About the Author

Award-winning author ELIZABETH ROLLS lives in the Adelaide Hills of South Australia, in an old stone farmhouse surrounded by apple, pear and cherry orchards, with her husband, two smallish sons, three dogs and two cats. She also has four alpacas and three incredibly fat sheep, all gainfully employed as environmentally sustainable lawnmowers. The kids are convinced that writing is a perfectly normal profession, and she’s working on her husband. Elizabeth has what most people would consider far too many books, and her tea and coffee habit is legendary. She enjoys reading, walking, cooking, and her husband’s gardening. Elizabeth loves to hear from readers, and invites you to contact her via e-mail at books@elizabethrolls.com.

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A Compromised Lady

Elizabeth Rolls

For Linda.

Who waited. And waited.

And then waited some more.

She even gave me another contract!

And for all the readers who kept asking about Richard.

Thank you.

Chapter One

‘David—he can’t be serious! Why does he suddenly wish me to return after all this time? Nothing has changed! Nothing!’ Thea dragged in a breath. ‘I am still—’ At the sight of her brother’s taut mouth, the sudden tension in his clenched fists, she changed what she had been about to say. ‘I am still of the same mind—I have no desire to return. What has changed Papa’s stance?’

David’s mouth opened and then closed, as though he too had thought the better of something. Then, ‘I don’t know, Thea. Not definitely. I have a suspicion, but since he didn’t tell me anything beyond that I was to bring you back to town with me, I’d prefer not to say.’

Exasperated, Miss Dorothea Winslow stared at her brother across the confined gloom of their aunt Maria’s parlour. If David’s unannounced arrival in North Yorkshire from London had been unexpected, the news he bore was doubly so. She clutched the warm shawl closer, shivering despite the warmth of the fire crackling in the grate. Twenty minutes ago she had been knitting socks, a pot of tea beside her, quietly content and perfectly warm. Now the chill of the bitter rain gusting against the windows had seeped into her bones and the old panic stirred restlessly.

‘Papa was more than happy for me to stay out of the way for the past eight years.’ She added, ‘He wouldn’t even let me journey south to attend Mama’s funeral. Why now, David? Don’t tell me he wants me to be a comfort to him in his old age!’

David snorted. ‘Hardly.’ He stared into the fire for a moment. ‘He is talking of a match for you, Thea.’

Her blood congealed, along with her forgotten cup of tea. ‘What?’ Her breath came raggedly. ‘But—’

David said, ‘At Mama’s funeral eighteen months ago, several people asked where you were. Remarked upon your long seclusion. Thea—burying your heart in the grave with your betrothed does not constitute a sufficient reason for not marrying. If people ask enough questions—’ He broke off.

She steadied her breathing. ‘I see.’ If people asked enough questions, someone might hit on the truth …

He stood up abruptly and said, ‘Our father fears the gossip. Which is at least part of the reason that he is essentially compelling you to come to London for the Season.’

‘Compelling me?’

David nodded. ‘He has instructed me to inform you that if you do not, you will receive no allowance at all.’ His expression was grim.

Thea bit her lip. And then she gritted her teeth. ‘I can still remain here with Aunt Maria.’

‘He has already written to her—telling her that you are to come to London. Do you imagine she will defy him? She depends on his support.’

‘But why? If I remain here—’

His grey eyes were flinty. ‘As far as our father is concerned you have had ample time to recover from your …’ He hesitated and then said, with an edge of violence, ‘Your disappointment.’

Thea made a sharp movement and the now gelid cup of tea beside her crashed to ruin on the floor.

She ignored it.

‘I see. Of course, eight years is ample time to recover from a disappointment.’ She laid her hands carefully in her lap to prevent them clenching into fists. ‘Especially a disappointment that never happened, according to one’s point of view.’

He returned no answer to that.

‘David, can’t you—?’

‘Damn it, Thea! Do you think I didn’t try to talk him out of it?’ David surged to his feet and prowled about the parlour, his movements jerky. ‘I know this is not what you want, and if what I suspect is true, then in part it is my fault, but nothing would sway him.’

‘And you aren’t going to tell me?’

