many men of his class, he lived on credit. His rooms, his clothes, his wine. God only knew what he owed at the gaming hells. But he returned to them again and again, staking too much money on steep odds, praying for the win that would secure his dream. A dream he’d held close throughout the War and that kept him sane when the world had turned to mud and madness.

He’d never truly believed he could make it happen. Until now.

“The news is welcome, I wager,” Flowers said, glancing up over the rims of his spectacles.

“Quite welcome,” Kit answered softly. “I have . . . plans.”

He hoped those plans would chase away the darkness that haunted him ever since his return from Waterloo. Shadows lurked in silent corners and whispered to him in the quiet moments, joyless thoughts that brought him back to the hell of war and the omnipresence of death. He ran from pleasure to pleasure, trying to outpace the wraiths. If he could accomplish his one goal, he might not have to face those ghosts again.

As the War had ground on, his life consisting of boredom and battles, blood and loss, Kit had turned again and again to thoughts of a world where nothing existed but pleasure. Where every day was filled with happiness and beauty.

He’d always loved going to Vauxhall, with its pavilions, gardens, lights, and music—an unending parade of joy. What if he could create a place like that, a pleasure garden entirely of his own design? He’d oversee it, immersing himself not in the business of death but life.

It would be his. Finally.

“Show me what to sign.” He stood and paced around the chamber. “There’s got to be a pen around here. I’ll ring for one.”

“Hold a moment, my lord.” Flowers got to his feet.

The grave expression on the solicitor’s face froze Kit in place. His instincts had kept him alive on the battlefield for more years than he cared to remember. Those same instincts rang like a bell, resonating through him.

“There is a condition,” Flowers explained. “It’s rather unusual, but Lord Somerby was most insistent.”

“Tell me.”

The solicitor cleared his throat once more. “Lord Somerby was, as you are aware, a widower, and spoke most effusively about the holy state of matrimony.” He paused. “Might I suggest you have a drink of wine, my lord?”

Kit strode instead to a decanter of brandy perched on a small table. He poured a generous amount into a glass and drank it all down in one swallow. He felt the warm burn in his throat and the softening of reality’s sharp edges.

“What must I do to claim my bequest?” he demanded.

“As of today,” Flowers announced, “you have thirty days.”

Kit narrowed his eyes. “Thirty days to do what?”

“Wed,” the solicitor answered. “Then, and only then, will you receive your portion of Lord Somerby’s fortune. If you do not, then the money goes to the late marquess’s distant relative in Bermuda.” Flowers tried to smile, but it resembled a grimace.

Blood rushed from Kit’s head like deserters fleeing combat. The room tilted, but it had nothing to do with the brandy he’d consumed. “Good God damn.” He clutched the neck of the decanter as though it could support the weight of his shock.

The chamber righted itself, but Kit’s world had been completely upended. “It appears that I’m getting married.”

Staring into the narrow, dark alley, Tamsyn Pearce calculated her odds of surviving the next ten minutes and determined they weren’t good.

“Did you bring a firearm?” Nessa asked as she peered over Tamsyn’s shoulder.

“I have a knife in my garter,” Tamsyn answered.

Nessa clicked her tongue. “A blade won’t do much against a pistol.”

Straightening her spine, Tamsyn said in what she hoped was a confident tone, “I’ve learned a few things after eight years of smuggling—including how to avoid the dangerous end of a pistol.” She aimed a smile at her friend. “Haven’t been shot yet.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Nessa replied grimly.

Tamsyn shook her head. “A fine way to show your encouragement.”

Nessa attempted to look more cheerful, but the worry never left her eyes. She gently smoothed a hand down Tamsyn’s cheek. “Ah, my bird, forgive my worry. You’ve done so much for Newcombe, ever since you were but a child, and your poor mabmik and tas at God’s table.”

An old, familiar ache resounded in Tamsyn’s chest, even though it had been ten years. Her parents, Adam and Jane Pearce, had taken their pleasure boat out to sail along the rocky Cornish coast of their home, leaving fourteen-year-old Tamsyn behind to finish her schoolwork. They had not returned alive.

The barony had passed to Tamsyn’s uncle, Jory. But if the villagers of Newcombe had hoped to find in the new baron the same measure of concern for their welfare as his brother had demonstrated, they were bitterly disappointed. A poor fishing yield and strangling taxes decimated Newcombe’s livelihood. To Tamsyn, orphaned and adrift, there had been one audacious solution to the village’s plight.

But all that could come to an end if she couldn’t move this sodding shipment of brandy and lace. She’d journeyed all the way to London to help the village and if she failed, she imperiled over four hundred souls depending on her.

She glanced back into the alleyway. It smelled of copper and standing water, and shadows gathered thickly. Somewhere in that gloom, a tanner named Fuller kept a storefront, but that business was merely a pretense for a much more profitable enterprise.

“Can we be sure of this bloke?” Nessa pressed, giving words to Tamsyn’s own worries.

“He’s the best lead we’ve had in a fortnight.” Everyone else had fallen through. “Come on.” She stepped into the alley.

More than once, Tamsyn had evaded customs officers, running down the beach and hiding in caverns to lose her pursuers. She had learned how to fire a pistol and where to stick a man with her blade so that she dealt a punishing but not fatal wound. Every time a new shipment needed to be offloaded, she faced danger.

The fear that made her palms sweat had little to do with physical peril. So many relied on her. She couldn’t fail them.

Nessa’s nervous steps tapped behind her as she strode deeper into the alley, echoing her own rapid heartbeats. But Tamsyn vowed that she would brazen this out just as she’d done with everything else in her life.

She passed a man sleeping on the ground. He opened one eye as she went by and gave a grunt of surprise. Women of quality didn’t haunt shabby London alleys. Not for the first time, Tamsyn wondered if she ought to have changed her clothes before leaving Lady Daleford’s this morning. Too late to do anything about it now. She had to move forward.

Fuller’s shop front was little more than an awning-covered table strewn with hides in different stages of tanning. The reek of lime brought tears to Tamsyn’s eyes, and she heard Nessa gag quietly behind her. A jowly man in a heavy apron stood behind the table, warily watching Tamsyn’s approach.

He said with barely concealed disdain, “Looking for fine leathers, miss?”

Tamsyn fingered one hide, pretending to contemplate it. “Bill Conyer said you could help us.” In desperation, she’d gone to the docks to look for leads. Conyer, an out-of-work stevedore, had given her Fuller’s name and direction—though he’d had to be financially compensated for the information.

Fuller scowled. “Conyer don’t send no one to me for leather. Only . . .” His eyes widened. “But you’re a lady. Ladies don’t—”

“This one does,” Tamsyn interrupted. “Are you interested?”

“How do I know you ain’t playing?” Fuller demanded. “No ladies in this business.”

Tamsyn fingered the diaphanous fabric around her neck. “Chantilly lace. Fifty yards of it.” She calmly pulled a flask from her reticule and held it out. “This is a sample of my brandy. Five hundred gallons are sitting in Cornwall this very moment. I’m looking for the right buyer for both.”

Fuller glared at the flask but didn’t take it.

“Go on,” Tamsyn urged. She fought to keep her tone calm. It would scare Fuller off if she showed her desperation. “You’ll never taste anything finer.”

He snatched the container from her hand and took a drink. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said with reluctant admiration, “That’s prime fuddle.”

Her heart rose, all the while she kept her expression calm.

“But I ain’t going to be your fence,” he added.

An icicle pierced her chest. “Why not?”

“On account of I don’t do dealings with gentry morts. Can’t trust ’em.”

“I assure you, I am most trustworthy. I have been in this line of work for nearly a decade and—”

“Then why don’t you got a fence?” Fuller demanded. “Why come crawling to me?”

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. How could she possibly explain? The smuggling operation ran through the family’s ancestral home, Chei Owr. Caverns beneath the house led directly to a cove, which was the perfect location to receive smuggled goods from a ship at anchor. Those same caverns served as the holding place for the brandy and lace, and they sat there until they were purchased by their fence, Ames Edmonds, who distributed the goods both in Cornwall and all over England.

It was a perfect system. Jory and his wife, Gwen, knew nothing about the smuggling operation, which was precisely how Tamsyn wanted it to stay.

Everything would have proceeded apace—if Jory hadn’t announced a month ago that he intended to sell the crumbling, neglected Chei Owr. He had every right to: he was Lord Shawe, and the manor house wasn’t entailed. He already had letters to agents in London, though no buyer had yet stepped forward.

Tamsyn’s horror at losing her home and last connection with her parents was doubled when she had received a hastily scrawled note from Ames stating that, with the possible sale of their base of operations, their partnership was over.

The latest shipment of brandy and lace had nowhere to go—and the village was in dire need of cash. Tamsyn had hurriedly concocted a plan wherein she and Nessa, acting as her maid, would travel to London under the guise of her finally having a Season. Her parents’ old friend Lady Daleford had offered her a place to stay and entrée into the city’s most elite gatherings. All the while, Tamsyn would undergo a frantic search for a new fence. Balls and soirees in the evening, haunting London’s seediest corners during the day.

There was one other component to her reason for being in London. But she hadn’t been pursuing it with the same dedication as the hunt for a buyer.

None of this could be relayed to Fuller, of course. The less he knew about her personally, the safer both of them would be. Hanging was always an option for smugglers. Or, given that she was of gentle birth, she’d likely be transported. Neither option was appealing.

“I fail to see what difference my motivations make,” Tamsyn answered coolly. “I have top-tier merchandise to move, and I’m giving you the option to buy it. We’ll both make out nicely.”

Fuller squinted at her as if she were tiny, illegible writing. He spat upon the ground. “If you was a bloke, I’d be singing a different tune. But you’re a mort.”

“I oversee an operation that successfully collects thousands of pounds’ worth of merchandise, from making connections with the ship’s captain to unloading the goods to its storage and sale,” Tamsyn noted, her words dry. “But I am not in control of my sex.”

“Ain’t my problem, Miss Lacy Drawers. Unless you want to show me what you got under them skirts.”

“Don’t you talk to her that way!” Nessa interjected hotly.

Tamsyn held up a placating hand. Fishermen and sailors had notoriously foul language, so she was well acquainted with salty words aimed at her person.

“If I did,” she said calmly, “would you buy my lace and brandy?”

Fuller grinned. “Naw. I just wanted to see how low a gentry mort would go.”

“Then we have nothing further to discuss.” Tamsyn turned away, feeling heaviness weighting down her limbs. With Nessa following, she moved toward the entrance to the alley, though she walked with deliberate slowness in case Fuller was merely trying to drive a hard bargain. She waited for him to call her back. He didn’t.

When she and Nessa emerged back onto the street, Tamsyn finally exhaled. She leaned against a brick wall and stared up at the greasy, gray London sky—so different from the bright blue that stretched over Cornwall.

“What do we do now?” Nessa practically wailed.

Tamsyn uncapped her flask and, after using her fichu to wipe off its mouth, swallowed a healthy mouthful of brandy. It burned a path through her body, strengthening her resolve.

“I have to find myself a husband,” she said.

Chapter 2

“How is it,” Kit said, “that I can happily find an eager lover with ease, yet the moment my thoughts turn to matrimony, none of the women I encounter are at all suitable as a bride?”

