Olivia had never experienced such pleasure in dancing before.

Captain Denning moved more gracefully than she could possibly have expected, but somehow she knew it was not just his dancing that was affecting her so powerfully that evening.

She raised her eyes, smiling a little shyly. Was it her imagination, or had some of the shadows been lifted from his face? He seemed that night to have shed some of the strain that she had seen in him the morning they had met.

Jack smiled at her in return, and Olivia’s heart did a rapid somersault. There was such charm and sweetness in his face at that moment, but also a haunting sadness. She wondered what lay behind his expression. What could possibly have caused so much pain?

Counterfeit Earl
Anne Herries

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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ANNE HERRIES

lives in Cambridge but spends part of the winter in Spain, where she and her husband stay in a pretty resort nestled amid the hills that run from Malaga to Gibraltar. Gazing over a sparkling blue ocean, watching the sunbeams dance like silver confetti on the restless waves, Anne loves to dream up her stories of laughter, tears and romantic lovers.

THE STEEPWOOD SCANDAL:

Lord Ravensden’s Marriage, by Anne Herries

An Innocent Miss, by Elizabeth Bailey

The Reluctant Bride, by Meg Alexander

A Companion of Quality, by Nicola Cornick

A Most Improper Proposal, by Gail Whitiker

A Noble Man, by Anne Ashley

An Unreasonable Match, by Sylvia Andrew

An Unconventional Duenna, by Paula Marshall

Counterfeit Earl, by Anne Herries

The Captain’s Return, by Elizabeth Bailey

The Guardian’s Dilemma, By Gail Whitiker

Lord Exmouth’s Intentions, by Anne Ashley

Mr. Rushford’s Honour, by Meg Alexander

An Unlikely Suitor, by Nicola Cornick

An Inescapable Match, by Sylvia Andrew

The Missing Marchioness, by Paula Marshall

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter One

April 1812

Captain Jack Denning sat huddled into himself by the campfire. Even in summer, the evenings could be cold on the mountain, and sometimes a dense mist came down so that the peaks were hidden. There was no mist that evening, but he still felt chilled to the bone. He had begun to wonder if he would ever feel warm again.

“Still cold, Captain?”

The voice of his sergeant and friend Brett brought Jack’s head up. In the light of the Spanish sun, which was only just beginning to dip towards the sea, his face had a tortured, haunted expression, his eyes red-rimmed by illness and lack of sleep.

“It’s just the last throes of the fever,” Jack said. “I’ll be all right in a few minutes.”

“If you’re rested, we ought to move on,” Brett said. “We’ll need to travel most of the night if we’re to reach the ship before the tide changes in the morning.”

“Yes, I know. Get the wagons ready, Sergeant. I’ll see to the fire.”

Jack rose to his feet as Brett walked away to follow his orders. He kicked the smouldering wood apart with the tip of his boot, a scowl on his once handsome face. It was not handsome at that moment. Jack Denning looked gaunt, drained, his hair too long and straggling in greasy disarray, a blood-stained bandage about his head giving him the appearance of a cut-throat pirate.

Damn it! That’s what they all were, all Old Hooky’s brave bully boys. Scum of the earth, that was what Viscount Arthur Wellington of Talevara, Commander-in-Chief of the British forces in the Peninsula, called them—and by heaven and hell, he was right!

“God forgive us all,” Jack muttered as he kicked earth over the ashes to dampen down the remaining heat. It would not do to have the fire flare up again after they moved on, there were too many enemies in these hills. That included the damned Spanish, whom they were supposed to be helping. Instead of being grateful for Wellington’s superb tactics, which had led to success after success these past weeks, the pride of the Spanish generals had caused several setbacks and some of the guerrilla bands that roamed these hills would as lief attack the British as the French. “And God damn us—you too, Wellington!”

It was twelve days now since the conquest of Badajoz, three since his commander had sent for him.

“I’m ordering you home, Denning. You will be in charge of the seriously wounded, men who will never fight again. It’s your responsibility to get them down to the coast and on to a ship bound for England. And you are to go with them.”

“My wounds were superficial, sir. I was laid low by a fever for a few days, but I’ll be fit for duty again soon. May I have your permission to return to my unit after I’ve seen the wounded safe?”

“Damn your eyes, sir! Do you not know an order when you hear one? The Regent himself has requested your return. You have done your share of fighting, Denning—at what cost to yourself we all know. I am recommending you for bravery in the face of the enemy…”

“In the face of the enemy?” Jack’s brows rose.

“Yes, the enemy,” Wellington repeated. “We both know what happened, Denning, and the consequences. With things difficult at home I am on a thin string here. I charge you to keep certain things to yourself. They will become known in due course, but I hope to brush over them…do you understand me?”

Jack inclined his head stiffly. “I was never a gabble-monger, sir. I take no pride in what happened. Indeed, I shall bear the shame of it until my dying day.”

“Damn your eyes, Denning! You need have no shame.” Wellington scowled, his gaze narrowing fiercely as he inwardly cursed the fool who was compelling him to send this man home. Denning should have stayed to fight the remainder of the campaign. Only in the heat of battle might he learn to forget the horrors that were lurking in his haunted eyes. “Do not imagine it was my idea to send you back. I understand the request came from the Earl of Heggan, and since it is a command from the Regent that I accede to that request, I can only obey.”

An immediate return to England was the only avenue open to Jack since his commander had given the order, but the resentment was eating at his guts as he turned away. Since he was ordered to return to England, he would do so, but nothing on this earth should make him return to that lonely, forlorn house in which he had been born. If the Earl of Heggan wished to speak to his grandson, he would have to come in search of him.

Jack had made a vow never to return to his father’s house long ago, and he was determined to keep it!

“Is that a letter from Beatrice by any chance?” asked Mr Bertram Roade as he entered the parlour that afternoon in late June 1812 and discovered his youngest daughter frowning over her correspondence. “What does your sister have to say, Olivia?”

“She writes to ask me to visit her,” replied Olivia, glancing up with a smile. She suspected that Papa was missing Beatrice more than he admitted. “She and Harry are going to Brighton soon and would like me to accompany them.”

“Ah…” Mr Roades eyes gleamed behind his spectacles. “I wonder if this would be a good time for me to begin my work at Camberwell? I have made excellent strides since I last spoke to Ravensden.”

“Bellows brought a letter for you, too, Papa,” Olivia said. “It is there on the sideboard. I suspect that it may be from Lord Ravensden.”