He shook his head. ‘Better not.’

She shivered. There would be compensations. To hear good music again, visit Hatchards … and apparently she had no choice. But living in her father’s house again …

‘I suppose a chaperon has been arranged?’ she said with forced calm.

David’s mouth twisted. ‘It is arranged that you should stay with Lady Arnsworth for the Season, and that she will chaperon you.’

Thea let out a sigh of relief, but said nothing; she merely knelt down and began carefully picking up the shattered porcelain. Aunt Maria was going to be most annoyed at the desecration of her best tea service.

Aunt Maria sat in a chair by the rarely lit fire as Thea packed later that evening. ‘Certainly not, Dorothea!’ she snapped, diligently folding handkerchiefs. ‘Aberfield,’ she continued, ‘is obviously lost to all sense of decency and propriety!’ She shot a hard glance at her great-niece. ‘However, it is not for me to gainsay him; so, no, Dorothea, I will not attempt to change his mind.’

Along with her back, her lips were ramrod straight. ‘Let us hope that your sense of duty to your family has increased in the past eight years. I say no more than that I have done my best to ensure that it should be so.’ Her tone suggested that she doubted her best had been anywhere near good enough.

‘But, Aunt—’

Miss Maria Winslow flung up her hand. ‘No, Dorothea. Aberfield,’ she proclaimed in the tones of one invoking a deity, ‘is your father, and Head of the Family. It is not for me to argue with him. You will do as you are bid.’

No choice at all. With no money and no refuge, she was going to London. Thea laid her best gown, the dove-grey silk reserved for expected visitors, carefully layered in tissue paper, in the open trunk on her bed. She doubted very much that she would wear it again more than once or twice. What was adequate for the depths of rural Yorkshire would be despised in London. Thea stared at the gown. Three years she had been wearing it. Only yesterday when she had changed to greet the rector’s wife, she had put it on with loathing, longing for something pretty, something pink, instead of the never-ending grey. Now it looked safe, secure. Anonymous. All of which were about to be torn from her.

In the corner of the post-chaise rocking its way down the Great North Road towards London, Thea sat straight and stiff, a book open and forgotten on her lap. David lounged in the opposite corner reading a newspaper. Outside, northern England fell away behind them, every mile, every hoofbeat taking her closer to London …

‘I have been thinking, David.’

He looked up from the newspaper. ‘I assumed there was a reason you hadn’t spoken or turned a page in half an hour.’

She gave him a rueful smile. ‘Was I being rude?’

He grinned comfortably and laid the paper aside. ‘No. I’m your brother. It’s not technically possible for you to be rude to me.’

Despite the roiling tension, she chuckled. ‘Oh? You were used to be rude enough to me!’

‘That,’ he informed her, ‘is different. Brothers exist only to be rude to and, on occasion about, their sisters. What were you thinking?’

Slowly, she said, ‘Papa cannot want me quartered on him in London for ever—even at Arnsworth House.’

‘No,’ said David. ‘He doesn’t. He’s counting on your marriage.’

She twisted her battered old gloves between her hands. ‘It won’t happen,’ she said shortly. ‘He may force me to London, but he still can’t force me into marriage. If I do not marry by the end of the Season—surely once he realises—’

‘Do you think,’ asked David, his voice diffident, ‘that you might, our father’s machinations aside, find some fellow to care for? One who will care for you?’

Leaning forward, he reached out and covered her hand with his.

She couldn’t help it—instinctively, she jerked back, every nerve jangling at the unexpected touch.

Very slowly David sat back, his eyes shuttered.

Silence grew and stretched. When Thea spoke it was as though the words dropped into an abyss. ‘I hope to God that I don’t.’

‘Really, Richard! What were you thinking? Seventy thousand pounds! Of course it was snapped up! And after all my efforts to cultivate the connection, where were you? In Kent!’

With forced patience, Richard Blakehurst listened to the continuation of his aunt Almeria Arnsworth’s tirade. He had heard most of the countess’s diatribe before and this particular version had been running—with minor variations upon the original theme—for the past several months.