Kit surveyed the Eblewhites’ ballroom with a disheartened gaze. To be sure, the mansion in the heart of Mayfair boasted one of the most beautiful ballrooms in the whole of the city, and it was currently filled with pretty, marriageable women looking for a husband. They wore gowns in a kaleidoscope of colors, adorned with ribbons and flowers and expensive jewels, and to a one, they were lovely, with bright eyes, easy smiles, and soft skin.

Despite the elegance and gaiety around him, his gaze alighted on the corners of the room, searching out areas where an enemy could hide, and locating the best routes for an escape. The war had been over for two years, yet he couldn’t shake the skills that had kept him alive.

Someday, perhaps, that ever-alert part of him would realize that the threats had passed. For now, he endured his wariness and caution, and reminded himself to unclench his fists and loosen his jaw.

“It’s a deuced mystery.” Thomas Powell, the Earl of Langdon and heir to the Duke of Northfield, shook his head with wry dismay. He spoke with a faint Irish accent, evidence of his early years having been spent in County Kerry. “I’ve told you again and again that you ought to just pick one, marry and bed her, and then acquire a mistress. It’s what I would do in a similar situation.”

“You’re a duke’s sodding eldest son,” Kit noted tartly. He and Langdon stood near the punch bowl in a desperate bid to locate one young lady who would make a fine countess. “You’ll never find yourself in a similar situation.”

“I suppose someday I’ll have to find myself a wife,” Langdon mused, “but that day is thankfully a good distance away.” He and Kit bowed as a handsome, statuesque woman walked by with her debutante daughter in tow. The mother nudged her daughter and both sent enormous smiles in Kit’s direction. “Lady Briscoe is eager to offer up her daughter for your consideration.”

Kit nodded politely in the women’s direction, but he only gave the debutante a cursory look before his gaze moved on.

“What was wrong with that one?” Langdon demanded impatiently.

“Too pretty. I’d exhaust myself fighting duels.” It didn’t really matter to him, though. Remaining faithful to his future wife wasn’t in his plans, and so long as she kept her fidelity until she birthed an heir, he didn’t much care what his spouse did—or whom she took as a lover.

Yet impatience gnawed on Kit. His body was primed and tense, the way it was in the moments before battle. He felt the clock ticking, more precious minutes and hours lost in his desperate search.

His friend sighed heavily. “You’re a bloody piece of work.” Langdon sipped at his punch and made a face. “Is there any decent wine in this place?”

“None that I’ve seen.” Kit wouldn’t have imbibed anyway, much as he wanted to. He had to present an appearance of faultless respectability in order to attract a prospective bride.

“We’re clearly not going to find anything worthwhile to drink here.” Langdon set his punch glass on a passing servant’s tray. His expression brightened. “There’s new dancers at the opera tonight. It’s early enough for us to catch a performance. And meet the ladies afterward.” He raised a dark brow with an appreciative leer.

Much as he wanted to go . . . “I can’t leave.” Kit fought to avoid exhaling in frustration. “Time’s running out. I have only a week to find myself a bride.”

The punch bowl gambit was a loss. Anyway, he was too restless to stand idle, so he began to walk the perimeter of the ballroom. Langdon kept pace with him, and together they skirted the edge of the guests making their way through the complex patterns of a country dance.

The women dancing all looked at him as he walked, but the moment he caught their gazes, he found something else to attract his interest—the twinkling chandeliers or the vases of hothouse roses positioned at the perimeter of the chamber.

“You’re doing it again,” Langdon observed. “Dismissing girls left and right as though you’re deciding what waistcoat to wear.” He grinned at a willowy blonde widow, who sent him an inviting smile. Yet he continued to walk beside Kit as they made a circuit around the ballroom.

“It cannot be helped,” Kit answered. He nodded his head toward different young ladies in the chamber. “Her laugh is too abrasive. That one’s as shy as a fawn. She’ll spend all my blunt and leave me foundering in even greater debt.”

That last shortcoming was one he couldn’t permit. He needed Lord Somerby’s money to make his plans for the future come to fruition.

After learning about the matrimonial condition of Somerby’s will, Kit had immediately gone to Lady Walford, the ton’s most accomplished gossip. He’d informed her—in strictest confidence—of his intention to marry within a month. She had agreed to hold his confidence, and by the following morning, everyone in Society knew that Lord Blakemere had given up his dissolute ways in order to secure himself a wife and fortune.

“Here I am,” he grumbled lowly. “A titled man about to possess a considerable fortune, healthy, young, reasonably attractive—”

“Reasonably,” Langdon noted drily.

Kit shot him a quelling look. There had been a time not so long ago when he’d been full of good humor and jests, never wasting an opportunity for droll banter. But his sense of humor had disappeared the longer he was in the marriage market.

“And I cannot locate one woman who’d make for a suitable wife,” he continued. He didn’t understand himself or his mystifying impulse to find fault with each female to cross his path. None of them seemed quite right.

“I blame Somerby,” Langdon said. “God rest his soul. If he hadn’t gone on about what a sterling marriage he’d had and how he was utterly devoted to his late wife, you wouldn’t have such lofty ideals about what constitutes matrimony.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Kit answered at once. “I know what marriage is supposed to be.” His own parents esteemed each other, just as any aristocratic couple should, and behaved accordingly in public and in private. The love Lord Somerby had felt for his dear Elizabeth was highly unusual, almost gauche in its effusiveness. Love was not part of genteel alliances.

Neither was fidelity. Kit knew the concept existed in theory, but he’d never practiced it—nor did he want to. Sharing a bed with just a single person for the duration of one’s life seemed both impossible and terrifically dull.

And searching for someone he could love . . . That was nigh impossible. For a number of reasons. You didn’t just bump into a young woman at a ball and realize that she was your soul mate. It was ridiculous to think that he might entertain such a thought.

Duty was for wives. Passion for mistresses. And love . . . Love was a dream as elusive as peace.

As he said this, a comely blonde nearby smiled at him. He felt a rise of hope as he returned the smile. But then he observed the whitening of her knuckles as she clutched her fan.

Too desperate.

Kit bit back a growl of frustration as he glanced away. At this rate, he’d be lucky to marry a drunk donkey.

“You’re not precisely the ideal potential husband.” Langdon smirked.

“I’ll have money, won’t I?” Kit demanded hotly. “They gave me an earldom. What more could a girl ask for?” His could feel his pleasure garden slipping from his grasp, and the obstacle in his path was himself.

Langdon sent him a wry glance. “Oh, not much. Only temperance, fidelity, and fiscal responsibility.”

“Bah,” Kit scoffed. “Who needs such a dullard?”

“Most women of marriageable age,” Langdon replied.

It would have been better if Kit had never been given the opportunity to inherit any amount of money. He could exist in the same pleasure-filled haze he always did, dreaming his dreams but without the expectation of fulfilling them.

“I’ve been haunting every ball, tea, and soiree,” Kit muttered, fighting frustration and despair. “To no avail.”

“A sticky conundrum,” Langdon agreed. He yawned into his hand. “There’s a reason why I avoid these dull assemblies. A decided lack of nudity.” He glanced around the ballroom and made a scoffing sound. “I’m off to the theater. Come with me?”

Kit longed to leave, finding society balls as interesting as a sermon about dirt. But . . . “Got to stay here. No future brides wait for me in the demimondaines’ theater boxes.”

His friend nodded in acknowledgment. “When you tire of your hunt, you know where to find me.”

Kit gave him a distracted wave as he strode away, too busy brooding over his predicament to pay much attention to Langdon’s departure. They’d see each other on the morrow, anyway, at White’s. Ever since Kit returned from the War, he and Langdon had met at the club and then gone out every night—with a few exceptions—wringing excitement and diversion from London’s most disreputable attractions.

He’d done his best to avoid those attractions these past three weeks. He’d been so respectable, it fair turned his stomach. But his sacrifice was in vain. He was as brideless as he’d been at the beginning of those three weeks.

Frustrated, impatient, Kit muttered a curse and started for the card room at the other end of the chamber. He wouldn’t find a wife there, amidst the games of vingt-et-un and loo, since the amusements were set up primarily for men and married women. But at least it would help relieve a fraction of the tension that knotted his muscles and made him grit his teeth.

Distracted as he was, his head tucked low, his gaze fixed on the parquet floor, he didn’t see the young woman in his path until it was almost too late. They nearly collided, but he pulled himself up just before smacking into her.

“Excuse me, miss,” he exclaimed.

The girl spoke with a distinct Cornish accent. “No harm done, sir.” She smiled at him.

Her smile set off fires throughout his body. She fairly glowed with vibrancy.

Kit didn’t recognize her, and he wouldn’t have forgotten meeting a girl with such vividly red hair—coppery and bright beneath the light of the chandelier—and he had a fierce need to see it loose about her shoulders. He was drawn in by her wide-set, light brown eyes, slightly tilted at the corners. Her full, rose-hued lips stirred a need in him, baffling in its swiftness.

She had an elfin look, with a long, sleek form. The neckline of her pale green gown highlighted her modest but well-formed bosom, and his hands twitched with the desire to know the feel of her. Though the pink in her cheeks alluded to a life spent frequently out of doors, he easily imagined the same flush in her skin when roused to passion.

The hell? Kit wondered dazedly. He’d seen women and desired them within minutes of meeting, but never had he looked upon a woman and been suddenly dragged under the tide of sensual need.

It had to be because he’d been celibate these last three weeks, a drastic measure undertaken because he’d had to be on his best behavior whilst searching for a bride.

He waited for his reflexive dismissal of her. Yet it never came.

Her eyes were bright with intelligence as she looked at him, and her smile lingered, as though she liked what she saw. That baser part of himself puffed up and preened.

He gave her his best, most winning smile. “I—”

But that was as far as he got before a swain stepped between them. “I believe this dance is mine, Miss Pearce.”

“Of course, Mr. Carroll,” the girl answered. She sent Kit an apologetic look as she was led to the dance floor. He fought the urge to take her hand in his and run off into the night like some underworld king claiming his companion.

It’s finally happened. I’ve lost my goddamned mind.

He could wait for her. Bide his time, and then swoop down on her the moment she was free from this Carroll’s clutches.

Yet his response to her was too powerful. Frightening.

He had to regain control over himself. He needed balance. The only time he’d been this close to losing control of himself was on the eve of his first battle.

Kit turned away from the sight of Miss Pearce swaying on the dance floor like a living flame and made his way toward the room set aside for gambling. At least there, he knew the rules of the game.

Though Tamsyn did her best to keep her attention on her dancing partner, her gaze strayed to the blond man with the wary gaze and wide shoulders as he swiftly exited the ballroom. She ought to stay focused on Mr. Carroll—dancing often led to conversation, which could in turn become a morning call, and a few social calls might give way to an amicable connection, and then, hopefully, an offer of matrimony—but she was unable to help herself. Not only had the blond man been exceptionally handsome, but he carried himself with a singular determination, and sharp intelligence gleamed in his eyes.

Three weeks in London searching for a man she might consider marrying had revealed that, while there were a good deal of attractive men, very few of them possessed lean, athletic bodies, and almost none had a sense of purpose or keen intellects.

However, she didn’t need or want a husband to be observant. Or attentive. The more distracted and heedless the better.