“I shall read it immediately. Harry always writes such interesting letters. Excellent mind, excellent mind.”

Mr Roade pounced on the small packet with evident pleasure, smiled at his daughter and went off to his study, leaving Olivia in sole possession of the parlour.

She did not immediately return to her letter, laying it down on the little occasional table beside her, together with her embroidery and a book of poems she had been reading when their manservant brought the mail. Her sister’s letter had made her restless.

Since Beatrice’s marriage to Lord Ravensden six months earlier, she had written several times to ask Olivia to stay with her. Until now, Olivia had made various excuses, the most truthful that she felt she needed to spend a little time with her father and Aunt Nan.

Getting up from her seat, Olivia sighed and wandered over to the window to glance out at the view. Roade House was set on a little rise just at the outskirts of the village of Abbot Giles. On a clear summer afternoon like this one, she could see the church spire and some of the rooftops of the village houses…and in the distance the brooding presence of Steepwood Abbey.

How that place haunted her! There had been such shocking happenings at the Abbey these past months, culminating in the recent news that the Marquis had been brutally murdered in his bedchamber with his own razor.

A shudder ran through Olivia as she reflected on the strangeness of fate. Only a few months back, when she had first come to live with Beatrice and her father in Abbot Giles, they had all been agog at the news that the young Marchioness had disappeared. Olivia herself had been certain that Lady Sywell had been murdered by her brute of a husband, and despite all the rumours since, the most recent of which seemed to lay the blame for the Marquis’s murder at his wife’s door, she still wondered if Lady Sywell’s body had been concealed somewhere in the grounds of the Abbey.

Olivia did not believe for one moment that the Marchioness was the murderer of her cruel husband. If the stories were to be believed, there had been a terrible fight, the Marquis having put up a struggle for his life. He had been a large man, built like a bull and strong. A woman would surely not have had the strength to overcome him.

No, Olivia thought, it could not have been his wife. Yet whoever had done it must have known the Abbey well. There had been wild rumours circulating in the village, but Olivia believed it must have been an itinerant journeyman or perhaps a servant who had been unfairly dismissed.

In the past few months there had been tales of a hoard of gold sovereigns allegedly stolen by the Marchioness in her flight from the dominance of her husband, though since the tale had apparently come from a laundress, who could know if it was true? And now the villages were reeling with the shocking news that Lord Sywell had been murdered on the evening of the 9th of June.

Naturally, no one had talked of anything else since. Despite the general dislike felt by local people, Lord Sywell was nevertheless a member of the aristocracy and there was bound to be a thorough investigation of the crime. Some people were saying that the Regent himself had ordered a report to be made directly to him.

Olivia had not been near the Abbey grounds since that terrible morning in November the previous year, when Sywell had threatened her sister with a blunderbuss. Although Lord Ravensden’s brave action had diverted his attention, and Olivia’s own actions had caused the Marquis’s shots to go wide, they had resulted in Harry falling from his horse and so nearly ended in a tragedy. The whole affair had given Olivia an acute dislike of the place and its master, and these days she stayed well clear whenever she went walking.

Since her sister’s wedding, she had been making friends with various young women in the four villages. One of her particular friends was Lady Sophia, daughter of the Earl of Yardley, but Sophia had gone up to town earlier in the year and after a brilliant Season was engaged to be married. Robina Perceval, daughter of the vicar at Abbot Quincey, had also been in London. However, in the last letter Olivia had received from her, Robina had told her that she’d been invited to go down to Brighton.

Olivia sighed again. It was foolish of her to feel so low, but she could not help herself. Her life was so very different these days.

“Is something wrong?” asked Nan, coming in behind her. “Why don’t you go for a walk, Olivia? It is a pleasant afternoon, and you might meet someone.”

Olivia turned and smiled at her aunt. She was a pretty, delicate girl with fine dark brows, and her hair was a wonderful, honey blonde: an unusual combination, which always made people look at her a second time. Her eyes were blue, though at times they could take on a greenish tint, but it was when she smiled that her beauty really showed through.

“Is it so obvious that I am moping?” she asked, knowing that Nan did not have as much sympathy for her as her sister had always shown. “I know I should not. It is just that I miss Beatrice.”

“You are not the only one in this house who misses her,” Nan said, and frowned. “Why do you not go and stay with her? She has asked you often enough.”

“She has written to ask me to accompany her and Harry to Brighton next month,” Olivia said, wrinkling her brow. “Do you think I should go, Nan?”

“Most of your friends will be there,” Nan said. “You will have to face up to it one day, Olivia. You cannot hide in this house for the rest of your life…unless you mean to go into a decline?”

“No, no, I do not mean to do that,” Olivia replied. “And I am not afraid of facing people, Nan. Besides, Harry has told everyone that the talk of my having jilted him was simply a mistake, that we agreed to part on a mutual wish… because he had fallen in love with my sister. People may not believe it in their hearts but if he says it is so they will accept it, and of course no one will criticise him, because of who he is.”

“Money and power will sway most,” admitted her aunt. “And you cannot blame people for being shocked, though I believe you did the right thing in the end. I am sorry the Burtons treated you so harshly, my dear. It was unkind of them to turn you out simply because you decided you did not wish to marry Lord Ravensden—but by staying here in obscurity, you are giving them best. Lord Ravensden settled a generous sum on you. Why don’t you make some use of it? Show all the scandalmongers that you are more than a match for them!” She smiled at Olivia. “I know you sometimes feel I am not as understanding as I might be, my dear, but it is only my way. I should like to see you happy, and that is something you are obviously not at this moment.”

“I have tried to be content here with you and Papa,” Olivia said, “truly I have, Nan. It is just that almost everyone seems to be in town or at Brighton just now. I was always used to company, and I soon tire of sitting alone.”

“Not quite everyone,” her aunt said. “I saw Annabel Lett in the village this morning. She asked me to remind you that you promised to walk over and take her a book of stories for her daughter.”

“Yes, so I did,” Olivia replied, brightening. “Yes. I remember. It was a rather splendid picture book of fairy-tales that I was given as a child and brought with me. Thank you for reminding me, Nan. I shall put on my bonnet and go this instant.”

“That is a very good idea,” Nan said. “And when you return, you may sit down and write to your sister—tell her that you would be very happy to accompany her to Brighton.”