‘I wrote to you, explaining the urgency! And now the wretched girl is betrothed! To someone else.’

With a silent prayer of thanks to a benevolent deity for this circumstance, Richard settled himself as comfortably as possible in an Egyptian-style gilt chair built for a female form rather than a six-foot male and cast a considering glance at the decanters gracing a console table supported by a pair of sphinxes. His cup of tea wasn’t quite hitting the mark under these circumstances. It was weak to start with and Almeria had put sugar and what tasted like half a cup of cream in it.

No. It would be extremely bad form to dump the tea and stalk across the Dowager Countess of Arnsworth’s drawing room for the brandy. Even if she was his aunt and godmother.

Sweet, weak tea and good manners were not much to fortify a fellow against a determined assault on his bachelor status. It had been bad enough before, but the betrothal last week of a major heiress to someone other than himself, appeared to have escalated the crisis in Almeria’s view.

‘After all, Richard,’ she went on, ‘if you are not to inherit the earldom, due to Max’s selfish marriage, then you must be established in some other way and how better than—’

‘No.’ Before she could get into her stride again, he said, ‘Almeria—I do not lack for money, so I have no need to marry a fortune.’ The jibe about his twin’s marriage stung. He added, ‘And no one could be more delighted about Max’s marriage than I am. He’s happy. You must see that.’

His godmother’s glare consigned that hope to Hades and beyond.

‘He hasn’t even come up to town this year!’ she snapped.

Richard gritted his teeth. ‘No,’ he said patiently, ‘because Verity is increasing. He wanted to stay with her. Braybrook promised to keep him abreast of all that takes place in the House. He will come up if he is needed.’

Apparently knowing that her other nephew, Earl Blakehurst, was not completely neglecting his parliamentary duties didn’t help at all. Almeria’s nostrils flared.

‘Richard—you must marry. It is your duty!’

His duty? To whom? To what? Duty was reserved for heirs. He’d only just purchased his own small estate. Surely it wasn’t quite that desperate!

He voiced the question. ‘Er, Almeria—to whom do I owe this—?’

‘The earldom!’ she said, replacing her teacup in its saucer with a decided click.

Richard felt his jaw sag. The earldom? That was a bit much to swallow. With two brothers originally between himself and the blasted earldom, he’d never expected to inherit. Or wanted to. Especially not since it would mean the deaths of his brothers. Abandoning the tepid cup of syrupy tea, he limped over to the decanters and poured himself a glass of brandy. He ignored Almeria’s obvious disapproval. A little early, but with Almeria in this frame of mind he needed more fortification than a cup of tea would provide, if he were not to deal her a resounding set-down.

Reseating himself, he sipped the brandy, and said mildly, ‘Almeria, Frederick’s death was a stroke of misfortune.’ He resisted the temptation to emphasise mis. ‘You can hardly fear the same sort of accident happening to Max! Besides, he is married. And Verity is on the point of giving birth to their first child. How the devil can it be my duty to marry?’

‘It might be a girl,’ said Almeria hopefully. ‘In fact, I wouldn’t put it past that … that hussy to present him with a score of daughters!’

‘Verity,’ said Richard between clenched teeth, ‘is not a hussy.’

Almeria had the grace to look slightly abashed. ‘Oh, very well, but even so, Richard—there is no guarantee there will be an heir!’

No, there was no guarantee. Indeed, given his twin’s current state of terror over his adored countess’s perfectly normal pregnancy, it was entirely possible that he’d already sworn an oath of eternal celibacy. Not that one should dismiss the risks. Childbirth was childbirth. Risky. But still …

As if reading his thoughts, Almeria continued. ‘And childbirth—why, you never know what might happen!’ she said hopefully. ‘Really, Richard! You are being most unreasonable about this.’

Forbearance crashed into smoking ruin. He nearly spat out the brandy. ‘Max is my twin, ma’am,’ he grated. ‘I have a considerable affection for both him and Verity. You can hardly expect me to be reasonable about a suggestion that I ought to be counting on her death in childbed!’

He noted Almeria’s flush with grim satisfaction.

