Regency Society Collection Part 2
Enchanted in Regency Society
Ann Lethbridge
Heiress in Regency Society
Helen Dickson
Prejudice in Regency Society
Michelle Styles
Forbidden in Regency Society
Marguerite Kaye
Temptation in Regency Society
Margaret McPhee
Revenge in Regency Society
Gail Whitiker

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Enchanted in Regency Society

About the Author

Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

The Gamekeeper’s Lady

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Heiress in Regency Society

About the Author

The Defiant Debutante

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

From Governess to Society Bride

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Prejudice in Regency Society

About the Author

An Impulsive Debutante

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

A Question of Impropriety

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Forbidden in Regency Society

About the Author

The Governess and the Sheikh

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Rake with a Frozen Heart

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Temptation in Regency Society

About the Author

Unmasking the Duke’s Mistress

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

A Dark and Brooding Gentleman

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Revenge in Regency Society

About the Author

Brushed by Scandal

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Courting Miss Vallois

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Copyright

Enchanted in Regency Society

ANN LETHBRIDGE has been reading Regency novels for as long as she can remember. She always imagined herself as Lizzie Bennet, or one of Georgette Heyer’s heroines, and would often recreate the stories in her head with different outcomes or scenes. When she sat down to write her own novel, it was no wonder that she returned to her first love: the Regency.

Ann grew up roaming England with her military father. Her family lived in many towns and villages across the country, from the Outer Hebrides to Hampshire. She spent memorable family holidays in the West Country and in Dover, where her father was born. She now lives in Canada, with her husband, two beautiful daughters, and a Maltese terrier named Teaser, who spends his days on a chair beside the computer, making sure she doesn’t slack off.

Ann visits Britain every year, to undertake research and also to visit family members, who are very understanding about her need to poke around old buildings and visit every antiquity within a hundred miles. If you would like to know more about Ann and her research, or to contact her, visit her website at www.annlethbridge.com. She loves to hear from readers.

Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress

I would like to dedicate this book to my husband, Keith, and my wonderful critique partners, Molly, Maureen, Mary, Sinead, Teresa and Jude. My special thanks go to my editor, Joanne Grant, whose skill and patience is gratefully acknowledged.

Chapter One

Sussex, England—May 1811

The anger burning in the Marquess of Beauworth’s throat tasted of bile and bitter regret. While the horses thundered through shadows and moonlit tracts of rolling Sussex landscape, Garrick fought the urge to turn back for London.

He swallowed his ire and the carriage raced on. Home to Beauworth. The place he hated most in the world.

Not even the person closest to him, Duncan Le Clere, understood his hatred of the place. Sometimes he didn’t understand it himself, but lack of knowledge didn’t lessen the tension in his shoulders or the foreboding.

The pain of bruised tendon and bone reminded him of the reason for his return. One by one, he unclenched his fingers, forcibly relaxing his hands in his lap, breathing deeply and slowly, regaining control. He lounged deeper in the corner, stretching his legs along the gap between the seats, a picture of insouciance. After all, the Marquess of Beauworth, idle rake, reckless gambler and bored dandy, had a reputation to uphold.

The carriage swayed violently. He grabbed for the strap beside his head. The vehicle slowed, then stopped.

‘Mon Dieu! What now?’ He let down the window and stuck his head out.

The carriage horses tossed their heads uneasily, their shapes indistinct in the shadow of the high hedges lining the road. The sound of their hard breathing and jingling harnesses cut through the warm stillness. Garrick narrowed his eyes, staring ahead into the dark. ‘What do you see, Johnson?’ Probably a puddle. The poor old fellow should have retired years ago.

Something white gleamed eerily in the shadows ahead. A white horse walking in the centre of the road, moonlight slipping luminescent over a dappled coat. At first he saw only the horse. Then another dark shape, a slight figure clutching the bridle. A woman in a black riding habit. Walking alone? Bloody hell. She must be in trouble.

He wrenched open the carriage door, leapt down and started forwards with an offer of help on his lips. The sight of a pair of long-barrelled pistols in her hands, one aimed at his forehead and the other at his servants, stopped him short.

Cold moonlight revealed a black mask covering all but her mouth, while a point-edge cocked hat adorned a curled and powdered peruke. Black lace frothed at her wrists and throat.

‘Good God.’ The exclamation exploded from his lips as recognition struck. Lady Moonlight, the daring cavalier’s lady from Cromwell’s time, forced to take to the High Toby to feed her family. Her exploits were legendary in this part of Sussex as were the sightings of her spirit after she’d hanged.

‘Stand and deliver!’ Her husky voice, tinged with the accent of the dregs of London, echoed off the overarching trees. The grey minced sideways and she checked it with a low murmur.

No ghost this. Merely a common criminal.

Garrick glanced up at the box where Johnson and Dan sat wide-eyed and motionless, apparently taken in by the clever ruse.

‘Hand over yer valuables or the boy is dead meat,’ she called out.

There was a desperate edge to the coarse voice he didn’t like, but the pistols remained steady enough and both were cocked and ready. Damnation, but he wasn’t in the mood for this tonight. A rush of anger roared through his veins, a red haze blurring his vision, his fingers curling into fists.

He inhaled long and slowly.

Control. Anything else and someone less innocent than he would die. Behind her mask her eyes glittered. Courage or fear? Would she shoot an unarmed man?

Dan, fear bleaching his cheeks, rose in his seat. One pistol tracked his movement.

‘Curse it, lad,’ the thief said. ‘Yer want to die?’

Nom d’un nom. Garrick might be prepared to take a chance with his own life, but he would not risk the boy. He, more than anyone, deserved better. ‘Sit down, Dan,’ he ordered.

Scared eyes found Garrick’s face. He nodded encouragement. The boy subsided on to his seat beside the rigid Johnson. Garrick shook his head. ‘Be still, both of you.’

Clearly realising Garrick’s dilemma, the little witch kept one pistol fixed on Dan as she slipped the other into a saddle-holster beside a cunningly wrought sword sling. The intricate hilt protruding from the scabbard fitted her costume well enough. His lip curled. He’d like to see her try to best him with a sword.

She tossed her hat on the ground near his feet. ‘Throw yer trinkets in there.’

A shimmer of light surrounded her face and body as she moved. A ghostly light. Was he going mad? Then he saw the sequins. They covered her mask and reflected moonlight from her coat and waistcoat. The little wretch looked like a reveller at a masquerade, and for such a deadly purpose.

An elegant twist of wrist and flutter of black lace drew his attention to the upturned hat. ‘I ain’t got all day.’

Garrick bowed with a flourish, acknowledging her impatience with charm and grace. ‘Your wish is my command, milady.’

As he straightened, her full lips curved in a quick smile. She bobbed a curtsy. ‘Yer too gracious, sir.’

‘Ah, a polite Lady Moonlight.’ He raised a brow. ‘I’m waiting, chérie.’

Her smile fled and oddly he found himself regretting its loss. ‘For what?’ she asked. ‘A bullet in yer brain?’

‘For my kiss. Lady Moonlight always kisses the men she robs if she thinks them handsome.’

‘Just put yer valuables in the ‘at, milord.’ A hint of laughter coloured her nasal voice.