It didn’t matter what she wanted for herself, that she had once dreamed of a marriage as devoted as her parents’. Such hopes were merely fancies, never to come to pass.

Yet as she moved through the figures of the dance, she found herself asking Mr. Carroll, “Who was that gentleman?”

Mr. Carroll seemed to know exactly to whom she referred. “Lord Blakemere.” He gave a puzzled frown when she only looked at him blankly. “You really are a country gel if you don’t know him either by face or name.”

She couldn’t feel embarrassed about her Cornish origins. Some London girls had a pale, pinched look and probably couldn’t walk over the moors without calling for a carriage.

But she couldn’t snap a tart reply to Mr. Carroll—not without seriously damaging her marital prospects—so she merely smiled. “We hear so little about the sophisticated city in Cornwall.”

“Can’t be faulted for being born in a backwater, I suppose.” Mr. Carroll sniffed.

She had considered Mr. Carroll moderately handsome, in a rather watery, overbred way, but her opinion of him took a sharp plummet. It would be bad form to simply walk away and leave him alone on the dance floor, so she kept moving through the figures of La Gaillarde.

“Tell me more about Lord Blakemere,” she said with as much sweetness as she could muster.

“Third son of the Marquess of Brownlowe,” Mr. Carroll said dismissively.

“But he’s Lord Blakemere,” she pointed out. She fell silent as she walked through the steps, pulling her away from her dance partner.

“He bought a commission, the way third sons do,” Mr. Carroll explained when they came back together. “Went off to war. Must’ve shown off over there like a trained lion because he came back and they gave him an earldom. But it didn’t come with any money,” he added quickly, clearly seeing her interest. “He’s strapped. Barely has a groat.”

Tamsyn’s heart sank. So much for Lord Blakemere. The second part of her objective in coming to London was finding herself a rich husband. If she was going to buy Chei Owr from her uncle and keep the smuggling operation alive, she needed a spouse with considerable wealth.

“You didn’t tell her the best part,” the man dancing next to Mr. Carroll added. Before Mr. Carroll could object to the interruption, the other man continued, “Blakemere’s got one week to find himself a bride.”

“What happens in a week?” she asked, trying to listen and concentrate on the steps at the same time.

“He loses his chance to inherit a fortune,” Mr. Carroll snapped. “No wife, no money. That’s the end of it.”

Inherit a fortune. The words reverberated in Tamsyn’s head as she fell into distracted silence.

It was certainly something to contemplate.

At the end of the dance, she curtsied to Mr. Carroll. “Thank you, sir.”

“Might I get you some refreshment?” he offered.

“That’s kind of you, but I believe I see my sponsor, Lady Daleford, standing alone. I must keep her company. Do excuse me.”

He looked annoyed by her dismissal as Tamsyn backed away from him, but his expression of irritation lifted when the same talkative gentleman from the dance whispered in his ear. Mr. Carroll glanced at Tamsyn with the look of a man who had narrowly escaped a ravenous ghoul.

She suppressed a sigh and turned away. Doubtless her lack of dowry was the topic under discussion. In the weeks she had been searching for a potential groom, all the men who had shown promise eventually disappeared when they learned of her impecunious circumstances.

Lady Daleford looked at her with sympathy as she approached. “My dear, you mustn’t let the chatterers deter you,” the older woman declared. She fanned herself slowly. “Your dear papa, God rest him, did you no favors by leaving this world intestate.”

The heaviness in Tamsyn’s chest pressed down. “I suppose he believed he could attend to that matter later.” His brother, Jory, hadn’t seen fit to make any provisions for her, and it was only through Lady Daleford’s largesse that Tamsyn had any fashionable clothes to wear during her brief, disastrous Season.

“We, all of us, think we have more time than we do,” Lady Daleford agreed.

Seeking a change in topic, Tamsyn said, “It cannot be factual that Lord Blakemere has only one week to find himself a wife.”

The older woman’s brows rose. “Heard the gossip, have you?”

So it was true, incredible as it might seem. “Why isn’t he swarming with debutantes?”

Lady Daleford’s expression grew sober. “He is. But no matter what gel seeks his favor, he continues on his hunt. But you would do wise to avoid him. Lord Blakemere wants a bride and will indeed come into a fortune, but he will make the most appalling husband.”

“Strong words, Lady Daleford,” Tamsyn said with surprise. She looked toward the card room.

“Though he fought bravely against our enemies abroad,” the older woman acknowledged, “on English soil Blakemere is the veriest rogue. He’s in a class by himself—well, Lord Langdon belongs in that class, as well.” Her expression became pinched. “Before he learned of his possible inheritance, he never attended a single respectable gathering. He consorts with dancers and actresses, and is a habitué of gaming hells.”

“Most men of his rank do the same,” Tamsyn pointed out. “As for gambling, ladies do that, too. Even in Cornwall the gentry play cards for coin and wager on horses.”

Lady Daleford shook her head. “Here in London, a city full of spendthrifts, he is the ne plus ultra of profligates. The considerable number of his vowels is said to be unprecedented.” She held up one gloved finger. “Mark my word, if he does manage to inherit that money, he will surely tear through it within a year.” She patted Tamsyn’s cheek. “My dear, when I agreed to let you stay with me for the Season, I swore a solemn oath to myself that I would steer you clear of any unsuitable candidates. You are here to make a good match, and by heaven, I will make certain that happens.”

“It’s impossible for me to fully express my gratitude,” Tamsyn replied sincerely.

“The very least I could do to honor your parents’ memory was to see that their daughter had her Season. Dearest Adam and darling Jane would want this for you.” She eyed Tamsyn critically. “Though you are a little on the mature side for a debutante.”

Tamsyn smiled wryly. At twenty-four, she was definitely older than most of the girls vying for husbands, and she’d wager had a good deal more worldly experience than her rivals.

Lady Daleford continued, “Despite your age, and the paucity of your dowry, you come from an ancient lineage and can make a relatively advantageous match. Mr. Simon Hoult has been staring at you all night, and he’s a baron’s second son. You could do far worse.”

Tamsyn risked a glance at Mr. Hoult. He was a tall gentleman with dark brown hair and a cheerful face. His smile widened when he caught Tamsyn looking at him.

“Would he make an attentive husband?” she asked Lady Daleford.

The older woman beamed. “Oh, he’ll assuredly be dutiful. His parents are devoted to each other, and I am certain he will follow their model.”

Much as she desired that for her own selfish reasons, Tamsyn’s mood pitched lower. So much for Mr. Hoult. However, likely encouraged by her brief look in his direction, the gentleman began making his way toward her from across the ballroom. He’d unquestionably ask her to dance, or request the honor of getting her a glass of punch, and Tamsyn didn’t have the heart to encourage him when his chances were futile.

“I need to find the retiring room,” she murmured. “Excuse me.”

As Lady Daleford protested, Tamsyn slipped away before Mr. Hoult could get any closer. She hurried down the corridor leading to the retiring room, but she didn’t go inside. Instead, she sat down on a settee. Running her fingers over the tufted upholstery, she mentally reviewed all of the Earl of Blakemere’s attributes.

1 He was a careless libertine.

2 He was terrible with money.

3 He only wanted a wife in order to claim a fortune, which likely meant he’d be a negligent husband.

In short, he was perfect.

Her pulse leapt at the thought of him, and a flame of attraction burned to life. Usually, she didn’t find herself drawn to blond men, but he had caught her eye from the moment she’d set foot inside the ballroom. He had wide shoulders and carried himself with supreme confidence, as if capable of conquering any obstacle that presented itself. No surprise that he was a former soldier.

He had a somewhat-long face, with a distinguished, largish nose and curved lips. Up close, she’d seen that his eyes were lake blue, and sharply discerning. He’d looked at her with sensual awareness—and judging by the ease with which he moved, his promise of carnality would be readily, enthusiastically fulfilled.

She shook off her thoughts. Lord Blakemere as a lover was not her purpose. She was here to land a husband, the more desperate and inattentive the better.

A flare of unusual nerves tightened through her body. Lord Blakemere fit the bill exactly, but the question was, could she make him want her?

Chapter 3

Warily, Tamsyn approached the card room. Masculine conversation rolled out, borne aloft on fumes of a considerable amount of imbibed brandy. A handful of ladies’ voices joined in, sopranos to the basses, but overall, the room sounded occupied mostly by men.

Her heart made a hard, unsteady beat as she contemplated what she was about to do. She’d never deliberately set her cap for a man, laying out all the pretty little traps women were supposed to cunningly employ to ensnare suitors.

She wasn’t afraid of men by any means. At home in Newcombe, she often worked long hours side by side with the roughest of farmers and fishermen. She believed they tempered their words in consideration of her gender and status. Yet sometimes a barrel would crash down, spilling its contents everywhere, and colorful, profane curses were employed. She came from the countryside, too, where talk was likely more honest, more coarse than the way people spoke in London.

Tamsyn hadn’t had the luxury of being sheltered. But that also meant that she never truly learned the art of simpering or coquetry.

Yet somehow, she was supposed to attract Lord Blakemere’s notice, enough to let him know that she was interested.

She exhaled ruefully. She’d spent many a moonless night standing in freezing seawater, hauling crates of fabric and half ankers of brandy, knowing that the custom officers might discover her at any moment—and yet the task of flirting with a handsome, eligible man made her palms damp.

“Are you going to enter?” a young woman asked, fanning herself as she stood beside Tamsyn. “I’m not certain I want to go in. It’s so dull everywhere I turn.”

“I don’t know what you plan on doing,” Tamsyn said to the woman beside her, straightening her shoulders, “but I feel the need to gamble.”

Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the card room.

The setting was far more elegant than any of the taverns where she’d seen card and dice games played. Instead of seamen and farmers crouching around games played upon a coarse stone floor, fashionable men and women sat encircling polished mahogany tables. Rather than rough hands clutching battered cards, the guests wore gloves and played using cards so clean they had to be new, or rolled dice made of shining ivory. Everything here spoke of privileged leisure, so different from what she’d known.

Tamsyn’s gaze skipped quickly from table to table. Her heart jumped when she finally spotted Lord Blakemere in a corner, playing cassino.

God help her, he seemed to have grown more handsome in the half an hour since she’d seen him last. No wonder women—both respectable and otherwise—were drawn to him. She felt pulled in his direction, lured by carnal potential.

Look at me.

But the earl was too absorbed in the game to notice any newcomers, and she tried not to feel disappointment that he didn’t look up when she entered the room.

Trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, Tamsyn slowly made her way around the room, pausing at different tables, pretending to watch the play. She applauded when one of the guests won their hand, but all the while, she was acutely aware of Lord Blakemere’s nearby presence.

What was she going to do once she reached his table? She couldn’t very well throw herself across his lap and cry, “Marry me, my lord!”

She needed to be crafty and calculating, perhaps even more so than she was when storing smuggled French spirits in the caverns beneath her family’s ancestral home.

Finally, she reached Lord Blakemere’s table and found herself struck by the clean angle of his jaw and the hedonistic curves of his mouth. She barely noticed that one gentleman acted as dealer while the other players—another man, the earl, and a dowager in ropes of pearls—studied their cards.

Tamsyn positioned herself behind an empty chair opposite Lord Blakemere, but her target didn’t look up from his hand. It wasn’t until the round was over that he glanced in her direction.