She recovered and rattled in again. ‘But, Richard—’

He flung up a hand. ‘Enough, ma’am! I’ve every intention of marrying.’

She blinked. ‘But who? There were several eligible girls out this year, and they are, each and every one, snapped up, while you sat in Kent!’ She counted the eligibles off on her dainty fingertips. ‘Lady Sarah Wilding, Miss Creighton, the Scantlebury chit—’ Her lip curled slightly. ‘Trade, to be sure, but one hundred thousand! I suppose one can make allowances.’ She glared at Richard. ‘All betrothed! So whom do you have in mind?’

‘How in Hades should I know?’ he answered with forced calm. Trust Almeria to take him literally! ‘All I can tell you is that I am not on the catch for an heiress!’ Then, with fell intent to end the conversation once and for all, ‘Besides, you know Max. He’ll probably give Verity a dozen strapping sons in his image.’ He watched, fascinated, as Almeria’s colour rose. Judging by the peculiar sounds emanating from her, it was entirely possible that she was actually choking. His baser self stirred. ‘I mean, it didn’t take him long this time. They’ll barely have been married nine months.’

She favoured him with a look that would have felled a dragon and said, ‘I do not consider this a suitable topic of conversation. And if you had the slightest regard for one who has only your well-being in mind—’ She halted mid-flight and drew a deep breath. ‘Well, that is neither here nor there. Now tell me, you arrived yesterday; where are you staying?’

At the sudden change of tack, the back of his neck developed a most unpleasant prickling sensation.

‘With Braybrook, just for the moment,’ he said. ‘I mean to be up for a few weeks though, so I’ll probably take lodgings.’ No need to tell Almeria that in addition to the small estate he had bought the previous year, he was in the process of purchasing a small town house—she was likely to go into convulsions when she did find out. Bloomsbury was not on her list of eligible addresses for a gentleman.

‘And you mean to take part in the Season?’ She sounded as though she held out little hope in this direction.

‘Actually, yes,’ he confessed.

She blinked. ‘Really? Well, then—you must stay here.’

Richard stiffened. ‘Here?’

‘But of course!’ she said. ‘Lodgings!’ She shuddered in distaste. ‘Quite ineligible. Of course you must stay here!’

He thought about it. He preferred lodgings. Much safer. He knew the signs. Almeria was up to something. Something that involved him.

Oh, for God’s sake! As if he couldn’t dodge yet another of Almeria’s matchmaking attempts! Even if it was compounded by his own intent to seek a bride this year. Besides which, staying with Almeria, he might be able to give her thoughts about Max and Verity a happier turn. If she could see that he really didn’t mind, had never considered the earldom his, then perhaps she would become reconciled to the match. Spending a few weeks at Arnsworth House would be a small price to pay for healing the breach in the family.

Taking a deep breath, he said with a tolerable assumption of pleasure, ‘That is really very kind of you, Almeria, if I won’t be in your way.’

She waved that aside. ‘Of course not, Richard. Shall you be in for dinner this evening?’

Richard shook his head. ‘No. I’m promised to Braybrook for the evening. I’ll stroll back to Brook Street shortly and have my man bring my things over, if that’s convenient.’

Lady Arnsworth looked like a cat drowning in cream. ‘Perfectly. Myles will give you a latch key.’

Suspicions redoubled, Richard simply nodded. ‘Thank you.’

She waved his thanks aside. ‘Oh, nonsense, Richard. And you must not be thinking that I will for ever be expecting you to dance attendance. You may not have realised, but I will be chaperoning Dorothea Winslow this season.’

Richard stared. ‘Chaperoning Thea? But … didn’t she—surely she must have married years ago?’

Almeria’s eyes opened wide. ‘Dorothea marry? Dear me, no. Such a sad story … I dare say you will recall she was betrothed to one of Chasewater’s younger sons?’

Richard remembered that only too well. At not quite seventeen, Thea Winslow had been betrothed to the Honourable Nigel Lallerton, third son of the late Earl of Chasewater. As a gentleman set for a career in Parliament, naturally he required a well-dowered bride. Thea had been it.

But Lallerton had died in a shooting accident.