Aware of the astonished gazes of those on the box, he spread his arms in a mock gesture of appeal. ‘Are you saying you find me lacking? How cutting. You break my heart.’

She chuckled, soft and low and very feminine, but the pistol steadied in the region of his chest. ‘Now, milord.’

He put a hand to his pocket as if seeking his watch and cursed silently. He had left his travelling pistol in the coat lying on the carriage seat. Perhaps it was as well. He had no wish to harm the wench. He kept his voice calm and soft. ‘This is dangerous work for a woman. If you get caught you’ll hang, whereas I could offer you gainful employment.’

‘Hah. I know yer sort’s idea of work. Enough gabbing or you’ll be joining yer ancestors.’ Underneath the bravado, her voice shook with the tremor of tightly stretched nerves.

Much as he didn’t care if he joined his ancestors, he didn’t want her nervous and threatening the servants again. He pulled out his fob and dangled his watch between them. Slowly, he twisted the gold links in his fingers. The diamond-encrusted case winked and glittered like moonbeams on water.

The pistol trembled. She wouldn’t use it. He was certain.

She reached for the prize, her head no higher than his shoulder as she snatched at the watch with her leather-gloved hand. Garrick caught her fine-boned wrist in one hand and restrained her pistol arm tight against her side with the other. He crushed her slender body hard against him, encircling her waist.

Her exhale of shock was warm, sweet and moist on his neck. Soft breasts compressed against his ribs. She smelled of vanilla with undertones of leather and horses. An oddly heady combination. He lowered his head and planted his lips firmly against her mouth, pleased when her lips drifted open in surprise.

The air around him warmed and swirled, sending his blood pounding and his senses alert to her response. Her delicate lithe body, at first inflexible, softened just enough to let him know she was not unwilling. Indeed, her body moulded most deliciously to his. He ran his hand down her slender back and savoured the soft curves of her buttocks.

Somewhere in this exchange, his earlier fury had softened to the heat of desire. Another passion requiring control. And control it he would. He deepened the kiss and inched his fingers towards her hand, feeling for the pistol.

The little hellion broke free and leapt back, breathing hard, her eyes in the slits in the mask sparkling with reflected sequins or some deeper, hotter fire. Chest rising and falling in quick succession, she levelled the barrel at his chest. A point-blank shot. ‘Stay back.’ Her glance darted to the servants. ‘All of ye.’

Laughing, he reached for her. ‘Surely we can find a more amenable way for you to earn a living? One we would both enjoy.’

She stilled, those rosy just-kissed lips curving in a saucy grin. She curtsied, full and deep. ‘I think not.’

‘Look out, my lord,’ Johnson called.

Garrick caught a blur of movement at the corner of his eye. With a curse, he whirled around. A large masked man, a pistol clutched in his fist, raised his arm high. Garrick dodged. The blow hammered against the side of his head. A blinding light flashed. He fought descending darkness. The ground hit his knees as he fell into black.

Blood rushed in Lady Eleanor Hadley’s ears. Her head swam. Her heart raced. At any moment she would measure her length beside the man at her feet.

She took a deep breath, crouched at her victim’s side and found a strong steady pulse in his wrist. She stood upright, glaring at Martin. ‘Did you have to hit him so hard?’ she muttered.

‘What the devil are ye doing, letting him get so near?’ Martin’s deep, low mutter rang harsh with anger. He levelled his pistol at the men on the box.

Panting, she stared at the inert body on the ground. What had she been thinking? That he was tall and impossibly handsome under the soft light of the moon? That the easy smile on his lean, dark face held no danger? If not for Martin, she might have fallen into his trap like a wasp in a jam pot. He had to be cocksure of his abilities as a lover if he thought to overpower her with a kiss. A laugh bubbled up. Hysterical, born of nerves and the strange sensations he’d sparked in her body. Never had she felt so horridly wonderfully weak, as if her bones were liquid and her mind was mush. Not her normal self at all.

If it wasn’t for his grab for the pistol, he might have swept her off her feet.

‘Where were you, Martin?’ she muttered. ‘Weren’t you supposed to be covering the driver?’

‘I never saw you start forrard. The plan was for me to give the signal.’

Even in the dim light, she saw his skin darken. Poor Martin. The best man to lead a charge, according to her father, but he made a terrible highwayman. She’d tried to send him away after their first foray. He’d refused point blank. Dear loyal Martin.

‘Never mind.’ She pointed to her victim and raised her voice. ‘See wot ’e’s got on ’im before ’e wakes.’

As Martin bent to do her bidding, the coachman fumbled under his seat. Oh God, this could get out of hand very quickly. She jerked her pistol in his direction. ‘Don’t try it.’

He straightened and raised his hands again. The angelic-looking boy beside him sat rigid, his shoulders shaking, his teeth biting down on his bottom lip. No heroics there, thank heavens.

Martin rolled the man on the ground on to his back. He moaned, his head lolling against his shoulder, his brow furrowed as if, even unconscious, he was aware of pain. The strong column of neck disappeared into a crisp, elegantly tied neckloth and merged with powerful shoulders encased in a snug-fitting dark coat. Dark hair and olive skin gave his strong features a foreign cast.

Her heart pounded a little too hard. He was beautiful. Not an adjective she normally used about a man. They were usually either rough, or gentlemanly, or they were simply men she saw every day and gave no thought to at all. This one was beautiful in the way of a bronze sculpture: a perfectly moulded jaw, smooth plane of cheek, straight dark brows above a noble nose. Her fingers itched to trace his features, to feel the texture of bone and skin, much like one might run a hand over a fine statue. The line of his full bottom lip echoed the feel of his mouth on hers, warm and unbelievably exciting. And his voice, with its faint French accent, had brushed across her nape like the touch of velvet.

Madness.

He moaned again. She jumped back. To her relief, he did not open his eyes. Martin had struck him hard. She swallowed. Hopefully not a fateful blow. She didn’t want him badly hurt, for all he’d seemed so careless with his life. Nor did she want to face him again. ‘Time to go. Into the coach with him. You,’ she said, pointing at the coachman, ‘get down and lend a ’and. And no tricks.’

The coachman heaved his portly frame over the side.

Martin went to his head. ‘Pick up his feet,’ he ordered the coachman, who bent with a grunt and grasped the man under the knees above black Hessians polished to an impossibly glossy shine.

‘Hold,’ she said.

‘What now?’ Martin said in a growl.

‘Take his boots.’

Stiff with anger, he dropped the man to the ground. He pushed the coachman aside with a grunt of disapproval and heaved off the tight-fitting footwear. He returned to his post at the man’s head.

Eleanor opened the door of the carriage and stood back. The two men hoisted their burden on to the floor of the coach. Martin slammed the door.

‘Be off with you,’ she said to the panting coachman. ‘As fast as you can before I change me mind.’

The coachman wasted no time in climbing up and a moment later the carriage sped down the road. Its swaying lamp disappeared around the corner.

Martin bent and cupped his hands and boosted her on to Mist, her steady little gelding, who had waited so patiently all this time.

Eleanor struggled awkwardly with her skirts as she settled into the saddle. ‘Next time I’ll wear William’s breeches.’