“Yes,” Olivia said, and on impulse went to kiss her aunt’s cheek. “Thank you for your good advice, Nan. Perhaps a little scold was just what I needed. Papa is always so kind…”

“And so wrapped up in his work,” said her aunt. “Neither he nor I are congenial company for a young lady like you, Olivia. We care for you, but we can only give you so much. Somehow, you have to make a life for yourself…and I do not believe that you find much pleasure in preserving or baking.”

Olivia laughed. “If I could bake like Beatrice, I might find it an absorbing task—but even Farmer Ekins’s boy will not eat my cakes!”

“I dare say you could learn in time, but why should you? No, my dear. I believe you should go to Brighton with Beatrice and Lord Ravensden. Perhaps you may decide then precisely what it is you wish to do with your life.”

“It was kind of you to come all this way,” Annabel said, later that afternoon. “Rebecca will enjoy listening to these stories—and the woodcuts will fascinate her. She has never seen anything like this book. Something like this would be too expensive for me to buy.”

The book contained several woodcut engravings of characters and scenes from the fairy-stories, some of which had been hand coloured. It was an expensive gift, one of many similar which had been lavished on Olivia as a child.

“I am pleased for her to have it,” Olivia replied, smiling. “I spent many happy hours looking at it as a child. Is Rebecca in her crib?”

“Yes. I had just put her down when you arrived. She needs her afternoon nap.”

“Then we must not disturb her.”

“But you will stay for some tea before you go?”

“Thank you.” Olivia sat down. “The news about Lord Sywell was shocking, was it not?”

“Yes, indeed.” Annabel shook her head. “There are so many stories going round that it is difficult to know what is true and what is false.”

“My aunt was told that he was completely… naked.”

“There are even more shocking stories,” said Annabel. “I cannot bring myself to repeat most of them, nor do I believe they are true—but it seems that there must have been a terrible struggle.”

“Yes, so we were told.”

“Surely the murderer must have been covered in blood?”

Olivia shuddered. “Pray do not! May we not speak of something else?”

“Yes, of course. How does Lady Ravensden go on? Have you heard from her recently?”

“Bellows fetched a letter from the receiving office at Abbot Quincey earlier today. Beatrice is very well and very happy. She and Lord Ravensden are to visit Brighton next month, and they have asked me to go with them.”

“How lovely,” Annabel said. “You are fortunate to have the opportunity, Olivia.”

“Yes, I am,” Olivia replied. “Had Beatrice not fallen in love with Lord Ravensden, our lives would have been very different. We have more servants to look after the house, and we do not go short of anything. My sister and Lord Ravensden have been very generous.”

“Yes…” An odd expression crept into Annabel’s eyes. She drummed her nails on the arm of her chair. “Your sister was not expected to marry—to make such a match must have been beyond her dreams.”

“I believe Beatrice had no thought of marriage until she met Lord Ravensden. It was truly love at first sight in their case.”

Annabel nodded. Once again, her look struck Olivia as being wistful, even a little distracted, as though her mind were elsewhere. Perhaps she was thinking of the husband she had lost? They had never spoken of him, despite their growing friendship. Annabel did not seem to wish to discuss her past, and Olivia was too thoughtful to ask impertinent questions.

“Aunt Nan says I should go to Brighton,” Olivia said. “She told me I must face the gossips. Of course she does not know how cruel some of the important hostesses can be. I dare say there will be some who will give me the cut direct.”

“But you will not care for them? Lady Ravensden must be received everywhere—do you not think most people will be prepared to forgive you?”

“Perhaps. I shall simply ignore those who do not,” Olivia said bravely. “Now, tell me, what did you make of the Reverend Hartwell’s sermon last Sunday?…”

Olivia was thoughtful as she walked home that evening. It was warm and pleasant as she skirted the walls of the Abbey grounds. How odd to think of it empty and deserted, except perhaps for Solomon Burneck. She supposed the Marquis’s butler was still living there, that he would remain as a caretaker until the new owner arrived.

Who did the Abbey rightfully belong to now? Olivia did not know. Everyone had a different opinion as to what would happen to it, though she suspected that in their hearts most would like to see it return to the Yardley family.

Olivia knew much depended on whether or not an heir could be found, and since no one seemed to know if the Marquis of Sywell had any distant relatives, it was a matter for speculation, and would likely continue to be so for many months.

The fate of Steepwood Abbey did not, however, occupy her thoughts for long. What was she to do with her own life?

Since Lord Burton had banished her to the country, Olivia had refused to dwell on his unkindness. She had resolutely guarded against giving into self-pity, for there was no use in crying over something that was spoiled and could not be mended.

At first she had tried very hard to settle into the life at Abbot Giles. She had quickly grown fond of dear Papa, for who would not? She sensed that her aunt felt her lacking because she did not have Beatrice’s skills in the stillroom and the kitchen, though she was not unkind, and they went on well enough together.

Olivia was not precisely unhappy, merely restless. She did not have enough to occupy her time now that there was no need for either her or Nan to do so many of the tasks that had been necessary when they had only Lily and Ida, and Bellows, of course.

Olivia had been educated as a lady. She had been taught to read and write and to calculate figures; she had studied a little history, a little art and music, and she was proficient at embroidery; she played the pianoforte and the harp, sang, and did a little sketching.

Perhaps if she had married a man with an important title, she would in time have become a brilliant society hostess, her drawing-room the meeting place for artists, poets and politicians. Olivia knew this was very unlikely now. She had jilted a man, an important man, and she did not expect to be given a second chance, since gentlemen did not like to be made fools of, and most would not care to risk a repeat of her disgraceful behaviour. Besides, she would only marry if she found a man she could love, who also loved her—as much as Harry Ravensden loved Beatrice.

So if she was not to marry, what was she to do with herself instead? She was an intelligent girl, and she knew her education was lacking. She did not know many things Beatrice had been taught, but then her sister had been educated at home by their father, who was an unusual man.

Olivia could study at home, of course, and indeed she had begun to borrow books from her father’s library, books she would not have considered opening in the past. Although she was determined to improve her education through reading, she could not help feeling restless. She was in fact a very passionate girl and she needed an outlet for all the love that was inside her.

Olivia was very grateful to Harry Ravensden for settling ten thousand pounds on her. It meant that there was no hurry for her to make up her mind to do anything…and yet she longed for something to happen. If she had been born a man she might have taken up some sort of a profession, but very little was open to her as a female. She knew well that the life of a governess or a companion was a soulless existence, far less pleasant than her own at the moment.