His gaze met hers, and she felt a hot jolt travel the length of her body. Her breath left her in a sudden rush.

Forcing herself to inhale and exhale slowly, she smiled at him. Gradually, he smiled back. It wasn’t a gentleman’s polite smile, but one that seemed to promise wicked things leisurely done under cover of darkness.

Another bolt of electricity moved through her. She’d had men look at her with sexual interest before, but none of those looks held the seductive power of Lord Blakemere’s sultry smile.

He asked, “Would you care to play, Miss . . . I’m sorry, please remind me of your name.”

“Pearce,” she said breathlessly. “Tamsyn Pearce.”

“Odd name,” muttered the dowager. “Tamsyn.”

Tamsyn’s cheeks heated with a flare of temper. Back home, hers was a commonplace name. But she wasn’t one of the thousands of Annes or Catherines or Marys that seemed all the rage in London.

“A charming name,” the earl corrected the dowager. “Cornish, yes?”

“That’s right.” A point for the earl for not dismissing her as a country mouse.

“Never been to Cornwall,” Lord Blakemere said, “though I hear it’s lovely.”

“And a smuggler’s paradise,” the other gentleman at the table added.

Tamsyn forced herself to laugh, and it came out a little shrilly. “The tales of Cornwall’s criminal side are exaggerated by ballads and print sellers.”

“I should hope so,” Lord Blakemere said darkly.

She didn’t like the grim tone of his voice, so she said in a cheerful voice, “Fishing and mining, that’s how we earn our bread.” She smiled brightly, hoping it might cover up the sheer drivel pouring from her mouth.

Lord Blakemere continued to smile, as well. Their gazes held—with that curious heat unfolding deep within her as she stared into his deep blue eyes—and who knows how long they would have simply stared at each other if the dowager didn’t snap, “Are we playing or napping?”

“Miss Pearce, will you join us?” Lord Blakemere asked. “We can be a partnership.”

Oh blast. She hadn’t thought about this possibility. “I would very much like to,” she said, then added ruefully, “only I haven’t any cash with me.”

“I’ll stake you,” he offered at once. “Say, three pounds? No, four.” He reached into his coat, pulled out a sizable wad of cash, and peeled off four one-pound notes, which he set on the table.

She felt her eyes widen. Goodness, he really was profligate with money if he offered her—a stranger—the loan of four pounds. That amount of money could feed a dozen families in Newcombe.

The other gentleman at the table and the dowager merely shook their heads, as if familiar with Lord Blakemere’s extravagance.

“That’s kind of you, my lord,” she murmured.

“Sit down, gel,” the dowager snarled, “or I may perish of acute boredom.”

With a Herculean effort not to snarl back, Tamsyn took her seat opposite Lord Blakemere. He winked at her and her stomach fluttered.

Concentrate, Tam. You’re here to snare his interest, not fall all over yourself like a newborn calf.

Everyone anted one pound note. Her pulse hammered at the thought of risking so much money on a game, but people played deeper in London than they did in Cornwall.

“You know how to play cassino?” the other gentleman asked as he dealt each of the players four cards.

“She had better,” the dowager said tartly. “I’m too old to explain the rules.”

Once the hands had been dealt, the dealer laid out four more cards in the center of the table—the queen of clubs, the four of diamonds, the seven of spades, and the ace of hearts. Tamsyn studied her cards.

She’d negotiated more than one shipment of smuggled goods over card games in smoky taprooms. Surely playing against these stiff necks was easier.

The gentleman opened by setting the three of diamonds atop the four. “Sevens,” he announced. Tamsyn remembered that this was known as building.

Next was Lord Blakemere. He laid the two of hearts on the seven. “Nines.”

Clearly, then, he held a nine, and hoped no one would capture it before he had a chance to.

The dowager grumbled as she set down the jack of clubs, unable to build or capture anything with the card.

Now it was Tamsyn’s turn. She set the nine of diamonds atop the earl’s pile of cards. “Nines,” she announced.

He gazed at her with curiosity that gave way to admiration. She could have captured the build, but instead, she left it for him to take. It wasn’t unheard of for partners to assist each other in game play, but it seemed evident he was surprised she wanted to bolster him. They would both benefit when it came time to tally points, yet by helping him capture the build, she employed strategy.

And he liked her for it.

The other gentleman captured his sevens, and then Lord Blakemere captured the nines. As he did, he sent Tamsyn a slow-burning look. If we’re this good together at the card table, his gaze seemed to promise, imagine what we’d be like in bed.

The cards became slippery in her damp palms. She’d met her share of country scoundrels, braggarts who were crude in their attempts to woo her. It was easy to dismiss their thinly veiled efforts to get her to lift her skirts because they wanted only their own gratification—she was just a means to an end.

With Lord Blakemere’s knowing looks, however, her blood felt hot, gathering warmth in secret places. She forgot the other people at their table, and in the room.

He offered so much more with just his gaze. He guaranteed not just his pleasure, but hers, as well. Hours of it.

God above, but he was a rake of the first water. The men she’d known in Cornwall were mere awkward, fumbling boys compared to him, and it didn’t appear that he was even trying that hard to impress her. He simply was. How intoxicating.

The card game continued, with play following a similar pattern. Sometimes the earl helped her capture a build, and sometimes she came to his aid. They worked together seamlessly, give and take, and every time he gazed at her with greater and greater appreciation. With each look, Tamsyn felt flushed and powerfully aware of herself as a woman. She saw how his eyes lingered on her mouth or the curve of her neck, sometimes dipping even lower to follow the neckline of her gown—as though he was entranced by what he saw.

This is what a siren feels like.

He was clearly too fond of women to believe in fidelity. Perhaps he would be so distracted bringing willing females into his bed that he’d pay his wife no mind. And when the vast fortune was his, he’d hardly notice the cost of buying a run-down manor in Cornwall.

He’d make for a truly terrible husband.

I have to marry him.

At last, the game ended, and the points totaled.

“Blast it,” the dowager muttered.

“We win,” Tamsyn said, blinking with surprise. She’d been too caught up in the moment, and him, to notice the actual play of the game. But she collected herself enough to say, as Lord Blakemere handed Tamsyn her share of the winnings, “Oh no, you keep it.”

His brows rose. “The prize belongs to both of us,” he said with surprise.

“I only wanted to play for amusement,” she demurred, though she couldn’t manage to sound coy. It wasn’t the truth, but saying, “I played to flirt with you,” wasn’t very strategic.

“Are you certain?” he pressed, his voice low and seductive. He leaned closer to her, and she felt her cheeks flush in response to his nearness.

“I am a woman who knows my own mind, my lord,” she answered pertly.

His grin was sudden, white, and dazzling. She—a woman who’d never fainted once in her life—grew dizzy from his smile, and wanted to lean into him.

No wonder he possessed such a reputation. What woman could resist his charm? “And I’m too much of a rogue to persuade you to change your mind.” He tucked his winnings into his coat. “We make a good partnership,” he murmured in a deep voice. “Shall we play again?”

Oh, yes.

“Tamsyn!” a disapproving feminine voice said behind her.

Turning in her chair, Tamsyn fixed Lady Daleford with a cheerful smile, which was difficult to maintain in the face of censure. “You’ve found me,” Tamsyn said brightly.

“So I did.” Lady Daleford eyed the earl guardedly. “I find myself fatigued. It’s time we head home.”

Tamsyn’s chest constricted. She wasn’t ready to leave yet. Not when things with the earl seemed so promising. On many levels.

But first and foremost, she had to think logically. Though she had attracted Lord Blakemere’s interest, she feared it wasn’t enough to warrant him calling on her. He’d found other women wanting as potential brides. Why should she be different?

I can only be myself. That had to be enough.

Rising from her chair, Tamsyn looked at him with frankness. “I enjoyed our game.”

“The feeling is reciprocated,” he answered, standing. His movements were economical but smooth. He had command over his body.

They stood close. Far closer than was respectable. She had an aching awareness of the breadth of his shoulders and the way his evening clothes skimmed over his muscles. The earl was a soldier still, after two years of peace.

A small frown appeared between his brows, as though he was attempting to puzzle through an enigma. “Might I—”

“Now, Tamsyn,” Lady Daleford said in a clipped tone, already heading for the door.

Damn and hell, Tamsyn thought. Throwing Lord Blakemere a regretful look, she followed her companion out, though she could practically hear her body cry out, Wait! Go back!

Had she been successful? Was he intrigued enough to call on her? But she hadn’t given him leave to, nor had she told him where she was staying.

It seemed all she could do now was hope.

Kit’s eyes followed the intriguing Miss Tamsyn Pearce as she hurried out of the card room. He liked the way she moved with long, purposeful strides rather than using tiny, dainty steps. It wasn’t difficult to picture her tramping over wild, rolling countryside with her cheeks reddened by the wind, unconcerned by the mud edging the hem of her plain gown. He could well imagine that she was the sort of woman who needed to do something rather than restrict herself to being decorative.

He couldn’t deny his visceral reaction to her, either. Even now he felt the hot grip of desire, which had been heightened all the more by the seamless way in which they had played together. It had been a rhythmic give-and-take that had primed his body and excited his mind.

If nothing else, they would be a good match in bed. He knew this with a bodily certitude, an innate recognition of her sensual potential.

Was it enough on which to build a marriage? As he gazed at the door to the room—long after she’d vacated it—he searched for the instinctual aversion that had kept him from pursuing other ladies. But it wasn’t there. If anything, he yearned for more of Tamsyn Pearce.

She’d made her own interest clear. Yet she gazed at him not as a potential to keep her in luxury, but in the dark, elemental way women and men looked at each other.

He wasn’t a stranger to women making known their interest in him. Usually, such ladies were older, more familiar with the worldly ways of the ton. Tamsyn Pearce wasn’t a debutante fresh from the schoolroom, but she had only just come down from the country. She ought to be shy and diffident, yet she didn’t glance away when he looked at her.

She had refused to take the money they had won at cassino. So she wasn’t entirely mercenary.

Perhaps Miss Pearce was just as drawn to him as he was intrigued by her.

But she’d been dragged away by her sharp-eyed companion before he’d been able to ask about calling on her. Damn.

“The gel’s gone, Blakemere,” Lady Haighe said, rapping her knuckles on the card table. “So you can stop mooning after her like a sailor on shore leave.”

He always did like Lady Haighe. But now wasn’t the time to enjoy the baroness’s company.

“Please excuse me.” Kit bowed and hastened out of the card room, ignoring Lady Haighe’s muttered curses.

It took the work of a few moments to locate the night’s host, Lord Eblewhite. The viscount stood amidst a group of men and women gathered at one end of the ballroom. Someone had just said something mildly amusing, because the assembled company was all chuckling.

Kit set his hand on the viscount’s shoulder. “May I have a word in private, Eblewhite?”

“Of course, my lord.” The older man disengaged from his guests and together he and Kit walked to a quiet corner of the chamber. “How goes the search for a bride?” he asked heartily.

Kit fought to keep his impatience in check. Whatever drew him to Miss Pearce, he felt the snap of attraction. He couldn’t ignore the fact that time slipped by.

“You may be of assistance in that matter,” he replied. “What can you tell me about Miss Tamsyn Pearce?”