‘There ain’t going to be no next time.’ Martin stuffed their booty into his saddlebags and climbed aboard the chestnut. ‘Mark my words, you’ll end up like her, my lady. On Tyburn tree.’

Eleanor’s stomach twisted at the worry in his voice. ‘Do you have a better idea?’ She dug her heel into Mist’s flank and they galloped swiftly into the protection of the woods. Eleanor used to love the freedom of riding at night. Many times, she and William, her twin, had slipped out to roam the countryside around their Hampshire estate after midnight. They’d been best friends in those days. She’d borrowed his clothes. And why not? She’d ridden as well as, if not better than, her brothers, shot as well as they did. And that was her downfall. She thought she knew better than them.

Look at tonight. This victim had been wonderfully rich, but the night had almost ended in disaster. Everything she touched went horribly wrong. William was on his way home, his ship due in Portsmouth any day now, and he’d come home to find himself ruined.

All because she couldn’t leave well enough alone. Heat flooded her body. He’d think her such an impetuous fool.

Unless she could put things right before he arrived.

It didn’t take long to reach the barn where they hid their horses. Eleanor slid out of the saddle and led Mist inside. She swept off the mask, wig and hat, casting them to the floor, scrubbing at her itchy scalp as her hair cascaded around her shoulders.

‘Do you know who he was?’ Martin asked, following her in.

‘A dandy with gold in his pocket and jewellery to spare.’

‘It was Beauworth. I recognised the coach.’

‘What?’ A cold, hard lump settled in her stomach. Beauworth? The man bent on destroying her family. She’d flirted with him, let him kiss her. Her face warmed at the memory. How demeaning. She yanked the leading rein through the metal ring in the wall. ‘You should have told me.’

‘Weren’t much time for talking,’ Martin said, turning from the task of lighting a lantern hanging from a beam. His voice sounded disapproving. ‘He’s a gambler and a libertine. Cuts a swathe through the ladies like a scythe through hay, I’m told. The way he took hold of you fair makes my blood boil. We should never have held him up, neither. His uncle is the magistrate. We’ll be knee deep in Bow Street Runners in a day or so.’

Eleanor grimaced. ‘Without money, we’ll starve and what will I tell William? That I carelessly lost his home and fortune?’ Her stomach dropped away, her skin turning clammy, the way it did every time she remembered. William had trusted her to look after his interests until he returned. By forging his signature, she’d spent every penny in the bank. And then, out of nowhere Beauworth had demanded repayment of a mortgage she’d known nothing about. Damn him.

When he realised they couldn’t pay, he’d sent in the bailiffs, forcing her and Sissy to seek refuge where they could.

If only the ship into which she’d sunk all William’s money would return from the Orient, everything would be all right. The stupid thing seemed to have disappeared without a trace. Her heart picked up speed. What if it never returned?

And she needed money so they could eat. Blast it all. She had thought she was so dashed clever. Instead, she’d brought them all to the brink of ruin.

Miserably, she pulled a carrot from the pocket of her coat. Mist’s warm breath moistened her palm as he nuzzled it free.

‘Perhaps if I went to speak to the Marquess, he would listen to reason,’ she said.

‘Take pity on a helpless woman, you mean?’

Phrased in such bald terms, it sounded thoroughly dishonourable. William would never approve. But then he wouldn’t approve of her taking to the High Toby, either. A career that she’d discovered all too quickly, lacked the romance and adventure of legends. If they were caught, the authorities would respond without mercy. ‘Ask for more time.’

‘Jarvis said he needs the money. Got debts of his own.’

They always did, these fashionable men. Michael, her eldest brother, had had huge debts when he died. They were what made her invest in the ship.

There had to be some other way out. ‘We need something to trade for the mortgage.’

‘Too bad you didn’t think of that an hour ago. We could have traded his lordship.’

Jaw slack, her eyes wide, she gazed at Martin’s broad back. ‘Blast. I walked away from the perfect solution.’

Martin swung around. ‘Oh, no. I was jesting, my lady, and badly. I promised your father my loyalty to his children and I’ve kept my word, but I’ll not be party to abduction.’

‘You are right. It is far too dangerous.’ She tossed an old blanket over Mist’s back. Martin did the same for his mount.

‘Why didn’t you tell me the rest of that stupid legend?’ she asked. ‘The kissing business?’ A kiss as sweet as sugar and as dark as the brandy on his breath. Not to mention strange delicious shivers deep in places she never knew existed. His body, where he pressed her close, had felt satisfyingly hard. She had wanted to touch him. All over. At the thought of her fingertips on his skin, her stomach tumbled in a strangely pleasant dance.

Blankly she stared at the plank wall with limbs the consistency of honey. She clapped a hand to her mouth. How could she feel this way knowing what this man had done?

Martin scratched his chin. ‘My brother never mentioned no kiss, my lady.’ Which meant it probably wasn’t true. She felt the heat rise in her face as Martin turned to look at her. ‘Why did you take his boots?’

Eleanor still didn’t understand the sudden teasing urge she’d felt and she certainly wouldn’t tell Martin about the way his wicked smile and brush of his lips had turned her insides to porridge. ‘They were new and he’s a dandy.’ She shrugged. ‘It will annoy him. You know how ridiculous William is about his boots.’ Besides, he’d been too bold, too reckless for his own good. A real criminal might have killed him. A lesson in humility would do him good. ‘Throw them in the pond.’

She picked up her hat, tucking the wig and mask inside it. She stripped off the coat and waistcoat and handed them to Martin, who hauled the bundle up to the rafters in a net by way of an old block and tackle they’d found in the hayloft. ‘We will have to ride out again.’

‘Please, my lady. You are risking your neck for naught but a few baubles and a handful of guineas.’

She winced. As her father’s sergeant in the army and later his steward, Martin would have given his life for her father. Now he held doggedly to his promise to serve his children, but she couldn’t ask him to take any more risks. Not when everything she touched went wrong. ‘It would serve William best if you returned to Castlefield. Keep an eye on the house. Make sure the bailiffs don’t steal anything.’

‘And let you risk your neck alone?’ Martin glowered and shook his shaggy head. ‘Your father always said you was a handful.’

A tomboy, he meant. Too competitive for a girl. Too impetuous, Father had said, when Mother defended her. And she’d been so sure she’d show William how well she could handle things in his absence. Pride had definitely ended in a fall. And if she didn’t do something soon, she’d drag the rest of the family into the pit.

Garrick groaned and sat up on the floor of the carriage. Cursing, he pulled himself on to the seat and investigated the bump behind his ear with his fingertips. A knot as big as an egg. Blast the woman.

A comely female at that, if he hadn’t been mistaken. He recalled the spiralling heat between them and her delicate trembles beneath his touch with a searing jolt of desire. For one heady moment, he’d thought he’d wooed her out of her villainous purpose. He might have, too, if she’d been alone. His luck was definitely out. First he’d taken the bit between his teeth to tell Uncle Duncan the bad news, and then he’d been robbed.

Head aching, he probed the tender spot on his scalp. Brandy might help. He fumbled in his cloak pocket and pulled out his flask. He rubbed some of the alcohol on the lump, hissing at the sting, then took a swig. The servants must have been terrified.