“You are being missish,” Olivia scolded herself aloud. “You lack for nothing…except perhaps a little excitement, a little romance.”

If only she were a man! She would instantly enlist in the army and go to fight with their brave men in the Peninsula.

The Regent’s address to Parliament at the beginning of the year had mainly concerned Wellington’s brilliant victories in Spain. One of his most recent at Badajoz had excited even Papa when he read of it in his newspapers.

“The siege of Badajoz has been attempted several times,” he had told Olivia, “but our men did not have the besieging tools and battering rams necessary. However, this time, Wellington put his men out to sea from Lisbon and then went in secretly in small boats up the river to Alcácer do Sal, and after some fierce fighting the walls of Badajoz were breached. And Lord Wellington will not be content to stop there, believe me. He will sweep the French from Portugal and Spain before he is finished.”

Olivia had been impressed by the heroics of the men who had fought and won such victories. In her heart, she longed for adventure. How wonderful it must be to fight and win for the sake of glory and of England!

She sighed as she reached Roade House, knowing there was little likelihood of her ever leaving the shores of her homeland. The best she could hope for was to visit her sister and Lord Ravensden occasionally, and spend the rest of her time as usefully as she could at home with Papa and Nan.

“It seems unfair of us both to go and leave you here alone,” Olivia said as she kissed Nan’s cheek just over a week later. “Are you sure you will not change your mind and come with us? You know that Beatrice would be happy to see you.”

“I stayed with Beatrice for a few days at Easter,” Nan said. “I am quite content here, Olivia. I shall begin preserving the soft fruits as soon as you and Bertram have gone.”

“And I shall be home within a week,” said Mr Roade, “unless Ravensden wishes me to begin work on our project, of course—but I shall write and let you know. You will be comfortable here, sister. Besides, Olivia could not be expected to travel alone, even though Ravensden has sent his carriage and servants to fetch her.”

Olivia smiled at her father’s thoughtfulness. After Lord Burton had thrown her out, she had travelled from London to Northampton by public coach, and from Northampton to Abbot Giles on a carter’s wagon. No harm had come to her then, though she had been shaken until her body was aching all over, and her heart had felt as though it were breaking. However, her sister’s kindness had soon restored her, and she was grateful now for her family’s care of her.

“You spoil me, Papa,” she said, allowing Lord Ravensden’s groom to hand her into the carriage. “Perhaps we should go? Coachman will not want to keep his horses standing.”

“Yes, yes, no sense in waiting.” Mr Roade beamed at her. “Au revoir, Nan. I dare say I shall be back before you have had time to miss me.” He climbed inside the carriage to sit opposite his daughter. “I must admit I am looking forward to seeing Beatrice and Ravensden. He tells me he has found the diagrams relating to the flying machine of which he wrote some months back. Yes, indeed. It should prove a most interesting visit!”

Olivia waved to her aunt from the carriage window. She found her father’s preoccupation with his rather odd inventions a little disturbing. He had not yet installed another of his stoves at Roade House, though he had told her he was certain that the local blacksmith had not followed his instructions in making the previous design.

“It was the fault of inferior workmanship,” he said now. “I told Ravensden I suspected it, and he agreed. If he thinks it worth his while to let me experiment with my new designs, which I believe he must think exciting…we shall have the stoves for Camberwell forged at one of the new iron foundries. Then perhaps the workmanship will not let my designs down. I am sure that the principle is entirely sound.”

“Yes, Papa, I am sure you are right,” said Olivia, though she really did not comprehend more than a few words when he described his theories to her. “For myself, I am simply looking forward to seeing Beatrice. It seems an age since we were together.”

“At last!” Beatrice cried as Olivia and Papa were shown into the parlour where she was sitting at a small writing-desk. She got up at once and came towards them, arms outstretched to embrace them both in turn. “How glad I am to see you, Papa and my dear sister.”

“You look well, m’dear,” Mr Roade said. “Blooming, I may say. Where is Ravensden? I am eager to see the drawings he wrote of.”

“He was called out on some business…” Beatrice began, but the sound of footsteps in the hall announced Harry’s arrival. “Ah, he is here now…”

There was another flurry of greetings, during which Harry kissed Olivia’s cheek and shook hands with his father-in-law. After a few moments’ brief conversation, the two men withdrew to Harry’s library to study their papers, leaving Olivia and Beatrice together.

“Papa is right,” Olivia said. “You do look very well, dearest.”

“I am,” Beatrice replied and embraced her again. “Come and sit down with me, Olivia, and tell me all the news from home.”

“I told you in my last letter that Lady Sophia is engaged to be married, did I not? And about the terrible goings-on at the Abbey.”

“Yes.” Beatrice looked thoughtful. “I cannot pretend to feel sorry that Lord Sywell met such an unpleasant end; one cannot but think he must have had many enemies…if all the stories about his disgraceful behaviour with the wives of tradesmen were true. I imagine there must have been quite a few husbands and sweethearts who would have liked to see him dead.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Olivia said. “People are suggesting that Lady Sywell might have done it herself, but I cannot believe it.”

“No, indeed,” Beatrice agreed at once. “If she had wished to kill him, she would surely have done so when she ran away…if she did actually run away, that is.” She wrinkled her brow. “I have always regretted that we were not able to finish our search of the grounds.”

“That was impossible after Lord Sywell threatened to shoot first you and then Harry.”

“Yes…” Beatrice shook her head. “Enough of all this gloom and doom. It was really news of you I wanted to hear, Olivia. Have you made lots of new friends in the village? Are you happy and settled?”

“I have made friends,” Olivia said. “I visited Annabel Lett a few days ago, and I went to see Amy Rushmere only yesterday morning. They both sent their regards to you. I think you are much missed in the villages, Beatrice.”

“I write to as many as I can,” Beatrice replied, smiling. “But there is so little time. Harry and I travelled to Ravensden and to his estates in the north, and then we spent a few weeks in London… You ought to have come with us, Olivia. Several people inquired after you, dearest.”

Olivia blushed. “Yes, I was sure some people would remain my friends.”

“Oh, I believe you will find that most are prepared to be kind in the circumstances,” Beatrice replied, a slight frown wrinkling her brow. “I was told several times that Lord Burton was thought to be much at fault in his behaviour towards you. Indeed, Lady Burton has not been seen in town for months. I understand she has taken a house in Bath and sees only a few close friends.”