Lord Eblewhite frowned in thought. “There are so many girls here. I’ve trouble recalling ’em all, like picking out one sugared cake from a banquet full of ’em.”

“This particular cake comes from Cornwall and has red hair,” Kit noted.

The viscount’s brows rose. “Ah. Lady Daleford’s guest. She’s hosting the girl here in London.”

So that was the woman who snapped at him like a terrier. “What do you know of Miss Pearce?”

“A spinster, if I recall correctly.” Lord Eblewhite cast his gaze toward the ceiling as he scoured his memory. “Old Cornish gentry. Not much of a dowry—she’s from impecunious circumstances.”

Would that make her quick to spend his money, or would she watch every ha’penny? “Describe these circumstances,” Kit urged.

Eblewhite looked impatient to return to his guests, but said, “Lady Daleford spoke to Mrs. Osterland, who told Lady Eblewhite that the family manor house is falling down around them. There may be mines on the property. Perhaps not. The nearby village is barely getting by on farming or fishing, but I can’t recall.”

“Her family,” Kit pressed as Eblewhite started to edge away. “Tell me more about them.”

His host sighed. “A fount of information, Lady Daleford. Said her father was Baron Shawe, but he and the baroness died in a boating accident when the girl was in her teens. Went on a pleasure sail one morning and didn’t come back. Their wrecked boat was found a week later, but the bodies were never recovered. But there wasn’t a will, a damned shame. The girl barely brings a groat to her future husband.” Lord Eblewhite shook his head. “Frankly, I’m surprised she’d try for a Season in London, given her age and lack of dowry.” He shrugged his shoulders. “She’s pretty enough, I suppose. Make someone a good mistress.” The viscount rocked on his feet. “Already got one, myself, and can’t afford another. But you ought to give her a go.” He knocked the side of his fist against Kit’s shoulder in a show of manly bonhomie.

“Right now, I’m not looking for a mistress,” Kit answered. “Many thanks, Eblewhite.”

“Good luck on the hunt, Blakemere,” the viscount replied.

Kit bowed as he and Lord Eblewhite parted. Though the dancing and revelry would continue for several more hours, Kit was ready to leave. He avoided Society balls as much as possible, finding them dull and tedious, with an unfortunate lack of indecent behavior—a far cry from the revelry of a pleasure garden. But he’d gotten what he needed from the Eblewhite assembly, and it was time to go home and ponder his options.

Making his way out of the ballroom, he considered all he knew of Miss Pearce.

 Item the First: she was poor with few prospects, so she wouldn’t mind a short courtship.

 Item the Second: she didn’t appear to be a fortune hunter.

 Item the Third: he could easily envision them spending pleasurable hours in bed together.

Conclusion: she was perfect.

Chapter 4

Kit stood at the foot of the front steps leading to Lady Daleford’s town house on Boswell Street, readying himself for the world’s shortest courtship. He had five full days remaining to meet the conditions of Somerby’s will.

He didn’t know if Miss Pearce would accept his brief attempts at wooing, let alone agree to marry. Ladies wanted long walks through sun-dappled fields and soul-stirring looks. They wanted romance. Or so Kit assumed, not having much experience with pursuing ladies’ hearts. He had considerable practice pursuing their bodies, however. That part could come after the wedding. Kit practically salivated as he imagined Miss Pearce’s taste. As a woman of gentle birth, she likely didn’t have much experience—and he couldn’t wait to show her the many ways he could give her pleasure.

Yet if romance was what Miss Pearce wanted, the lack of time meant that Kit would have to disappoint her. He wasn’t entirely certain how to go about offering a genteel young woman marriage two days after meeting her. He would have to try, however. He’d faced Napoleon’s cannons—he could speed a lady through the wooing process and proceed directly to marriage.

Now that he was poised outside Lady Daleford’s home, he wasn’t as certain about the bouquet of red gerbera daisies he carried. Perhaps he should have gone with the more traditional roses. Yet the cheerful, unaffected daisies recalled Miss Pearce’s open, guileless countenance, and the red indicated the passion that lurked just beneath her surface. He’d purchased the flowers without questioning his preference.

Would his title be nothing but a courtesy with no fortune to support it, or would the money slip away and be granted to that distant relative in Bermuda?

The only way to land the blunt is to climb the sodding stairs, he told himself sternly. Miss Pearce was also at the top of the steps, and that quickened his pace and brought him to the front door.

He knocked smartly before a footman opened it with a polite, professional expression, the one he surely used for visiting hours.

Kit handed the servant his card.

“Is her ladyship expecting you, my lord?” the footman inquired politely after reading it.

“Well, no,” Kit admitted. He hadn’t gotten permission to call. Lady Daleford hadn’t told him where she lived, either. That information had been gleaned from Anderson, his valet, who was a trove of information about matters both high and low, and knew the addresses of everyone in the ton. “Just present them with my card.”

The servant murmured, “You may wait in the foyer, my lord.” He stepped back to admit Kit into the house.

With a bow, the footman strode down a hallway, leaving Kit alone. The servant didn’t ask to take Kit’s hat, since it was known that callers never stayed for more than fifteen minutes—which suited him very well, since he hadn’t the luxury of long, protracted conversations.

As he waited, a throb of edginess moved through him. Idleness often gave space for wariness to move in—a habit from so many years in combat.

There are no enemies here. You’re in the heart of London, and safety is all around you.

As he pushed the wariness back, unexpected anticipation rose up and strummed silver fingers along his arms and the back of his neck. Miss Pearce had vitality and spirit, with a hint of daring, as evidenced by her willingness to accept his staking her cards, and the directness of her gaze. Their mutual attraction couldn’t be ignored, either.

Come find me, her eyes had said as she’d left the card room.

Kit didn’t hunt, but he knew a lure when he saw one.

He couldn’t question his rationale as to why Miss Pearce had been the lone woman to snag his interest. His instincts had kept him alive for nearly a decade of warfare, and he wouldn’t ignore them now.

A clock somewhere chimed the quarter hour, and he checked his pocket watch to see that a full ten minutes had passed since the footman had departed with Kit’s card. Which meant that he was currently being debated by Lady Daleford and Miss Pearce.

Straining to hear, he caught faint tones of women’s voices speaking in hushed, urgent whispers. A corner of his mouth curved up ruefully.

The voices reached a peak, and then stopped abruptly. Kit’s heart thudded in the silence. His fate had been decided. Had Lady Daleford won? Or did Miss Pearce emerge victorious?

The footman appeared, but the expression on his face gave nothing away.

Kit’s breath halted.

“Follow me, my lord,” the servant said.

Kit exhaled, thinking to himself, Well done, Miss Pearce!

He trailed after the footman down a short corridor before stepping through the doorway to a drawing room.

“Lord Blakemere,” announced the footman before disappearing.

A wall of windows permitted sunlight to stream into the chamber, forming halos around the furnishings. Miss Pearce, standing with her back to a window, became a fiery saint as her vivid hair caught the light. She wore an equally brilliant smile, full of surprised pleasure as she turned to face him.

For a moment, Kit forgot the mechanics of breathing before they came back to him in a rush. Both he and Miss Pearce took a step toward each other.

He held out the flowers. “Forgive my presumption, but I was compelled to bring these.”

She crossed the room, her eyes bright as she accepted the bouquet. “Daisies! My favorite!”

Perhaps she was telling the truth, or perhaps she prevaricated for the sake of politeness. Yet he had the feeling she wasn’t given to dishonesty, and his smile grew to see the picture she made, cradling the cheerful flowers. The flowers’ vivid hue matched the lushness of her mouth—a mouth that was perfectly made for kissing.

A maid appeared and took the flowers from Miss Pearce. It was only then that Kit remembered that they were not alone in the drawing room. He turned to the older woman seated with an embroidery hoop near the fire.

“Lady Daleford,” Kit said, bowing. “I am glad to find you at home.”

The woman could not have looked more displeased to see him. Her lips were thin and her cheeks nearly red with indignation. “Lord Blakemere.”

How had Miss Pearce convinced the old dame to admit him? Though he was curious, he would gladly accept the results.

He glanced to Miss Pearce, who watched him with lively, curious eyes. Their looks caught. The distance between them seemed to dissolve to nothing, and the presence of Lady Daleford became a vague, remote annoyance.

Kit felt her gaze like a hot caress down his back. A lick of lust uncoiled, centering in his groin and curling outward with a probing, curious touch.

Her eyes widened, as though she, too, had felt that sudden flare. A candid, carnal flush bloomed in her cheeks. With her redhead’s complexion, she wasn’t able to hide her responses.

Intriguing, their reactions. As though they were both surprised, and neither had anticipated anything other than dutiful acceptance of an unwanted situation.

She cleared her throat. “Tea, my lord?”

Lady Daleford coughed with displeasure.

“A kind offer,” Kit answered. “The company is refreshment enough.” He inwardly grimaced. What a bloody trite thing to say.

A corner of Miss Pearce’s mouth turned up as if recognizing the ridiculousness of the situation. She waved toward a chair. “Please.”

He took his seat as she sank down on a nearby sofa.

A small clock on the mantel ticked. They sat in silence for a full minute.

What could he say to Miss Pearce now, anyway? We don’t know each other at all but let’s join our lives together forever seemed like an odd way to begin a conversation. I want to touch you everywhere and feel your hands on my naked skin also seemed inappropriate. And with Lady Daleford hovering like a vulture, he found it even more difficult to speak.

He had to think of something. “Are you enjoying London, Miss Pearce?”

“I get so blessedly confused here,” she said honestly. “The minute I set foot outside the door I don’t know west from east or north from south.” She spread her hands. “The curse of the first-time visitor.”

“You’ve never been here before?” He oughtn’t be astonished by this. Many people lived away from London, but other than his years fighting, he’d always returned to the metropolis. Anything a man wanted could be found here.

“All my life has been spent in Cornwall.” Her smile turned self-deprecating. “I must sound like the country mouse.”

“There’s very little about you I’d ascribe to being a mouse, Miss Pearce.”

Her lips pursed into an amused bow. “There’s another thing I’m not acclimated to—a city gentleman’s suavity.”

“I’ll endeavor to speak more coarsely so I can put you at ease,” he teased.

Her laugh was low and rich, sending another flicker of sensual curiosity careening through him. “If you could curse like a disgruntled fisherman, I’d be ever so much more comfortable.”

Kit’s laugh caught them both by surprise. He hadn’t felt much like laughing these past few weeks—but she brought lightness out in him.

Lady Daleford audibly grumbled.

“May I interest you in a walk to Russell Square?” he asked Miss Pearce. “For once, the smoke in the air is tolerable enough. We might even be able to see a glimpse of blue sky.” He glanced at Lady Daleford. “Of course, we’ll bring along your maid. It will be entirely appropriate.”

Lady Daleford opened her mouth, but Miss Pearce spoke first. “Yes, please.”

“I’ll await you in the hallway,” Kit said, standing as she also got to her feet. He bowed at the older woman, who looked as though she gnawed on salt cod.

He took a few steps past the door before stopping in the hallway. It was absolutely unforgivable that he eavesdrop, but Kit never claimed to have unimpeachable morals. In fact, his amorality had long been one of his greatest strengths.

“My dear,” Lady Daleford said lowly and urgently. “Please reconsider. Feign illness or a turned ankle. Anything rather than giving that man a moment’s privacy. He is a poor investment.”