The abominable pounding in his head increased. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the squabs, uttering a sigh when, some twenty minutes later, the carriage crunched on gravel to a gentle stop.

Beauworth Court.

Johnson pulled open the door and let down the steps. ‘My lord? Are you all right? I darsen’t stop on the road.’

‘I’m perfectly all right,’ Garrick said, forcing a smile.

He allowed the coachman to help him out of the carriage and glanced at the house. Stone lions guarded the wide granite steps to the front door. Columns, illuminated by torches, rose up to the first floor with Palladian grace and the lower windows blazed with light. Uncle Duncan must be entertaining. Garrick bit back a groan. Merde. He really did not want to be here.

‘Dan,’ he called out. ‘Bring my coat, please.’

Dan jumped down with alacrity and dived into the coach for the garment. ‘’Ere, my lord.’

‘Good. Stay close to me.’

The gravel stabbed into the soles of his feet as he hobbled up to the front door. ‘Damn, blasted wench.’ Why the hell she had stolen his boots he could not imagine.

On cue, the door opened. The butler, a slick-looking fellow Garrick didn’t recognise, stared down his nose. Recovering swiftly, he stepped back with a bow. ‘Welcome home, my lord.’

Hah. ‘Thank you.’ He handed over his greatcoat and headed for the arching sweep of staircase leading to the first-floor chambers.

A door opened. Light spilled from the dining room. A heavily built figure, his military bearing obvious, strode purposefully across the black and white tiled floor. Duncan Le Clere, his father’s cousin, and Garrick’s trustee for twelve more months.

Dan ducked behind Garrick as Le Clere’s stern gaze took in the scene. ‘The devil. What is the meaning of this?’

‘Got held up.’ His uncle stiffened. ‘By highwaymen.’ Garrick chuckled at his pathetic humour.

Le Clere quickened his pace. ‘Are you injured?’ He must have caught a whiff of the brandy because he recoiled. ‘Or drunk? Is this one of your pranks?’ Nothing slipped past Uncle Duncan with regard to Beauworth and its heir.

‘I might be a trifle foxed, but I am fully in possession of my faculties, I assure you. The damned rogues relieved me of my valuables and my boots.’

Two more men hurried into the vestibule: Matthews, the Beauworth steward, and Nidd, his father’s ancient valet who did for Garrick on the rare occasions he came home.

‘Johnson told us what happened,’ Matthews said. ‘These villains need teaching a lesson.’

And the beefy Matthews was ready to mete out the punishment. The thought of the saucy little wench in his hands did not sit well in Garrick’s stomach.

‘Send for the constable,’ Uncle Duncan said, taking in Garrick’s stockinged feet with raised brows.

‘Not tonight.’ Garrick put a hand to his head and winced. ‘The morning will be soon enough. Right now, I’m for bed.’

Uncle Duncan’s lips flattened. He glanced toward the dining-room door. ‘I expected you for dinner. It takes more than a contretemps with the lower orders to keep a man from his duty.’

‘Johnson said they struck his lordship on the head,’ Matthews said.

The hard expression on Le Clere’s face dissolved into concern. ‘I’m sending for the doctor.’

The doctor who would poke and prod and wonder. Garrick put up a hand. ‘A small lump, nothing more. I’ll be well by morning.’

The broad back stiffened. ‘A knock on the head, Garrick…I’m only thinking of your welfare.’

‘Don’t fuss.’

Le Clere recoiled. ‘But your head, Garrick…’

A black emptiness rolled out from the centre of Garrick’s chest. He knew what Le Clere was thinking, knew from the wary look in his eyes what he feared, and Garrick honestly couldn’t bear it.

Garrick rubbed his sore knuckles. Le Clere hadn’t yet heard of the latest débâcle. ‘I’m sorry, Uncle. I know you mean for the best, but I do not need bleeding or quacking tonight.’

His uncle blew out a breath. ‘As you wish. But if there is any sign…’ He had no need to finish the sentence; his gentle smile said it all.

Garrick nodded. ‘I’ll see the doctor.’

‘So be it,’ Le Clere said. ‘I cannot tell you how good it is to see you come home. There is much to be done, much to learn in the next twelve months, my boy.’

Hardly a boy. And the rest of it would wait for the morning. ‘Good night, Uncle. Oh, and I brought my tiger.’ He gestured to Dan, who moved closer to Garrick.

Uncle Duncan glanced at Dan with pursed lips. ‘He belongs in the stables.’ He waved off Garrick’s response. ‘We will talk tomorrow when you feel better. I must attend my guests. Take good care of him, Nidd. Matthews, I’ll see you in the library later.’ He hurried back to the dining room. The stolid Matthews bowed and wandered off.

Nidd’s cadaverous face was anxious. ‘He worries about you, my lord. You know how he is.’

Garrick sighed. ‘Yes, I know. But I wish to God my father hadn’t tied up my affairs so tightly.’

‘You were but a babe then, my lord. He never dreamed he and your mother would go so early.’

A regretful silence filled the empty hall. It pressed down on Garrick’s shoulders with the weight of a granite mountain. He started up the stairs.

In Garrick’s chamber, Nidd eased him out of his coat and went to work on his waistcoat. Garrick gestured at the boy hovering by the door. ‘My wits were begging. I should have sent him to the stables with Johnson.’

‘Leave him to me, my lord. I’ll see he gets there. Johnson was only saying the other day as how he could use more help.’

That was another thing. Why so few servants in the house? In the old days there had been a footman stationed in every corridor. Was something wrong? Did he care?

Sometimes he did, and then the old anger he worked hard to contain erupted.

He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, seeking distance. ‘Take him now, Nidd. I can manage the rest.’ Since he had no boots to be pulled, undressing presented no difficulty. He opened his eyes as Nidd headed out of the door with his hand on Dan’s bony shoulder. ‘Tell Johnson to treat him gently. He’s had a rough go of things.’

Eyes closed, he unbuttoned his waistcoat. His fingers sought his fob. Gone. He stared down at his right hand in horror. His signet ring, a family heirloom handed to him by his dying father, had also been stolen. Rage surged in his veins like a racing tide. This time he let it flow unchecked.

To lose the family signet ring now, when he’d finally made his decision. Damn the woman to hell. Damn him for falling under the spell of her kiss.

He pulled off his shirt and glared at the tester bed with its carved insignia of the Beauworth arms, the shield and white swan, a motif repeated on the moulded ceilings here and in the dining room. The same as the insignia engraved on his ring. He would have it back if he had to search the length and breadth of England. And when he found the woman, she’d rue the day she’d crossed his path.

Chapter Two

The next morning after an early breakfast, Garrick traversed the second-floor gallery and made his way down the sweeping staircase. Marble pillars rose gracefully to support the high carved ceiling above a chequerboard floor he couldn’t look at without cringing. He took a deep breath, determined to keep his composure. He was twenty-four, not a scared child. Nor would he allow his uncle’s cautious solicitude to get under his skin.

He knocked on the library door out of courtesy and entered. A polished oak desk dominated one end of the long room. Immersed in the papers before him, Uncle Duncan did not look up.