“Oh, poor Lady Burton,” cried Olivia, her sympathy aroused by this revelation. “Indeed, it was not her fault. She was ordered to cut the connection with me, and had no choice but to obey.”

“I believe she may be suffering,” Beatrice said. “If the chance arises, Olivia, you might want to try to heal the breach with her.”

“If…if she wishes it,” Olivia agreed. “But I shall not beg for forgiveness, Beatrice. I believe that what I did was right—and you must agree.”

“Yes, of course I do,” Beatrice said. “Harry says it was his fault entirely. He should have refused Lord Burton when he first suggested a marriage of convenience, but he was and is fond of you, dearest.”

“Yes, but he loves you,” Olivia said, and smiled at her. “Had I married him and you and he had met at the wedding…”

“It would have been very different,” Beatrice said, then laughed as she saw the challenge in her sister’s eyes. “Well, I suppose we might have felt the same, but we would not have allowed ourselves to give into our feelings.”

“Nevertheless, it was as well that I jilted Harry, and that he chose to follow me to Abbot Giles—was it not?”

“I cannot disagree with that,” Beatrice said. “Your bravery in standing firm against Lord Burton’s threats has given me such happiness, Olivia. I can never thank you enough.” She leaned forward to kiss her sister. “But now I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy to be here with you. I have missed you, Beatrice.”

“You know what I mean,” Beatrice said. “Oh, Olivia, do not tell me that you do not wish to be married. If you could but know the joy of being truly loved! I know you would wish for it.”

“Yes, perhaps I should,” Olivia admitted as she saw the way her sister’s eyes shone with happiness. “I fear I am too particular, Beatrice. Lord Ravensden was not the only gentleman to ask me to marry him. I did not like any of my suitors enough to contemplate marriage. Indeed, I would much prefer to continue as I am…”

“That is only because you have not met the right gentleman,” Beatrice said and smiled confidently. “Believe me, dearest, when you fall in love, you will know…you will know the moment you look into his eyes.”

Chapter Two

“Will you both forgive me if I do not accompany you to Brighton?” Harry looked from his wife to Olivia, an apologetic expression in his eyes. “Papa and I have much to discuss, and I promise faithfully to join you in a week’s time.”

“We can easily wait until you are ready to come with us,” Beatrice pointed out. “We do not mind putting off our journey for a week.”

“No, I see no reason for you to be deprived of your pleasures,” Harry said, smiling at her. “I had thought Papa and I would have settled our business by now, but there is so much to discuss. You will be quite safe, dearest. You will have servants enough to escort you on the road, and your maid, Beatrice. I am sure you and Olivia will find so many of your acquaintance in Brighton that you will hardly notice I am not there.”

“Was there ever such a provoking man?” Beatrice asked, and Olivia laughed. “Very well, my lord. It shall be as you please. I should not wish to spoil your or Papa’s fun. Olivia and I will go tomorrow as agreed, but we shall expect you early next week without fail—shall we not, Olivia?”

Olivia merely smiled at their banter. They were so obviously in love, but sometimes merciless in the way they teased each other. Olivia knew that such a relationship was not for her. She did not know precisely what she was searching for, but she believed the man she could love would be very different…more intense, heroic perhaps.

“Well, I shall leave you to tear my character to pieces in comfort,” Harry said with a wicked look for his wife. “Papa has come up with the most ingenious design for a system of gravity heating, and we are about to inspect the east wing to see how it could best be implemented. It is really very exciting.”

Olivia raised her fine brows at her sister as he went out, leaving them in the sunny parlour, which overlooked a pretty rose garden and was Beatrice’s favourite room in the house.

“How can you contemplate the idea of having your house disrupted, Beatrice?”

Beatrice smiled. “We never use the east wing because it is so very cold. Papa can do no harm there. Besides, I have seen the new drawings. They look as if they might actually work. It is the principle of water finding its own level, you see. Harry explained it all to me. The idea is very much that used in those charming waterfalls you admire in landscaped gardens, where you see all the water tumbling down into a pool and wonder how it returns to the top to start falling again. The pressure of water carries it round and…”

“Oh, pray do not go on,” Olivia begged. “I never understand more than a few words of Papa’s theories.”

“That is because you have not had the benefit of Harry’s explanations,” Beatrice replied, her eyes alight with laughter. “We often discuss such things for hours at a time.”

“Truly?” Olivia looked at her in awe. “How can you bear it?”

“I enjoy listening,” Beatrice explained. “I have always been fascinated by the way other people’s minds work. I suppose that is why I love to gossip.”

“Oh, gossip,” Olivia said and laughed. “Now that is a very different matter, of course. Sophia wrote to me from town. Have you heard the latest about Caroline Lamb and Lord Byron? Truly, she is shameless! Everyone is talking about it…”

Olivia was thoughtful as she changed for dinner that evening. After spending a week at Camberwell, she could not doubt her sister’s happiness. Beatrice no longer spent long hours in the kitchen cooking, nor did she clean, but her influence was everywhere in the house. It was evident that her servants respected her, and her household was impeccably run while retaining a warmth and charm that was often missing in large houses.

Olivia supposed that she might be happy in a house like Camberwell, which happened to be the smallest of Lord Ravensden’s houses. Or she would be if she were married to a man she could love and admire; but somehow her rebellious spirit still craved adventure.

There was a strange restlessness inside her. She had begun to realise that her careful upbringing had been against her true nature. Lady Burton was a nervous, fussy woman, who had raised Olivia in her own image, but as each day passed the girl had gradually found her perception of the world and herself changing.

As yet she did not truly know the real Olivia. The girl who had loved to dance until dawn and flirt with the gentlemen who paid her pretty compliments was still there, of course, but she suspected there was another Olivia waiting to emerge.

“If only something exciting would happen,” she murmured to herself as she prepared to go downstairs and join her family at supper. “If only I could fall in love the way Beatrice has…” She laughed at herself. At Brighton, she was likely to meet the same gentlemen she had known in London, none of whom had caught her interest.

“What are you waiting for, Olivia?” she asked her own reflection in the mirror. She shook her head at her own thoughts as the words of a poem came into her mind. A pale knight wandering lost and alone after the heat of battle…waiting to be brought back to life by a beautiful lady, who would take the shadows from his eyes… “Where are you, my pale knight?”

Her head was full of romantic nonsense! Why could she not settle for someone kind and generous? Why must she always look for something more?

Dismissing her own longings as ridiculous, Olivia picked up her silk shawl and went downstairs to join the others.