What’s wrong with me? Kit’s pride gave an indignant throb.

“I’ve already agreed to go,” Miss Pearce answered. “And I want to go. I like him.” She sounded astonished by this fact.

A quick burst of brightness popped in his chest.

“Besides,” she continued, “I don’t think he’s a poor investment.”

“He’ll make a terrible husband,” Lady Daleford warned. “Men like him take mistresses. They stick their wives in the country and never see them. He’ll be exactly the same.”

Damn—the older woman seemed to have read his mind. He’d never desired marriage, but to hear her discredit his husbandly attributes irritated him.

“He’s precisely what I need,” Miss Pearce countered.

And what might that be? he wondered silently.

But whatever her motivations, the end result matched his own desire for a woman he could see himself marrying, and a woman who would be amenable to the world’s shortest courtship. She also seemed unconcerned by the fact that he’d have lovers or deposit her at a far-flung country estate.

“I will go,” Miss Pearce concluded in a tone that would brook no argument.

He couldn’t decide whether or not it was a good thing that she possessed a strong spine. If they were to marry, she would have to accept the fact that he had no intention of changing the way he lived his life. So long as he kept her comfortable, he reasoned, she’d have no cause to complain. He’d give her a comfortable allowance while he used the lion’s share of his income to fund the pleasure garden. Everyone would have what they wanted.

But all that was irrelevant unless she agreed to marry him. Though she might not if she found him lurking in corridors and eavesdropping, so he hurried to the foyer to wait.

Miss Pearce smiled at him as she entered the vestibule, then she passed Kit to go upstairs and change. She made a pretty shape as she ascended the staircase, moving with confidence mixed with instinctive sensuality.

Kit could hardly wait for the wedding night. If she agreed to marry.

“Ahem.”

He turned in mid-ogle to see Lady Daleford glowering at him.

She advanced on him, her eyes sharp and piercing. “I know why you’re calling on Tamsyn,” she said darkly. “You’re panting to get your hands on Lord Somerby’s blunt, and she’s the key.”

“It doesn’t seem like my being an earl, and making her my countess, is an abominable fate,” he answered blandly.

“The title doesn’t trouble me,” she retorted. “It’s your reputation. Gaming hells, demimondaines, opera dancers . . . hardly the pursuits of an honorable gentleman.”

“Perhaps I can reform,” Kit replied. I won’t.

“You won’t.” Lady Daleford sounded confident. “Tamsyn deserves better.”

Kit wasn’t precisely the ideal upper-class man, however her words were little barbs digging into his flesh. He might not be admitted to Almack’s, but, damn it, he’d fought Napoleon. One didn’t return from the blood and mud and boredom and terror without needing some relief—and it wasn’t found at the bottom of a cup of watery lemonade.

“Let’s allow Miss Pearce to decide what she wants,” he countered.

It looked as though Lady Daleford wanted to say more, but her mouth clamped shut as footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Kit turned to see Miss Pearce descending the steps, a shy but eager smile playing about her lips. His chest constricted with pleasure at the sight of her, and he felt his blood quickening.

He barely noticed a ruddy-cheeked woman in plain clothing trailing behind her—instead, he couldn’t tear his gaze from the young woman. She’d donned a lavender redingote and wore a straw bonnet with a matching pale purple ribbon, making her look like a flower from a tropical climate. The color highlighted her complexion and made the light brown of her eyes shine. Everything about her spoke of freshness and vigor, and she seemed ready to meet any experience with unconcealed energy.

Even though she knew he watched her, she didn’t make a show of descending the stairs, prolonging his admiration. Coming to stand in front of him, he caught her fragrance—something warm and spicy—and he flared his nostrils, trying to inhale her all at once. She tilted up her chin. This close, he could see the many tiny freckles that danced over her skin.

Each one a place to kiss, he thought unexpectedly, and wondered if they covered just her face or if there were more on her body.

“Shall we?” He offered her his arm.

Wordlessly, she moved to stand beside him and placed her fingers on his forearm. She wore gloves, and he a coat and shirt, so there was no flesh-to-flesh contact. Just the same, his heartbeat jolted at the pressure of her hand on him.

Normally, he associated with women of a far faster character. Their touches were more bold, but from this simple contact, his whole body came alive.

Miss Pearce’s fingers pressed down with more firmness, meeting the solidity of his arm. She glanced at him quickly, as if surprised by the feel of him. He wasn’t a brawny country lad, but he had been a soldier, and he continued to visit the fencing and pugilism academies to keep his body healthy and strong. Kit allowed himself a moment’s vanity by flexing the muscles of his arm, and was gratified by her interested look.

“Don’t forget that we’re expected at the Newtons’ tonight,” Lady Daleford reminded her.

“I’ll have her home in time for supper,” Kit promised.

Lady Daleford looked unappeased, but Miss Pearce didn’t seem fazed by the older woman’s disapproval.

Realizing that his future depended on this innocuous walk, Kit led Miss Pearce out the door and into the sunlight and uncertainty.

Chapter 5

Tamsyn tried to will her heart to beat at a steadier pace, but it staunchly refused to listen, thudding away with abandon as they ambled down the street. She couldn’t help her mingled nervousness and excitement. He clearly needed to wed quickly, but she didn’t know how long he’d spend courting her—provided she allowed him to.

“Russell Square isn’t far,” Lord Blakemere said as they walked.

She chanced a look at him through lowered lashes. The sunlight was his ally, tracing the planes of his long, handsome face with a loving hand. She felt flushed all over from being this close to him and sensing the potency of his body.

Tamsyn had often heard that a life of sin left its mark upon a person, yet that hardly seemed the case with him. Potency and virility radiated from him, as if nourished by his dissolution.

Perhaps if any of her acquaintances ever fell ill, she would recommend a thorough course of gambling and debauchery to set them back on the path to health.

She looked back at Nessa. Her old friend mouthed something at Tamsyn that she couldn’t understand, but judging by Nessa’s ogling of the earl, she approved of Tamsyn’s choice for a potential husband.

“A little green park isn’t far from here,” she noted. “There’s a good deal more privacy there than Russell Square.”

“By all means,” he said readily, “lead us there.”

It was a strange dance they did, she and Lord Blakemere. She imagined that he’d made inquiries about her, and knew some—but not all—of the reasons for her eagerness to wed. Further, he likely understood that she knew the nature of his own predicament. Yet neither of them could address this directly. Not yet, at any rate.

“London’s rife with entertainments,” he said as they headed toward the tiny park. His voice was deep with a faint, delicious huskiness. “I hope you’ve had a chance to visit some of them.”

“Lady Daleford has no fondness for frivolity. She sees assemblies and balls as a necessary evil, but won’t countenance other amusements.”

“That’s a shame. A pretty young woman needs her share of pleasures.”

Her stomach leapt at his suggestive words. She had the feeling he wasn’t referring to Astley’s Amphitheatre or strolls in the park.

“You sound like one well familiar with the city’s . . . pleasures.”

His gaze turned wicked and knowing. “There’s no better guide. Although,” he murmured half to himself, “the places I’m most familiar with aren’t quite appropriate for a gentlewoman.”

She didn’t doubt it. He could probably put to shame a sailor on leave.

“Before I return to Cornwall,” she mused, “I’ll convince Lady Daleford to let me see something of the city. Vauxhall, at the least.”

He grinned. “Pleasure gardens are amongst my favorite places.”

“From what I’ve heard, they’re rather wild.”

His grin widened and his eyes gleamed with excitement. “Precisely—the mix of all walks of life, the ecstatic chaos, the unpredictability and dedication to wringing joy out of every minute.” He looked as though he was about to say something further, but then seemed to reconsider it and was silent.

“I’m not much familiar with gentlemen of fashion and their interests,” she confessed. Farmers, fishermen, and smuggling sea captains—those were the men she knew best, but she couldn’t tell him that.

He lifted his brows. “I’m a gentleman of fashion?”

She eyed him, from the crown of his beaver hat to the toes of his gleaming tall boots. Today he wore buff breeches, a wine-colored waistcoat, and a bottle-green coat, all of the finest materials and assembled with an expert hand. No one in the whole of Cornwall had a fraction of his sartorial gloss, and that included Penzance. But he didn’t quite resemble a dandy, given the fact that the body wearing the garments seemed more suited for the battlefield. Or the bedroom.

“You’re no elderly farmer,” she replied.

He shook his head and exhaled. “I suppose that’s better than most of the names I’ve been called.”

That comment would have to be explored in greater depth—another time.

He guided her around a puddle on the sidewalk. “For one with scant practice talking to a polished gem such as myself, you’re doing admirably. London’s not known for plain dealing, but you speak your mind.”

“I try to be truthful.” Which was only partially true. “I’m not always successful.”

“No one can be completely honest all the time,” he said with the air of a man who had a few secrets of his own. What were they? Did she dare find out?

“I agree.” There was only one secret that she kept, but it was a big one.

They reached the tiny square, tucked between homes. It was a little treasure enclosed by iron railings, with a handful of trees and green grass currently occupied by a pair of pigeons. A wooden bench stood in the middle, as if waiting for two people on an assignation.

“I discovered this place on a walk,” Tamsyn explained as she and the earl approached the bench. Nessa stood a small distance away, feeding the birds with bread crumbs she pulled from the pockets of her coat.

“Given Lady Daleford’s chary eye,” Lord Blakemere said wryly, “I’m surprised she let you amble out of her clutches.”

“She was taking a nap,” Tamsyn admitted, “and I bolted.”

His crooked smile was a roguish thing with the power to weaken her knees. He didn’t admonish her for being disobedient, or seem particularly alarmed that she’d gone out on her own.

“If you grasp freedom again,” he advised her, “be sure to go to Catton’s. The best iced cakes in the hemisphere. It’s run by a woman, Isabel Catton.” He leaned closer and her mouth went dry. “She’s a scandalous woman, Mrs. Catton. A marquess’s daughter who shocked Society by marrying a commoner.”

Tamsyn barely paid attention to the words he spoke. All she could focus on was his nearness, and the warm, masculine scent of his skin.

“I hadn’t heard of the place,” she said, struggling for calm. She sat down on the bench and he sat beside her, leaving an unfortunately respectable distance between them. “Now I’ll be certain to go before I leave London. I do love a scandalous woman.”

“Me, too,” he said in a low, confiding voice. A frown suddenly creased his brow. “You plan to stay for the entirety of the Season, I hope.”

“I haven’t decided the length of my stay,” she answered, which was a better response than, I need to find a husband with heaps of money so I can keep smuggling.

He drew in a breath, then slowly exhaled. His profile was turned to her, so she could see the clean lines of his face, his slightly large nose, the angles of his jaw. His brows were drawn down, as if in thought.

“Let’s agree to honesty between us.” He turned to her, his expression serious, which seemed an odd contrast to his usual levity.

She made a noncommittal sound. Fortunately, he took that as a sound of agreement.

“In the spirit of that honesty,” he went on, carefully selecting his words like a man picking out precious stones, “I’ll state it plainly—I need to wed within five days.”

Hearing him say it out loud made her heart speed up. “I know,” she replied as evenly as she could.

He waited for a moment, as though expecting her to demand to be taken home. When she didn’t, he continued. “Your circumstances are known to me, as well.”