While Garrick waited, memories curled around him like comforting arms. He could almost hear the sound of his father’s voice, the feel of his arm heavy on Garrick’s young shoulders as they poured over maps or Father told him stories of military engagements.

On a warm spring day like today, the bank of French windows leading to the balcony would have been thrown open, a breeze heavy with the scent of roses from the garden beyond billowing the heavy blue curtains into the room.

He hated the smell of roses.

Garrick blinked, but the recollections remained imprinted in his mind like a flame watched too long: a young boy wide-eyed with imagination, his father, jabbing at the air with his cigar to emphasise some important point of strategy, until Mother chased them out into the fresh air. How his father’s face lit up at the sight of her as she swept in, her powdered black hair piled high, her hands moving as she talked in her mix of French and broken English.

Mother. Like an icy blast from a carelessly opened door in mid-winter, the warmth fled, leaving only a cold, empty space in his chest. Hell. He would have sent Le Clere a note if it had not been cowardly.

It seemed to require every muscle in his body, but somehow Garrick slammed the door on his memories. He locked them away in the same way his father’s old maps were locked behind the panelled doors of the library bookcases and focused his attention on Le Clere instead. Uncle Duncan, as Garrick had called him since boyhood, had grown heavier in the past four years. His ruddy jowls merged with his thick neck. His hair was greyer, but still thick on top and he looked older than his fifty years, no doubt dragged down by responsibility. As if sensing Garrick’s perusal, he raised his flat black eyes. Garrick resisted a desire to straighten his cravat. Damn that the old man could still have that effect on him.

‘Well, Garrick.’ The deep voice that had once reached to the far reaches of a parade ground boomed in the normally proportioned library. Garrick winced as the harsh tone reverberated in his still-sensitive skull. ‘What can you tell me about these villains that set upon you last night? This is the second time they’ve robbed a neighbourhood coach.’

Le Clere took his responsibilities as local magistrate seriously, but Garrick was not going to let the morons who stood for local law and order frighten off the cheeky rogues before he recovered his property.

He shrugged. ‘They were masked. I barely caught a glimpse of them before I was struck.’ He was certainly not going to admit being bested by a woman and he trusted Johnson to say nothing about that kiss. Damnation. Was he smiling at the memory?

A sour expression crossed his uncle’s face. ‘I had hoped you would be of more help. The last man robbed babbled on about a ghost.’ He inhaled deeply. Garrick recognised the sign. Control. Uncle Duncan hated it when things did not go according to plan. Apparently in command of himself once more, Le Clere smiled. ‘No matter. I am simply glad you are here, ready to devote yourself to duty at last.’

The old man’s hopeful expression twisted the knife of guilt in his gut. He didn’t like to tell him that the command to come back to Beauworth and take up his responsibilities had tipped the scales on his decision.

‘I’ve decided to join the army.’

Le Clere sat bolt upright in his chair. ‘You can’t mean it.’

The anger, always a slow simmer in his blood, rolled swiftly to a boil. He let it show in his face. ‘I certainly do.’

Bushy brows snapped together. Red travelled up his uncle’s neck and stained his cheeks, the same signs of anger he experienced himself. The old man opened his mouth and Garrick awaited the parade-ground roar that had cowed him as a boy, but now left him cold. Le Clere inhaled a deep breath and when he finally spoke, his voice rasped, but remained at a reasonable pitch. ‘What brought about this sudden decision?’

‘I found one of Father’s campaign diaries in the library in town. I’d forgotten how much he loved serving his country. I want to follow in his footsteps.’

Le Clere slammed a fist on the table. ‘I should have burned them. Your father should never have risked his life in that manner, neither should you.’

‘Father never got a scratch.’ Only to come home and die in a hunting accident. Garrick rose to his feet. ‘I have made up my mind. There is nothing you can say to convince me otherwise.’

Le Clere sagged against the chair back. ‘All these years I’ve worked to safeguard your inheritance and you treat it as if it is nothing.’ He pressed his fingers against his temple.

More guilt. As if he didn’t have enough on his conscience. ‘I have to go.’

‘Why?’

‘You know why.’

‘Nothing has occurred since that incident at school. You’ve been all right. Got it in hand.’

It. The Le Clere curse. Something they’d never spoken of since the day Garrick had learned what it meant.

‘No.’ He stared at his bruised knuckles. If his cousin Harry hadn’t pulled him off the bullying bastard beating Dan with a pitchfork, Garrick might have been facing charges of murder instead of spending every penny of his allowance to pay the man off.

‘I see,’ Le Clere murmured, his brow furrowing. ‘Then you’ve wasted these past few years. Learned nothing of the estate. The war cannot continue much longer, surely, and when you come home I may not be here. I’m getting old, Garrick.’

Garrick tugged at his collar. ‘I’m going.’

‘Wait until my trusteeship is over. Twelve months is not such a long time. Learn all you can. Set up your nursery, get an heir, then go with my blessing.’

The older man’s anxiety hung in the air like a sour London fog. If it hadn’t been impossible, Garrick would have sworn he smelled fear. He could not let his uncle sway his purpose. Staying in England as he was, a shortfused powder keg waiting to go off at a stray spark, was asking for trouble.

‘I’ve made up my mind.’

Le Clere ran a hand through his hair. ‘What if you are killed? What will happen to Beauworth?’

‘Cousin Harry is the heir.’

His uncle stilled. He seemed to have turned to a block of granite. His face reddened. The veins in his neck stood out above his neckcloth. Dear God, was he going to have an apoplexy? ‘Uncle, please. Don’t upset yourself.’ Garrick strode for the table beside the hearth and poured a glass of brandy from a decanter. He took it back to Le Clere. ‘Drink this.’

His uncle accepted the brandy with a shaking hand. It hurt Garrick to see the liquid splash over the side. Le Clere took a long swallow. He stared into the bottom of his glass. ‘How long will this visit last?’

He’d planned only to collect his mare and bid his uncle farewell. The loss of the signet ring meant a delay. It must be there for Harry. At least his cousin didn’t carry the Le Clere taint in his blood.

‘A week.’ Plenty of time to run the little vixen to earth.

Uncle Duncan straightened. ‘Then we will use what little time we have to good purpose.’

Inwardly Garrick grimaced. If the old man hoped to use the time to change his mind, he was in for more disappointment. More guilt. Ah, well, if he was going to be here anyway…‘All right.’

Le Clere beamed. ‘Good. Very good. Let us get started right away. After all, we don’t have much time.’

Garrick hid his sigh of impatience. What he really wanted to do was question the local people about the thieves. It would be hours before he could make his escape. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

Eleanor bore most of the weight of the basket swinging between her and her twelve-year-old sister, Sissy, as they trudged through Boxted toward their cottage. After the hour’s walk from Standerstead on a fine spring day, a trickle of sweat coursed down between her shoulder blades.

Her stomach tightened. Time was running out and here she was having to spend it buying supplies instead of doing something about her predicament.

As they passed the Wheat Sheaf across from the village green, a tall man with broad shoulders in snug burgundy velvet stepped into their path. The Marquess of Beauworth. No one but the local lord of the manor would cut such an elegant figure in the humble village of Boxted. And he looked lovelier in bright sunshine than he had beneath the moon.