Olivia sighed as she glanced out of the carriage window. They had been travelling for three days, having broken their journey by staying two nights with Lord and Lady Dawlish, who were great friends of Harry and Beatrice, in their house near the lovely, ancient village of Bletchingley in Surrey. It was now nearly noon, and they had set out at half-past the hour of eight that morning. They would soon be stopping to take refreshments and change the horses at the posting stage.

“Whoa! Whoa there!”

“What is happening?” Beatrice said, looking surprised as their coachman pulled the horses to a rather sudden and juddering halt. “Can you see anything, Olivia?”

Olivia glanced out of the window. “I believe there is an obstruction on the road. It looks as if someone’s coach may have lost a wheel.”

“Oh, how unfortunate,” Beatrice said. She would have gone on, but her groom opened the carriage door and looked in. “Yes, Dorkins? Has there been an accident?”

“I’m afraid so, milady. It means a delay while we help the gentleman to clear the road.”

“Then we may as well get down and stretch our legs,” Olivia said, giving her hand to the groom. “Pray help me out, Dorkins. I need a little exercise.”

They had stopped on a quiet stretch of road, which was quite narrow and hemmed in by a thick wood to either side. One glance at the cumbersome coach ahead, which was tipped drunkenly forward, having lost its front nearside wheel, told Olivia that they would be delayed for several minutes while the grooms of both vehicles combined to move the coach off the road.

Beatrice looked out of the window as Olivia started to wander away. “Where are you going, dearest?”

“Just to stretch my legs. Do not worry. I shall not go far.”

Olivia left the road, entering the wood. Her purpose was an indelicate subject, and one that she was not prepared to discuss in full hearing of the grooms, but she had been waiting to answer the call of nature for some while. She had preferred not to ask coachman to stop, thinking that they would soon reach the posting inn, but now she had determined to seize her chance to relieve herself.

Not for the first time in her life, Olivia found herself wishing she were a man as she gathered the voluminous skirts of her stylish travelling gown and squatted awkwardly behind a bush, which was well out of sight of the road. A few moments later, she emerged feeling more comfortable and began to rearrange her clothing, peering round at the back to make sure she was decent. Reassured, she was about to return to the road when she heard a low growling noise and turned to find her way blocked by a huge black dog. Its top lip was curled back over vicious-looking teeth, and it was snarling, poised as if preparing to leap at her if she dared to try passing it.

Olivia froze, unable to move so much as a finger. Her heart was beating wildly. She was terrified of large dogs. Lord Burton kept a pack of fierce guard dogs at his country estate, and she had once been bitten by one of them. The scar on her arm had almost completely faded, but the mental scar was still there.

“Do not move, ma’am!” a male voice suddenly commanded from behind her. “He has been trained to attack intruders. Hold, Brutus! Lie down, sir!”

The dog seemed to hesitate, then it stopped growling and stretched down on the earth at Olivia’s feet, its head on its paws. She tried to make herself walk past, but found she was quite unable to move.

“He won’t hurt you now. It’s perfectly safe.”

Olivia’s mouth felt dry. “I—I cannot…”

“You need not be afraid,” a voice beside her said, and then she felt the gentle touch of a hand on her arm. “I shall not let him attack you. I give you my word.”

She turned her head to look at the man, her eyes widening in surprise. At first sight, he was a little unnerving himself. His features were long, the chin square, rather thin, as if he had recently lost weight, and his dark eyes were red-rimmed. His hair was longer than was fashionable, very thick, dark and slightly curling, blown by the wind into a tangle about his face. His right temple bore a deep purple scar, which had begun to heal.

“Oh…” Her hand went to her breast as her heart thudded suddenly. He was a very large man, lean, but wiry, and simply dressed. She took him for a gamekeeper. “Forgive me. I…”

“No, forgive us for frightening you,” Jack Denning said, his tone and manner seeming harsh though the words were kindly meant. “Brutus was my grandfather’s dog. Sir Joshua Chambers, the late owner of Briarwood—which is where you are. The dog was trained to keep gypsies from trespassing in the woods. He does not know that you are a lady, only that you are a stranger to him.”

“I—I am afraid I was trespassing,” Olivia said, finding her voice at last. So he was not the gamekeeper, but the grandson of a baronet! “It was very wrong of me.”

Jack smiled, his features losing some of their harshness, becoming more like the man he had once been. “I am Captain Jack Denning,” he said. “My man told me there had been an accident on the road and I was on my way to investigate. Was it perhaps your own carriage, ma’am?”

“I am Miss Olivia Roade Burton.” Her head went up a little as her natural spirit reasserted itself. “I am travelling to Brighton with my sister, Lady Ravensden, and our carriage has been delayed—the coach ahead of us has lost a wheel.”

“Yes, so I understand. I have already directed some of my men to assist in clearing the road. Perhaps by the time you reach your carriage, the way may be open.”

“Thank you. I shall go immediately.”

“You will allow me to accompany you.” Jack frowned. “Although I believe you to be safe enough for the moment, I would not recommend wandering alone in strange woods, Miss Roade Burton. Were the gypsies I spoke of still here, I could not have been certain of your safety. They are wild, fierce creatures…and you are too young and vulnerable to be here alone.”

Olivia did not answer. For some unaccountable reason her heart was racing and she was finding it difficult to get her breath. Captain Denning had been kind enough, but his manner was not encouraging. She sensed that he was not pleased to find her in his woods.

“I…” It was too embarrassing! She could not explain her reason for leaving the road. “I do not usually…”

He made no comment on her loss of words, merely cautioning the dog to stay before turning to lead her back towards the road. Olivia followed behind, feeling foolish.

She had never met anyone quite like him and she did wonder what had made that scar at his temple. He looked as though he might have been very ill quite recently, though she saw by his manner of striding through the woods that he had recovered his strength.

“Here we are, Miss Roade Burton. I believe your carriage is almost ready to leave.”

“Thank you.” Olivia glanced up as they both paused at the roadside, her eyes meeting his for one moment. Something seemed to flicker deep within his and for the briefest time she thought his expression seemed haunted, almost tortured. What could have caused him to look like that? Before she had time to think, the look had gone. “Goodbye, Captain Denning. I thank you for your courtesy.”

“Goodbye, Miss Roade Burton. I wish you a safe journey onwards.”

“That is kind.” She smiled at him. “Perhaps we shall meet if you come to Brighton.”