Her heart knocked into her ribs. “What do you know?”

“You’re from an old family,” he recited. “You were orphaned, but there wasn’t a will, so you have no dowry.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Did I miss anything?”

She forced a thin smile. “From stem to stern, that’s everything.”

Planting his hands on his knees, he went on. “Knowing what you know about me, would you be amenable . . . to becoming my wife?”

Her breath deserted her. She couldn’t speak.

“The short of it is,” he continued in her silence, “I need a wife and you need a husband. We’ll suit each other’s needs.”

“What a romantic proposal,” she said wryly. “‘You’ll do.’”

He grimaced. “I’ve never proposed before, so my skill is negligible. My apologies.”

She shook her head as she accepted the death of her final hope for affection. “Romance never figured into the picture for me, anyway.”

“Again, I’m sorry I have to be so businesslike,” he said with regret. “Time is slipping away, faster and faster. I can vow that, if you say yes, I will make your life very comfortable.”

She didn’t care about that—all that mattered was buying Chei Owr and keeping Newcombe from the deadly grip of poverty.

But she would also be married. She’d become Lord Blakemere’s property after years of almost-complete liberty.

Yet for all that the country considered her to be his possession, the same could not be said about him. He would not belong to her. She would give up her independence, and he’d keep his freedom, which hardly seemed fair. A husband could sue for divorce on the grounds of infidelity, but she wouldn’t have the same recourse unless he was physically cruel to her or a bigamist.

“Will you be faithful?” she asked.

He was silent for a long while. “I cannot guarantee my fidelity,” he finally said. Grimly, as though delivering a verdict.

Her sinking regret was expected, but that didn’t make it less painful. “I see.”

“Once you have given me an heir,” he added quickly, “you can take a lover. I won’t be jealous of you, and you won’t be jealous of me.”

She knew how city marriages worked. Even so, she confessed, “I didn’t think it mattered that we might be monogamous, but hearing it spelled out so plainly is”—she searched for the right word—“strange.”

He looked rueful, but not repentant. “Understandable. But I must say again that Lord Somerby was a very wealthy man. His wealth will be mine. You will have any material comfort you desire, so long as your spending is within reason.”

With no dowry and all her attention given to smuggling, she’d never expected to marry. She’d resigned herself to living as her uncle’s dependent at Chei Owr while she continued to run the smuggling operation.

She’d also reconciled herself to spinsterhood—and all its attendant loneliness. Yet to know that her future husband wouldn’t be faithful felt like a disappointment.

Never knew I’d given two figs about romance. And yet she did, seeing now that it would truly be denied to her.

You’ll have Chei Owr. That’s something.

“Consider us as business partners,” he explained, “rather than a romantic couple.”

Could she sign her name to an agreement with the man who would be her husband, the man who would have control over her person and her future children?

Did she have a choice in saying no?

“If we wed,” he continued persuasively, “we’ll get along well. No illusions, no disenchantment.”

She could get up. Walk away.

Since her parents’ deaths, she’d had no love in her life. She and Nessa were friends, but that was all. None of the village men had ever vied for her hand. Oh, there had been kisses here and there, but nothing further. They couldn’t—she was a baron’s daughter and they were farmers and fishermen.

Lord Blakemere’s candid proposal was the best she was going to get. She doubted he would be around enough for her to grow attached—and his absence was necessary if she was to continue smuggling.

A fierce part of her didn’t want to share her man with anyone. Perhaps if the earl had been less fascinating, less alluring, she could say with confidence that it wouldn’t hurt if he went to other women’s beds.

What if it does hurt? What if I come to feel something for him?

Don’t care for him. Protect yourself. That was the best she could do. Perhaps, once she’d given him that heir, she could find love with someone who wasn’t her husband. How very sophisticated.

“Your silence alarms me,” he said, breaking her thoughts.

“No cause for alarm,” she replied. She drew in a breath. “My answer is yes.”

His smile was sudden and bright. The worry left his eyes, and pleasure with her and the world radiated from him. “This is . . . this is excellent.” His brow furrowed. “Are you content with a special license? We can be married in three days.”

“So soon,” she murmured, but she had understood it would be fast.

“I cannot wait longer,” he said with contrition.

“Understandable.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “We can wed in three days, if that’s what will help you.”

“It will,” he said eagerly. “Thank you.” His gaze narrowed on her face. There was a sudden determination in his eyes. “I’d like to kiss you.”

Ah, there went her pulse again. It sped up at his words, making breath hard to find and her palms damp.

“You don’t have to,” she answered quickly. “I’ll consider our agreement binding. Here.” She offered him her hand to shake.

He slid his palm over hers, and the thin leather of his gloves through her own kidskin was as hot as his bare skin touching hers. Tamsyn’s heart jumped into her throat at the contact. But he didn’t shake her hand. Instead, he cradled it, enfolding her with his broad palm and long fingers.

The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled, but there was no mistaking the desire in his gaze. “We may be entering into this union with practical intentions, but I’m a man before I’m a businessman. And I’d very much enjoy kissing my future wife.”

“I . . . oh.” She glanced at his lips. They were curved and well formed, and she feared what they would feel like against her mouth. She suspected that he knew the art of kissing and could make a woman surrender everything with just his mouth.

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. “I’ll make it good for you.”

That’s what I’m afraid of.

But I want to know. I want to taste him.

She drew in a breath. “You may kiss me.”

He leaned closer to her, slowly, as if afraid of frightening her. Engulfed by his masculinity, she grew light-headed. There was faint stubble on his jaw and cheeks where his beard would come in. Would it be gold or brown or even reddish? It was a shame that beards weren’t fashionable, because there was something so definitively masculine about them. If she had her way—

Her thoughts stuttered and died as he pressed his lips to hers, and her eyes fluttered shut. She sank into the sensation of his mouth gently stroking back and forth, as if learning her, testing the feel of him and her together. He lingered that way for a while, as if in no hurry to speed the process along. If kissing was music, then he was a maestro, building gradually, allowing the melody to take shape before plunging ahead.

The press of his lips grew firmer, and she found herself meeting him, leaning into the kiss and letting it delve deeper. At her response, a low sound of approval rose up from his chest. He slowly urged her lips apart and took the kiss further. The very tip of his tongue dipped to taste her. Without thought, she nipped at his tongue and met it with her own.

Hot electricity shot through her. It coursed along her body, forking into bright strands that wove through her breasts and between her legs. She inhaled sharply, stunned by the sudden, powerful sensations.

I’m going to be married to this man? Mercy.

They pulled back in unison and her eyes flew open. His gaze was clouded with dazed pleasure and astonishment.

It seemed he’d also been shocked by the heat of their kiss and the speed of its intensity. He, a known rake and libertine, looked aroused by what surely had to be one of the chastest kisses he’d experienced in a long while.

Except it hadn’t been chaste. It had been brief, but their tongues lightly touching had been profoundly erotic, hinting at greater pleasure to come.

He cleared his throat. “That was . . . a welcome revelation.”

Her thoughts whirled while her body clamored for more. Hellfire—if this quick kiss had affected her so much, what would happen when they went to bed together? What if she liked it? What if she loved it, and her heart followed her body’s devotion? Then she’d have to reconcile herself to him leaving her bed for another.

“I should be getting back,” she said.

“Yes.”

She stood, and he did the same, but it was then that she realized their hands were still clasped. She let him go at once, dropping him as though he burned.

“Let’s get you home.” He held out his arm.

Still shaken by the kiss, her legs wobbled slightly as they headed toward Lady Daleford’s town home, with Nessa trailing after them. Tamsyn looked back at her friend, who responded with a grin and a raised thumb.

“I’ll go for the special license tomorrow,” the earl said. “I can pick the venue, too, unless you’d like to make the selection.”

“I trust you.” Did she? Tamsyn was about to join with this man for the rest of her life. Aside from a few facts, she knew almost nothing about him. He was basically a stranger. Yet in three days, they would share a bed. They would share everything. According to the law, she would belong to him, and her own identity would dissolve.

Was this the right choice? She’d gotten what she wanted, but she couldn’t help the fear that poked its sharp fangs into her heart.

I have no idea what I’m getting myself into.

Chapter 6

The campfire on the night before the Battle of Nivelle seemed festive by comparison to this evening. Only an hour had passed since he’d pledged his troth to Miss Tamsyn Pearce of Cornwall, and the atmosphere still snapped with tension.

The setting couldn’t be faulted. Kit’s friend, the Duke of Greyland, had offered his expansive, elegant home for the ceremony and reception. The wedding itself had been held in the dining room, which had been cleared out and specially decorated for the occasion with garlands of boxwood leaves and roses. Once the vows had been exchanged, the rites concluded, and the parish register signed, servants had brought in tables laden with delicacies and cakes, bowls of punch, and decanters of wine.

A string trio played softly but cheerfully in one corner. Candlelight glittered on cut crystal chandeliers, making the polished silver plates and goblets shine. Everything looked splendid. But the mood remained stubbornly dour.

Kit stood with a glass of wine by a large arrangement of gerbera daisies, watching the guests attempt to socialize. He fought a melancholy sigh. Men didn’t give melancholy sighs on their wedding days.

“Naturally, an original such as yourself had to buck tradition and have a wedding at eleven o’clock in the evening.” Langdon approached and gave Kit’s shoulder a good-natured shake. He stood beside Kit, and together they observed the reception.

“My parents came all the way from Yorkshire to be here,” Kit noted, “and their carriage became stuck in the mud four times today. I couldn’t have the ceremony until they arrived.”

The majority of wedding ceremonies had to be before noon in a parish church, but Kit’s expensive purchase of a special license—using a loan from Langdon—from the Archbishop of Canterbury ensured that he could be wed at the place and time of his choosing. Unfortunately, it had taken two days longer than Kit had anticipated. Added to that was the excessive amount of time it had taken his parents to travel from Yorkshire, and he’d barely an hour left by the time the vows had been exchanged.

“And on the very last day you had left,” Langdon added. He whistled. “I knew you were fond of gambling, but I didn’t think you’d risk your fortune.”

“It wasn’t by choice,” Kit grumbled. “I swore to my parents that I wouldn’t marry without their presence.”

He glanced over at his family. All of them appeared as though they had been drinking unsweetened lemonade.

“None of them are especially forthcoming with their felicitations,” Langdon observed drily. “You’d think they would be happier with their youngest son no longer being their financial responsibility.” He eyed Kit. “And I would think you would be happier, too.”

Kit took a drink of wine, but it didn’t round the sharp edges of his humor. “Nothing is settled until tomorrow. I’m to go to Lord Somerby’s solicitor’s office and finalize the paperwork. Until then, I’m the very impecunious Lord Blakemere, and my wife is the impoverished Lady Blakemere. Speaking of her . . .” His gaze skimmed over the small gathering. “Where is she?”

“Being watched over by a disapproving sentry.” Langdon nodded toward a corner of the room.

Tamsyn stood off to one side, her only company being the censorious Lady Daleford. Tamsyn’s expression was one of barely suppressed frustration.

“Excuse me,” Kit said to Langdon.