Eleanor’s heart skipped and her breath caught in her throat as she fought not to stare at him, tried to pretend he wasn’t there. But when he bowed with elegance and a charming smile, she could pretend no longer. She halted.

‘Good day, ladies.’ His deep voice sounded intimate, seductive.

A disturbing surge of exhilaration heated her cheeks and sent shivers tingling from her chest to her toes. The man was downright dangerous if he could do all that with a smile. And she did not like the puzzlement lurking in his amber-lit brown eyes. Please, don’t let it be recognition.

She bobbed a small curtsy. ‘Good day, my lord.’

‘May I help you with that heavy basket, miss?’ he asked.

Before Eleanor could respond that he need not trouble, Sissy piped up with a cheeky grin and a look of relief in her dark brown eyes. ‘You can help me.’

Eleanor groaned inwardly. Why couldn’t the child hold her tongue for once? ‘Sissy, please. You must excuse my sister, my lord, she is too forward.’

‘Why, I believe she is just truthful. It would not be at all out of my way, you know.’ With a smile warm enough to melt an icicle in mid-winter, he grasped the handle of the basket.

Fate in the shape of a black-haired imp had taken the decision out of Eleanor’s hands. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ She released the handle and he hefted the basket as if it weighed nothing at all.

‘It is a remarkably fine day, is it not, Miss…?’

‘Brown. Ellie Brown, sir, and this is my sister, Sissy.’

‘Miss Brown, Miss Sissy Brown.’

He bowed politely to each of them in turn as if they were gentry and not simple village misses. If it was possible, her heart beat a little faster. For the first time in weeks, she felt valued. Her cheeks flared hotter than before. Lord, what would he think?

‘You have just come from the market?’ he asked.

‘Yes, my lord. For baking supplies.’

‘Ellie makes the best biscuits in the whole world.’ Sissy added, ‘I think she should sell them.’

Eleanor wanted to put a hand over her sister’s mouth. She was far too ready to confide anything to anyone. She quelled her irritation as the Marquess smiled winsomely at the vivacious child peeping admiringly up at him. Clearly he applied his charm to any female who crossed his path. She resented the pang of something unpleasant in her chest as he directed his lovely smile at Sissy.

‘I hope I might try some one day,’ he said.

Outwardly polite and ineffably charming, while inside there lurked the worst sort of rake. A man who had done untold damage to her family. The strangely weak feelings she had around him were inexcusable. She scowled at Sissy behind his back.

Seemingly impervious to Eleanor’s stare, Sissy gave a little skip. ‘Perhaps you would like to buy some.’

Now the child sounded like a merchant. Access to Beauworth Court might solve their problems, but not at the cost of involving her innocent sister. ‘Silly girl. The Marquess will not be in the habit of purchasing food.’

‘Very true, Miss Brown, but I will mention your talents to Mrs Briddle, our cook.’ His dark gaze searched her face. Against her will, her gaze roved over the elegant lines of his bronzed features. Definitely foreign looking. And that French accent made her toes curl. Mortification dipped her stomach. This must stop.

‘Miss Brown, I have the strangest feeling we have met,’ he said. ‘Before I went away to school, perhaps?’

Surely he would not recognise her as Lady Moonlight. ‘It is not possible, my lord.’ How breathless she sounded. She inhaled deeply, willing her pulse to stop its gallop. ‘We only moved here recently.’

‘In London, then?’

‘I’ve never been to London.’ Fortunately she hadn’t. With the deaths in her family, her come-out had been postponed for three years in a row and if she didn’t sort things out soon, would probably never occur. Not that she minded. Primping and simpering had never suited her temperament.

‘We lived in Hampshire—’ Sissy announced.

Eleanor gave her a little pinch to stop the flow of words.

‘Ouch,’ Sissy cried. She rubbed her arm and glared balefully at Eleanor.

Eleanor bent over her. ‘Oh dear, have you hurt yourself?’

‘No. You—’

‘Good.’ She straightened ‘This is our cottage, my lord.’ She pointed at the last dwelling in the row of five. Beyond it, fields of hay and ripening corn spread as far as the eye could see. ‘Thank you so much for your help.’ She took the basket from his grasp. ‘Come, Sissy.’

Uncomfortably aware of his gaze on her back, Eleanor kept her shoulders straight and her eyes firmly focused on her front door. She would not look back. Next time they met, she would be ready for him and his winsome smile.

Like a connoisseur of fine wine, Garrick savoured the gentle sway of Miss Brown’s hips and her proud carriage as she negotiated the wooden plank across the sluggish stream running alongside the road. As if she’d forgotten him completely, she opened the gate and walked up the short path through the unkempt patch of garden.

With guinea-gold hair pulled back beneath her plain straw bonnet and her serious expression, she presented a delicious picture of demure English womanhood. Somehow she put the sophisticated ladies of London in the shade. Prim and proper as she seemed, the confused blushes on the creamy skin of her face indicated an interest. None of his former loves had ever coloured so divinely. Although her wide-set, dove-grey eyes set in an oval face observed him coolly enough, they warmed to burnished pewter when she smiled with a heartstopping curve of two eminently kissable lips.

How extraordinary to find such a beauty in sleepy Boxted.

The feeling that he knew her remained. He combed his memory without success. Eventually he would remember. Miss Ellie Brown was not a female a man would easily forget. Not when the mere sight of her had pulled him away from his purpose at the inn. An instant attraction that was not plain old-fashioned lust, so swift to rouse when he’d kissed Lady Moonlight. Rather, the purity shining in her face had evoked a different kind of admiration. Not one he’d had much experience with. And yet the spark of innocent passion he’d sensed running beneath the modest appearance offered an irresistible challenge, even if it could result in no more than harmless dalliance for a day or two.

He returned Miss Sissy’s cheery wave as she followed her sister inside.

He frowned. The cottage, like the others in the row, sagged like an ancient crone. Mortar crumbled around the windows and patches of stone showed through the rendering. Nesting birds had pitted the moss-covered thatch, while the stench of stagnant water hung thick in the air. He narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t noticed any problems with the estate’s finances during his session with his uncle this morning, but in his father’s day, these cottages had been well-kept abodes. Perhaps he needed to look a little closer.

He turned his steps for the Wheat Sheaf where he’d abandoned his horse and his tankard of ale for a pretty face and a well-turned ankle. The local men must know something about the highway robbers. A glass of heavy wet should loosen their tongues.

Her heart having settled into its normal rhythm after her encounter with the Marquess, Eleanor set a batch of cakes to cool in the pantry. The sweet smell of baking reminded her of helping her mother in the medieval kitchen at Castlefield. The servants had grown accustomed to the sight of their Countess, the daughter of an impoverished gentleman parson, in a starched white apron over her gown and flour up to her elbows. As soon as Eleanor had been old enough to stand on a stool, she had loved helping Mother, breaking the eggs into a little cream-and-brown china bowl, learning the art of baking the lightest of confections, creating something from nothing. It was the only thing she and William had not done together, though he wolfed down the results of her efforts cheerfully enough.