She blushed, wondering what had made her say such a thing. It would not be remarkable if he were to visit Brighton, since his estate was no more than twenty miles distant, yet her words were rather more familiar than Olivia would usually use in speaking to a stranger.

“I doubt that we shall,” Jack replied. His gaze narrowed, becoming colder to her way of thinking. “I have no plans to visit Brighton at the moment.”

Olivia lowered her eyes. She felt as if he had given her a setdown, and knew that she had deserved it. Perhaps he imagined that she was setting her cap at him! It was her own fault. She had been forward, almost impertinent.

She walked away from him, her back very straight. What did it matter? She was sure she did not care whether he had thought her forward or not!

Beatrice was gazing out of the carriage window, looking anxious. She waved at her as she saw her, clearly relieved.

“Oh, there you are! I was just beginning to wonder if I should send someone to search for you, dearest.”

“I am sorry if I made you anxious. I went into the wood to—to, well, you know. There was a fierce dog. It snarled at me and would not let me pass. I dare not move in case it attacked me. Then a man came and called it off. I imagined at first that he was the gamekeeper, but I believe he may own the estate. He…looked odd.”

“How?” Beatrice stared at her in surprise. “I am not sure what you mean by odd?”

“I am not sure either,” Olivia said and laughed. “Perhaps odd is the wrong word. Yes, interesting might be more appropriate. I think he had been ill. His face looked thin, almost gaunt, and his eyes…” She shook her head. It was his eyes that had affected her most. “What ails thee, pale knight…?”

“What was that you said?” Beatrice asked.

“Oh, I was thinking of a verse I once read,” Olivia said. “It was about a knight wandering in a daze from the field of battle…pale of face and red of eye…”

“Oh, poetry!” Beatrice said and smiled. “What was his name, dearest? This man you met…”

“Denning…Captain Jack Denning.”

“Perhaps he was a soldier,” Beatrice said. “He may have been wounded in the Peninsula, and sent home to recover.”

“Yes…” Olivia was much struck by this. She had been shaken by the incident with the dog, and then a little annoyed with her rescuer for implying that she was foolish to have wandered into the woods alone, and had not given his title much consideration. “Yes, I think you may be right, Beatrice. That would account for his brusque manner. He did not strike me as someone accustomed to mixing in society often.”

“Are you saying he was not a gentleman?”

“No, of course not. He was definitely a gentleman, but his manner was a little harsh…or reserved might be a better word. I think he may well have been a soldier—and if he was wounded out there, it would account for his appearance.”

“Well, as long as he did not insult or harm you?”

“Oh, no,” Olivia said. “Quite the opposite. He seemed most concerned that I was alone in the woods, and insisted on seeing me safe to the road. His dog has been trained to attack gypsies. Apparently they are a nuisance in these woods…”

Beatrice nodded. Obviously a country gentleman, she thought, perhaps with some recent military service. Olivia was used to the refined manners and gentle flirtation offered by the gentlemen she had met in London drawing-rooms. She might well find the abrupt way of speaking some country squires had a little harsh.

“It seems there was no harm done,” she said. “Get into the coach now, my love. I think coachman is ready to go on.”

“Yes, of course,” Olivia said. She glanced back towards the wood but could see no sign of Captain Denning. Why should she want to? He was not handsome in a conventional way, nor charming. Yet there had been something about him. “Yes, of course, we should go on…”

She climbed into the coach and settled her gown about her. It was most unlikely that she would ever meet Captain Denning again.

Jack Denning stood amongst the trees, watching as the carriage moved off. He whistled to Brutus, then turned to continue his walk through the woods of his estate. All the land to both sides of the main highway had belonged to his maternal grandfather until a few months ago, when the very desirable estate and substantial property elsewhere had passed to him through Sir Joshua’s will.

Jack had been sad to learn of his grandfather’s death on his return to England. Sir Joshua was the one person ever to have shown Jack true love and affection, and he had been very fond of him.

“Sir Joshua was a very wealthy man,” the solicitor had told Jack when he at last answered Trussell’s repeated invitation to call at his offices. “His fortune was made from trade, Captain Denning. Ships, coal and iron—he had invested in a new foundry just a few months before his final illness. I do not know whether you would wish to sell? I do have buyers interested, should you wish to dispose of one or all of Sir Joshua’s assets.”

It was not usual for the aristocracy to be concerned in trade. Many young men in Captain Denning’s position would have instantly sold the flourishing businesses and invested their money in land or the five percents.

“Not for the moment,” Jack said, surprising the lawyer. “If Sir Joshua believed in them, I imagine they are good investments.”

“Your grandfather was an excellent businessman, sir.”

“Yes, I imagine he must have been. Tell his agents and managers to carry on as usual for the moment. I shall give myself time to think about the future before I do anything.”

Jack was not sure what he wished to do about any of the estate. There was sufficient money for him to live the life of a gentleman of leisure should he so wish, but he doubted it would suit him. He had loved the routine and bustle of army life—but that was over. His memories of comradeship had become tainted by those last hours at Badajoz.

He shut the pictures out of his mind resolutely. There were times now when he almost managed to forget…almost.

But there was no sense in remembering. He had failed, and his shame haunted him, most often at night when the dreams tortured him so that he woke sweating and crying out in pain and remorse.

He should have stopped it! Damn it! He should have done something. He had been so stunned, so disgusted by what he was seeing, that he had been slow to react…and then it had been too late. No, he could not go back, he must find a way to go forward, find a future for himself.

Jack frowned as he returned to the house at last and saw the old-fashioned, heavy travelling coach pulled up outside the front door of Briarwood House. The crest on the side panel would have told him who his visitor was had he needed to be told, which he did not. He had subconsciously been expecting this visitor for weeks, ever since his return to England.

“The Earl arrived half an hour since,” Jenkins told him as he entered the hall after scraping the mud from his boots outside the annexe door. “I asked his lordship to wait in the library, sir, and I took him some of the good Madeira Sir Joshua laid down.”

“Thank you,” Jack said and smiled. “You did exactly right.”

He glanced at himself in the mahogany-framed mirror in the main hall, brushing some debris from the sleeve of his coat. He was dressed in the simple garb of a country gentleman, but he must not appear careless. The Earl was a stickler for good manners, and it would not do to arrive looking as if he had come straight from the stables.