He crossed the room to reach her, aware of many gazes upon him. Nearing her, he observed how bewitching she looked in her pale silver gown adorned with tiny pearls and silver lace. It had been purchased ready-made, due to the time-sensitive nature of the wedding, yet she was a ravishing bride, the color and cut flattering her complexion. She wore a crown of white flowers, which gleamed against the fiery hue of her hair.

She’ll be mine tonight. That hair would spread upon a pillow, and he’d feel her arms around him. He’d learn the delicious secrets of her body and show her how much pleasure two lovers could create together.

He could barely restrain his eagerness.

“May I have a word with my wife, Lady Daleford?” he asked, feeling the strange shape and sound of the words my wife on his lips.

The older woman fixed him with a sharp glare. “You both have walked into a horrendous mistake,” she snapped before storming off toward the punch bowl.

Tamsyn rolled her eyes. “Lady Daleford’s candor was one of the qualities my parents admired.” She looked rueful. “I wouldn’t mind a little dissembling right now.”

“I would have liked to have met your parents,” he said.

“I would have liked the same,” she answered.

They both seemed to realize at the same moment that, had her parents been alive, there would have been no need for this wedding.

“Please excuse me for a moment,” Tamsyn said, and slipped out into the corridor.

Langdon, Greyland, and Greyland’s wife approached him. Kit couldn’t help but notice the way the duke and duchess kept close to each other, with Greyland’s hand possessively on her lower back as if he needed to touch her at all times.

“Best wishes on your marriage,” the Duchess of Greyland said cheerfully, raising her glass of wine. “She’s a lovely woman.”

“Felicitations,” Greyland added heartily.

Langdon also lifted his glass. “Blessings on you both. Though,” he added with a furrowed brow, “I fear for my own unattached state, given that my two closest friends have fallen prey to matrimony.”

“A duke’s heir must marry,” Greyland pointed out, ever practical.

“But at the time of my choosing,” Langdon replied. “With my father as hale as ever, I pray that time is long in coming.”

“Besides,” Lady Greyland noted pertly, “whoever she may be, your choice of bride is entirely at your own discretion. Even someone as entirely unsuitable as me.”

“Love, there’s nothing unsuitable about you.” Warmth shone from Greyland’s eyes as he gazed at his duchess, and she gave him a private smile that radiated devotion.

Though Kit and Langdon glanced at each other with exasperation, Kit admitted to himself that it was a rare luxury to have someone with whom you shared that kind of connection. Would he and Tamsyn ever grow as close? Unlikely. They’d sealed their bond on the basis of practicality. So long as they tolerated each other, they ought to do well enough. He knew with certainty that they would enjoy their physical connection, and when that paled—for desire always cooled—they could seek pleasure elsewhere.

Something odd and hot jabbed Kit in his belly. He frowned at the unfamiliar sensation. Perhaps the wine had spoiled. Or was it—no. He couldn’t be jealous at the thought of Tamsyn taking someone else to her bed. He never felt jealousy when his past paramours found new lovers, and besides, he barely knew Tamsyn. How could he possibly feel that strange emotion for her?

Yet it was there, just the same. Smoldering like the edges of paper moments before bursting into flame.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kit saw Tamsyn slip back into the chamber.

Before anyone could speak, he announced cheerfully to his family, “Your carriages are waiting.”

His father scowled. “I didn’t order my carriage to be made ready.”

“But I did.” Kit smiled, relying on the charm that had gotten him out of many a childhood scrape, including the time he painted a very detailed illustration of a dairymaid on the wall of the drawing room.

“How gracious of you,” Tamsyn said enthusiastically. She gave Kit a discreet wink, and when he winked back, she coughed into her hand, barely concealing a laugh.

“Lady Daleford,” Kit said, turning to her with as much charisma as he could muster, “your vehicle also awaits.”

Tamsyn managed to suppress her laughter enough to press a fast kiss on the elderly lady’s cheek. “Thank you so much for being here. And my sincere gratitude for your hospitality. I’ll have the remainder of my things brought to me tomorrow.”

“Where are you staying?” Lady Daleford demanded. “You cannot mean to make a home in his bachelor lodgings.”

“I’ve rented a house on Bruton Street,” Kit said. “Until we are settled in more permanent accommodations, it should suit us well. The house comes complete with a full staff,” he added for Tamsyn’s benefit. For the gathered crowd, he continued, “Lady Blakemere and I will spend tonight in a hotel, and then tomorrow we shall move into our new home.”

Nothing truly has to change, he told himself. I’m not going to alter all of my life simply because I’m married.

“But that’s all on the morrow,” he said cheerfully. “For now, I bid you all a very heartfelt good night.” He held out his hand, ushering his family and Lady Daleford toward the door.

As everyone began to file out, grumbling, Tamsyn stepped close to whisper in his ear, “They think your behavior to be scandalous.”

He sent her a lopsided grin. “What’s one more scandal?”

“Indeed,” she said with a mischievous smile.

Ah, damn, I think I truly like this woman.

Finally, after receiving one last affronted glare from his father, they were gone.

“There’s always the possibility that we’ve disappointed them,” Tamsyn said wryly.

His smile didn’t waver. “A third son is always a disappointment, even if he becomes an earl.” He ran a placating finger down her cheek, and the softness of her skin roused him.

Soon.

Coming back to himself, he continued brightly, “Now that we’ve liberated ourselves from our oppressive guests, the celebration can happen in earnest.”

“Truly, though,” she said, laying a hand on his arm, “you didn’t have to send your family away on my account.”

The spontaneous touch of her hand upon his sleeve sent a jolt through him. Their kiss formalizing their union had been quick, chaste—a far cry from the heat that had risen up between them so quickly days earlier—yet the feel of her now stoked the furnace of his growing desire.

“They’ll recover from the indignity,” Kit said optimistically. “In time, when I’m generating more wealth than my father, everyone will come to an accord.”

“Nonetheless,” she said, smiling, “your gallantry on my behalf is appreciated.”

He pressed a hand to his chest and executed an extravagantly old-fashioned bow. “Your servant.”

His reward was the trill of her low, husky laughter. The sound trailed heat into his chest and traveled lower.

Since when did virgins laugh like sophisticated, earthy women of pleasure? There was more to Tamsyn than he’d first realized.

“We need to improve the atmosphere in here,” he declared, then strode to the musicians. “Enough of elegance,” he said to them. “Play something more festive and lively.”

At once, the musicians struck up a sprightly country tune.

“A fine improvement,” Kit proclaimed. He made his way back to Tamsyn, who watched with amused interest. “Come.” He offered her his arm. “Let us attend to the other guests.” He guided them toward Langdon, Greyland, and Lady Greyland.

Tamsyn whispered with a hint of awe, “You’re truly friends with a duke? And a duke’s heir?”

“Lord Langdon and I were at university together,” Kit explained. “After, he and I had a few years subsequently of knocking around London until I joined the army. When I came back, Langdon introduced me to the duke, and the three of us have been wreaking havoc over the city. Well, Greyland has always been a bit, shall we say, sober. And since his marriage to Lady G., he’s become as sanctimonious as a parson. Wouldn’t you agree, Greyland?” Kit added once they’d joined the others.

“I pray for Blakemere’s soul,” Greyland confirmed with a wry tilt of his lips, “but it comes to nothing. He’ll surely burn in the afterlife.”

“But I’ll be there, too,” Langdon added, “so at least we’ll enjoy our time in Hades.”

“I’d add my prayers with yours, my darling,” Lady Greyland said sardonically, “but I’m afraid my avowals of righteousness hold no weight.”

“Love,” her husband answered, “where you go, I follow. Paradise would be a dark place indeed without your light.”

Langdon rolled his eyes. “My God, the two of you.”

Greyland’s hand curved over his wife’s waist. “You’re jealous because, unlike you, when my woman professes her devotion to me, no money changes hands.”

Kit couldn’t hold back his laugh. “A hit, a very palpable hit.” He glanced at Tamsyn, who watched the interplay with amused fascination. “Forgive us. The habits of long familiarity must seem appalling to you.”

“Oh, no.” A smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “It’s rather like going to the zoo, only better, because the animals are not caged.”

For a moment, everyone was silent. An expression of horror crossed Tamsyn’s face as she clearly regretted her humor. But then everyone began to laugh, and not only did her face brighten, but the little knot of anxiety wrapped around Kit’s chest loosened. He didn’t need to worry how well Tamsyn would fit in with his friends.

That would presume, however, that there would be interaction between them beyond tonight.

As Langdon chatted with Greyland and Lady Greyland, Tamsyn turned to Kit. “How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That once Lady Daleford and your family left, things would get better?”

He said lightly, “I learned in the army that you can’t build a decent campfire with too much kindling. The fire won’t breathe if there’s too much fuel. Take a little out and”—he waved his hands—“you have a cheerful blaze.”

“A ship can’t float with too much ballast,” she agreed.

He motioned for a servant and flourished his arm. “We have our music, and now some liquid cheer.”

The footman stepped forward with a decanter full of dark amber liquid.

“Ah, perfect,” Kit exclaimed. “A glass for everyone in the company.”

“Is this . . . brandy?” Tamsyn asked, peering into the goblet that was placed in her hand.

“So it is,” he said with good humor. “All the way from Cognac. You needn’t drink it if you don’t care for spirits.”

As the words left his mouth, she tilted the glass back and downed the contents in one swallow. Then she held out her goblet for more. The footman refilled it immediately.

Well. Every day with Kit’s new bride would be a surprise.

A peculiar expression crossed her face, as if, in the most unlikely place, she recognized someone after they had been absent for a number of years.

“Where did this come from?” she asked the duke.

“It’s perfectly legal,” Greyland assured her. “I’d never serve Blakemere anything that wasn’t strictly aboveboard.”

“Why is that?” Tamsyn wondered.

“For all his wild reputation,” Langdon drawled, “Blakemere doesn’t look kindly on criminals.”

“I didn’t see good men die to protect their country,” Kit said grimly, “only to have the rule of law in England sneered at. Felons and offenders deserve whatever punishment is meted out.” His jaw hardened as he felt anger rise.

Color drained from Tamsyn’s face.

“You seem distressed.”

“Not a bit,” she said at once, but the merriment in her eyes had faded.

“I’m about to stun myself by cautioning that we shouldn’t overindulge tonight. Tomorrow afternoon, we go to the solicitor’s office and finalize the transfer of Lord Somerby’s fortune. You’re the Countess of Blakemere now, but in less than twenty-four hours, neither of us will be poor as church mice.” And he’d be so much closer to building the pleasure garden. So close to fulfilling his dream and finding peace.

Tamsyn’s expression turned thoughtful. Kit tried to decipher her countenance—was she forming plans for his money, or did the thought of possessing any fortune bewilder her?

“To the bride and groom,” Langdon said, lifting his glass. His look was practically devilish. “May the marriage be as fruitful as it is prosperous.”

Greyland and his wife lifted their own glasses and said, “To the bride and groom.”

Everyone merrily drank. Then Greyland pulled the duchess into his arms and waltzed her around the room, as Langdon tapped his foot and Tamsyn clapped her hands in time with the music.

Kit couldn’t tear his gaze from her. Despite the stressors of the day, she glowed with a radiance he’d seldom seen before, and it drew him like a wolf edging closer and closer to a welcome fire.

She was his wife now, and whatever the future held, tonight belonged to them.

The clock chimed midnight.

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