Sweet memories. Best not to let them intrude. She shivered and rubbed her arms briskly against the chill. The fire, the bane of her existence, had gone out again. It seemed to have a mind of its own. A mean mind. Every time she turned her back, it died. Or it smoked.

She opened the outside door. Cuddling Miss Boots, a tabby cat of questionable heritage, Sissy sat reading in the shade of a straggly rosebush.

‘Fetch some wood, please, Sissy,’ Eleanor called out.

The child glanced up with a pout. ‘Why do I always have to fetch the wood?’

‘Please, don’t whine. I need your help. It’s not too much to ask.’

Sissy grumbled her way to her feet. Eleanor returned to her nemesis. This time she would make it behave.

For once, the paper spills caught with the first spark of the flint and the slivers of kindling flared to light with a puff of eye-stinging smoke. Where was Sissy?

Eleanor ran to the front door. Her jaw dropped. Sissy had her head beneath the bush apparently trying to rescue Miss Boots.

‘How could you?’ Eleanor cried. ‘You know I need firewood.’

Sissy jumped guiltily and dashed for the pathetic pile of logs against the wall. ‘Coming.’

‘Really, Sissy. I had it lit. Now the spills and the kindling are burned and I have to start over.’ Eleanor wanted to cry. She snatched the logs from her sister’s hands and hurried back inside while Sissy ran back for more.

Jaw gritted, she laid the fire once more. The tinderbox shook in her hand. She struck and it failed to spark. Calm down. She took a deep breath and struck it again. A tiny glow dropped on to the tight twist of paper.

‘Please light,’ she begged. The fire flared. ‘Hah.’ She nodded in triumph and balanced the logs on top. Now for tea. She marched to the pantry. Hearing Sissy’s steps behind her, she called out, ‘Put the rest of the wood on the hearth and then set the table.’ She tucked a loaf of bread under her arm and grabbed a pat of butter and a jar of jam.

Sissy screeched. Eleanor whirled around. A lump of soot lay on the floor, a black monster writhing with red glow-worm sparks. The rug at Sissy’s feet smouldered. At any moment it might burst into flame.

‘Sissy, move.’ Panic sent her voice up an octave.

The child remained glued to the spot, coughing as choking black smoke rose around her.

Heart pounding, Eleanor dropped everything and ran. She caught Sissy by the arm and thrust her out of the front door. She flew back inside.

Rubbing her eyes, Sissy poked her head in. ‘The rug is on fire.’

‘Stay there.’ Flames played among the ragged ends of the rug. Glowing soot took flight in the draught from the door and landed on the tablecloth. It flared up. Oh God, soon the whole place would be alight. She glanced wildly around. Her father’s calm voice echoed in her ears. Smother a fire.

She ran to the bedroom, pulled a blanket off the bed and ran back to toss it over the flames. Smoke billowed up. Vaguely, she heard Sissy screaming, ‘Fire!’

The door burst open. A tall figure loomed through the rolling smoke like a warrior wreathed in mist. He wrenched the blanket from the floor and beat the flames into submission. The burning tablecloth went out of the window. Water from the bucket by the sink sluiced over the rug.

Eleanor peered at her rescuer through streaming eyes.

The Marquess of Beauworth flapped the singed blanket, chasing the last of the smoke out through the open window. ‘Good thing I was riding by. It looks like the day King Alfred burned the cakes.’

She stiffened. ‘It was the chimney, not my baking.’

He grinned. He was teasing. She tried to smile back, but as her gaze roved around the disaster, her shoulders sagged. The rug was naught but a charred ruin. A few minutes more and the house might well have burned to the ground. Sissy might have been hurt. Her legs turned to water. Heart racing, she dropped down on the sooty sofa. ‘Thank you, my lord. I dread to think what might have happened had you not been on hand.’

He shrugged. ‘You seemed to have things under control.’

She hadn’t, but she was grateful for his kind words. Her heart slowly returned to normal and she looked around at the mess.

Sissy’s head appeared around the door. ‘Is it out?’

‘Yes,’ Eleanor said. ‘But don’t come in. There’s soot and water all over the place.’

‘Your horse is loose on the other side of the stream,’ Sissy said. ‘Won’t she run away?’

‘She won’t go anywhere without me,’ the Marquess replied with a smile.

Sissy’s head disappeared.

Eleanor pulled herself to her feet, her knees shaking and her hands trembling. She began to roll up the remains of the evil-smelling carpet.

‘Let me.’ The Marquess took the rug from her hands. It followed the tablecloth into the front garden, as did the blanket.

He glanced curiously around the room. How he must scorn their poverty, whitewashed plaster bellying from the damp stone walls, sticks of furniture acquired by Martin from who knew where. Lit by a lattice window, the room looked positively dreary. She hoped the shame did not show on her face.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t save the rug.’ He sounded sorry. She hadn’t expected that and she smiled.

He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his teeth flashing white against his soot-grimed face. He looked nothing like the elegant Marquess she’d met earlier. She giggled. ‘You look like a sweep.’

He dragged a sleeve across his brow. ‘No doubt.’

Taking the bucket to the door, she called out, ‘Sissy, fetch water from the well. Bring it back and then come inside.’

She turned back to her rescuer. ‘Will you take tea with us?’

He hesitated. What was she thinking, inviting someone like him to take tea? In her present circumstances, she was far beneath his touch. She tried to hide her chagrin with a diffident shrug.

He smiled and her heart did a back flip. ‘Yes, thank you.’

She knew she was beaming at him, but she couldn’t help it. She dashed for her pitcher of water in the bedroom. She filled a small bowl, setting a cloth, soap and towel alongside it.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Use this to wash. There is a mirror above the sink.’

The Marquess stared at his blackened hands. ‘Good idea.’ He took off his jacket, something no gentleman would do in the presence of a lady, but she couldn’t hold it against him. Not when he’d saved them. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and she saw that his forearms were strong, corded with sinew that shifted beneath his tanned skin as he scrubbed. A shimmer of heat rose up her neck. A little squeeze in her chest made her gasp.

She shouldn’t be looking. She shifted her gaze to his back. It didn’t help. The way his broad shoulders moved beneath the fine cambric of his shirt created more little thrills. Her heart gave a jolt at the weird sensation. What on earth was wrong with her? This man was her enemy.

Do something else. Tea. She’d offered him tea. Set the table. That was it. Gaze averted, she hurried for the dresser. Where was Sissy with the water?

‘Miss Brown?’

‘Yes, my lord?’ She turned.

As he wiped his jaw with the damp cloth, his gaze travelled over her face in a long, slow, appraising glance. Heat rushed to her cheeks.

‘You look quite smutty yourself,’ he said with a smile. He reached out with the cloth and dabbed at her nose. She couldn’t breathe. She snatched at the cloth.

Laughing, he caught her hands in his large warm one and wiped them clean. Such strong hands. She seemed bereft of the will to move.

He stepped back, his head cocked to one side. ‘You know, you have a streak on your chin. If you will allow me?’

Her heart thundered in her chest. Her body clenched with another delicious thrill as the tips of his fingers, feather light on her jaw, tilted her chin towards the light. She held perfectly still, afraid she might do something rash like place her hands on his shoulders for support. Her pulse raced unmercifully as gently, softly, he dabbed her chin, her cheek, her nose, the water delightfully cold on her heated skin.