In the large, comfortable parlour, the Earl of Heggan was standing by the long French windows looking out on to the formal gardens. He was a tall man, silver-haired and impeccably dressed in knee-breeches and a frockcoat with wide tails, a style that had been fashionable some years back and was perhaps more formal than usual for the country. He turned as Jack entered, moving a little stiffly, his face showing no signs of the pain he suffered almost constantly.

Jack would not have expected anything else. Lord Heggan had never been known to show weakness of any kind.

“Forgive me for not being here to receive you,” Jack said. “You sent no word of your intention to visit today.”

“I imagined you would be expecting me?” Lord Heggan’s clipped tones spoke of his disapproval.

“Yes. I expected a visit at some time, though I was uncertain of precisely when you would come.”

“It would have done you more credit had you the courtesy to call on me, sir.”

“I believe you know my reason for not doing so,” Jack replied. They were very alike in that moment, two strong-willed, uncompromising men. “You have been staying at Stanhope. I vowed never to return when I left six years ago, and I do not lightly break my vow.”

“You are a stubborn young fool,” the Earl said and sighed. “You will forgive me if I sit down? I am past seventy and too old to stand for long. Besides, the journey tired me.”

Jack knew a moment of concern as he saw beneath the older man’s mask and sensed how much of a strain he was under.

“Forgive me, sir. You are not well. I had not realized.”

“It is merely age,” the Earl said and frowned. “I dare say there are less than five years left to me at most—that is why it is imperative that we talk.” He looked straight at his grandson. “I know you have no love for Viscount Stanhope. I do not blame you. My son has lived as a wastrel, and will, I have no doubt, die with his sins upon him. He does not repent and swears he will not as he draws his last breath.”

“My father cursed me when I left his house,” Jack replied. “I am aware that he is ill. Mama told me that he cannot live long when I called on her in London. If you have come to beg me to see Stanhope, you have wasted your time, sir. He would spit in my face and accuse me of having come to gloat at his deathbed.”

“I dare say you are right,” the Earl said. “I am not such a fool as to waste my breath on a lost cause. It was my duty to see Stanhope. I have advised him to make his peace with God at last. I could do no less.”

Jack nodded. The Earl had seemed a distant figure when he was younger. Unbending, a stern disciplinarian who descended on the house only to make his displeasure known, but he was a just man by all accounts.

“No one could expect more, sir.” Jack looked him in the eyes. “If it was not for my father’s sake—why have you come?”

“To remind you of your duty to the family,” the Earl said. His faded blue eyes were seemingly without warmth or feeling. “You have been sent back to England for one purpose. Since your father has only months—or weeks—to live, you must make sure of the succession. You must marry and get yourself an heir before it is too late.”

“I am seven-and-twenty, sir,” Jack said, a faint smile in his dark eyes. “I do not think the case desperate just yet.”

“Your life has been in danger since you went to the Peninsula,” the Earl replied. “Now that you have returned to England, you could be killed in a fall from your horse or take a fever and die of it in days. Until you have at least one son, there is a danger that the title will die with you. We have no male relatives. Therefore it is your duty to make sure of the succession.”

“I have no wish to disoblige you, sir,” Jack said, his mouth set hard. “But at the moment I cannot promise to do as you ask. I have no desire to marry.”

“Your desires are of no importance.” The Earl glared at him. “I thought I had made myself plain. This is a matter of duty. Your own wishes are secondary. You owe this to me as the head of the family.”

“Forgive me, sir, but you do not know what you ask.”

“If you are thinking of love…”

“I was not,” Jack said. “And I know what you were about to say—that I should make a marriage of convenience and take my pleasures where I will. You above anyone should know that the idea of such behaviour is abhorrent to me. I have a mistress who suits me well enough for the moment. She is a lady of good birth, married to a man who neglects her. Should I take a wife, Anne and I would part by mutual agreement and as friends.”

“At least you have some sense of decency, which is more than Stanhope ever did,” muttered the Earl, a grudging approval in his eyes. “Why will you not do your duty, Jack?”

“If I were to marry, it would naturally be to a girl of good family, an innocent, respectable girl—and that I shall not do.” Jack’s face was hard, his mouth set in a stubborn line. “My hands are stained with the blood of innocents, sir. My touch would defile a decent girl.”

“Ridiculous!” snapped the Earl. “You are a damned fool, Jack. I shall hear no more of this nonsense. If you wish to inherit my personal fortune as well as the Heggan estate and title, which is of course entailed, you will do as I ask.”

“Titles mean nothing to me,” Jack replied. “As for money—Sir Joshua left me more money than I shall ever spend. I have ever lived by my own code of honour, and it is all I have left to me. Do not ask me to deny it for the sake of a fortune, for I shall not do so.”

“By God, sir!” The Earl’s eyes glinted. “If I were a younger man I should thrash you.”

Jack smiled oddly. “You might try, sir—but if you were a younger man and not my grandfather, I might be forced to kill you.”

“Damn you! Where did you get your stubborn nature? Your father was a weakling, a drunken wastrel who gambled away his life and his fortune. Your mother a cold beauty with no heart.”

“Would you have me trapped into the same kind of marriage as they had?” Jack asked. Then, before the Earl could reply, “And, since you ask, I believe I resemble you in character more than either of us had previously imagined.”

“Perhaps.” The Earl inclined his head stiffly, the faintest flicker of a smile in those faded eyes. Jack’s remark seemed to have softened him. “We should not quarrel, Denning. Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?”

“At this moment? Nothing.”

“Then I may as well go back to Stanhope. The servants will neglect your father if I am not there to remind them of their duty. I believe they hate him to a man.”

“Can you blame them?”

“No, I do not blame them, but I will not have him neglected. He shall die peacefully in his own bed, if not at peace with himself and his Maker.” For one brief moment there was a flicker of emotion in the Earl’s eyes. “I beg you, Jack. Find yourself a wife—not just for my sake, not just for duty, but for your own good. To live and die alone is a fate I would not wish on my worst enemy.”

Jack turned away, walking over to the window to gaze out at the sky, which was clouding over. For some reason he did not understand, a girl’s innocent face had come into his mind.

“If I found a woman of the right birth, a woman who could bear me near her knowing what I feel, that I am tainted to the core and can never love her, then I might oblige you. I am not unaware of my duty to you, Grandfather.”

“I pray that you will find such a woman,” the Earl said. “Indeed, you are often in my prayers, Jack. I sincerely hope that you will find peace soon.”

“Would that I could!” Jack muttered. He did not turn, for he knew that his face must reveal the inner torment he felt. “Would that I could…”

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