Long dark lashes hid his eyes as he lowered his gaze to his task. The scent of sandalwood cologne and smoke filled her nostrils. His expression softened, then his glance flicked up and caught her watching.

Amber glowed like sunbeams in the depths of his warm brown eyes. He bent his head and his parted lips hovered above hers. Heat radiated from his body and her heart skipped and thudded.

She struggled to catch a breath, as if something tight restricted her ribs, and feared he would hear the soft pants for air she couldn’t control.

His cheekbone filled her vision, clearly defined above a lean suntanned cheek. A whisper away from her skin, his dark brown hair curled at his temple. She held her breath, while her heart raced wildly. For the life of her she couldn’t move. Didn’t want to.

He brushed his lips across her mouth, warm and dry and soft. A mere whisper of the kiss he’d given her in the dark on a moonlit road.

A lightning bolt seemed to shoot through her body, hot yet pleasurable. She stiffened in shock.

‘I’ve been wanting to do that since the moment I saw you,’ he said, his voice carrying on a warm puff of breath against her chin.

She shivered, her mind a blank to everything except trembling anticipation.

A smile dawned slowly, lazy and sensuous. She could not tear her gaze from his mouth. He slid one hand behind her neck. ‘You are very pretty, Ellie.’

His husky voice seduced her ears. He was the sun and she the moon, pulled inexorably into his orbit. She leaned closer. He dropped the cloth and enfolded her in his arms, his hand spanning the arch of her back, his breath warming her lips.

What was she doing? It felt so right, but was very, very wrong.

The door crashed back on its hinges.

Eleanor jumped back. The Marquess turned away, but not before she saw a glimmer of rueful amusement in those warm brown eyes.

‘Here you are,’ Sissy announced. Water from the bucket slopped over her shoes. She glanced around. ‘Gracious, and after you spent all day yesterday cleaning.’

Eleanor busied herself clearing the table and wiping away the soot, praying that Sissy would not notice her heated face or agitated breathing. ‘Put some water in the kettle and the rest in the sink.’ Her voice sounded different, throaty, rough.

The Marquess grabbed the bucket. ‘Let me. That is far too heavy a load for such a small person.’ He poured water in the kettle and hung it over the traitorously merry fire.

Eleanor laid the table and, while the water boiled, she covered the old wooden table with another threadbare cloth, dusted off the bread and pot of jam she’d dropped unceremoniously on the floor and brought cakes from the pantry. The Marquess helped Sissy move the chair and two stools to the table. Somehow he didn’t fit with Eleanor’s idea of a rake. He seemed no different than her brothers. Well, not quite like a brother, but nice, friendly and fun.

‘Goody,’ Sissy said, ‘cakes. We never have cakes unless Martin comes, and not always then.’

‘Martin?’ The Marquess looked enquiringly at Eleanor, but it was Sissy who replied.

‘Mr Martin Brown, he’s—’ began Sissy.

‘A relative of ours,’ Eleanor put in swiftly. Sissy knew the story they’d woven, but sometimes she forgot. ‘He works nearby on his cousin’s farm.’

‘Please sit down, my lord.’ Eleanor bobbed a curtsy and gestured to the chair. She and Sissy took the stools. Eleanor poured tea and Sissy passed him the plate of cakes.

‘Special cakes,’ Sissy said.

He popped one in his mouth. ‘They are delicious.’ He took another and Eleanor smiled. It was nice to have a compliment from someone like the Marquess.

‘How long have you lived here, Miss Brown?’ he asked in formal conversational tones.

‘Almost one month.’

‘I see.’ He glowered at the hearth. ‘That chimney should be cleaned.’ His gaze roamed the room. ‘The walls are damp.’

‘The roof leaks a little,’ Eleanor admitted.

‘And the stream outside overflows,’ Sissy said, placing her cup in its saucer with a decisive clink. ‘We had water running right through the kitchen. And frogs.’

‘Please don’t think I am complaining,’ Eleanor hurried to say. ‘We were lucky to find a place we could afford so close to the village.’

He looked at her curiously. ‘Miss Brown, you are not from around here. Your accent is not from Sussex. Indeed, you both sound almost…’

What had he been about to say. Educated? Noble? She’d made no attempt to change her or Sissy’s speech. Not in this particular role. Once more he’d surprised her, this time with his perception. She tried to keep the guilt from her voice and face while the lies she and Martin had concocted tripped glibly from her tongue. ‘We were brought up on a great estate, similar to your own. Our mistress was fond of my mother and allowed Sissy and me to be taught with her children. I plan to become a governess, but have as yet to find a suitable position.’

‘I like it here,’ Sissy said. ‘I found Miss Boots in the garden.’

‘Miss Boots?’ the Marquess asked with a raised eyebrow.

‘My cat,’ Sissy said. She ducked under the table and pulled out the kitten. ‘See, she has little white boots.’ She pointed to the cat’s tiny white feet and legs.

‘So she does,’ he said. He pulled out his watch, a plain silver thing. Nothing like the glittering piece she’d stolen. ‘You will forgive me,’ he said. ‘I have another engagement this afternoon.’

And here he was listening to a child’s artless chatter. Eleanor tried not to let the chagrin show on her face. ‘Please, do not let us keep you. Thank you for allowing me to pay my debt in some small measure.’

He shook his head. ‘The pleasure is mine, I assure you.’

And she believed him. Despite their apparently different stations, he showed not a smidgen of condescension. Why could she not have met him in her old life?

Oh, Lord, what was she thinking? This man had ruined her life. But somehow she no longer felt any hatred. After all, he’d saved them from a fiery fate. Her change of heart had absolutely nothing to do with all those other hot sensations. Or his kisses.

He shrugged himself into his jacket and picked up the hat and cane he had dropped on his way in. ‘I will certainly tell Mrs Briddle that Boxted village boasts one of the finest bakers in all of Sussex. I am sure you will hear from her very soon. Good day, Miss Brown, Miss Sissy.’ He bowed and, with a touch of the head of his cane to his forehead, departed.

Eleanor, with Sissy at her side, watched him stroll down the path from the doorway. He paused briefly on the wormy plank across the stream, looking down into the water for a moment, before mounting his horse.

‘Eleanor, that’s it,’ Sissy said. ‘You can bake cakes for Beauworth Court and we will be rich again.’

The hope in Sissy’s voice brought Eleanor down to earth with a painful jolt. If she didn’t find a way out of this morass soon, things were going to get a great deal worse. ‘He’s a dangerous man.’

‘I liked him,’ Sissy said. ‘He has nice brown eyes.’

‘You only like brown eyes because you have them, too.’

Sissy laughed. ‘Well, he likes you. He looked like he wanted to eat you instead of the cakes.’

Eleanor put a hand to her lips as she recalled the way she had melted at the brush of his mouth. The man was a practised seducer. How many other young women had he brought to ruin?

Not to mention that if he hadn’t called in the mortgage, they would not be in such desperate straits. Perhaps Martin’s ransom idea had merit after all.

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