‘I assumed she’d recovered from her disappointment and married,’ he said. He had been abroad himself for some years after that and had heard nothing more.

Almeria’s metaphorical whiskers positively dripped cream. ‘Sadly, no, Richard. Such affecting loyalty! Naturally one sympathises with her, but, goodness! It must be several years since poor Nigel Lallerton died.’

Richard stared. He remembered that Thea had retired from society after Lallerton’s death. Understandable if her affections had been engaged. But never to marry? Had she then cared for Nigel Lallerton so deeply that she had retired completely from society after he had died? He’d not had much time for Lallerton, himself … a bully, as he remembered. He stepped back from the thought. The man was dead after all. And perhaps Thea had seen a different side of him … Still, never to marry …

Almeria spoke again. ‘She cannot mourn for ever and I dare say Aberfield considers the time right …’

The sentence remained unfinished, but Richard had no difficulty filling the blanks: Thea Winslow could not be permitted to inter her heart or, more accurately, her hand in marriage, permanently in the grave. She must take a husband. Her father’s political ambition required it.

‘Of course she must marry,’ said Almeria, echoing his cynical thoughts. ‘Probably Aberfield would have brought her to town last year, had they not been in mourning for poor dear Lady Aberfield. ‘Tis positively unnatural for Dorothea to waste her life because her first choice met an untimely end!’

Something about Almeria’s airy tone of voice sent awareness prickling through him, like a hare scenting the hounds.

‘Oh?’

She sighed. The sort of sigh that would have reached to the back seats in Drury Lane. ‘Naturally Aberfield wishes her to make an advantageous match. Of course, Dorothea is not a beauty. She was used to be well enough, but at twenty-four she really is past marriageable age, and one must expect that the bloom has faded. Still, I dare say she will attract some offers.’

The prickle intensified. ‘You are not envisaging me as an eligible suitor here, are you, Almeria?’ he asked bluntly.

Almeria’s eyes widened. ‘Good heavens, no, Richard!’ she exclaimed. ‘Partial though I am, I cannot persuade myself that Aberfield would look on your suit at all favourably.’

‘My suit?’ Richard wondered if he had misheard. ‘My suit, did you say, Almeria? I wasn’t aware that I had one.’ Under the circumstances he considered the even tone he achieved did him great credit.

‘Of course not,’ said Almeria crossly. ‘How you do take one up! Naturally when Aberfield wrote to ask if I would chaperon Thea, I thought of you. After all, you were used to be fond enough of her.’

‘She was a child, Almeria,’ said Richard, striving to maintain his calm. ‘I wasn’t thinking of her in terms of a bride!’ In fact, he’d been disgusted at the announcement of the betrothal.

Almeria waved dismissively. ‘Oh, well. No matter. I understand Aberfield has already put out feelers. He is looking for a political alliance to a man of far greater substance, you may be sure.’

‘How very sensible of him,’ he murmured, tamping down a sudden flicker of anger at the thought of Thea being used as the glue in a political union. Again.

Apparently oblivious to the edge in his voice, Almeria went on to enumerate all the eligible men of rank and fortune who might reasonably be expected to have a chance of securing the daughter of an influential viscount. ‘For you know, she will arrive in town this afternoon, and I must be prepared,’ she said.

Again an odd flicker. This time of interest. Aberfield House was just across Grosvenor Square. Perhaps Thea would call. It would be good to see her again …

Aberfield House had not changed in the slightest in the eight years since Thea had seen it. Carnely the butler had a few more wrinkles, but otherwise she might have been stepping back in time. Thea checked her appearance in a pier glass in the hall as David knocked on the door of the library, reflecting on the futility of this even as she straightened her bonnet and tried to tuck a curl back into it. She was tired and travel stained, dusty from the journey. She wished that she could have gone to Arnsworth House first to change and wash, but apparently her father insisted on seeing her first. Perhaps it was better to get it over and done with. Besides, Lord Aberfield would find fault with her appearance, or, failing that, with her very existence no matter what she did. Grimly she reminded herself that even if Aberfield House had not altered, she had. The despairing young girl who had left here eight years earlier was gone.

David’s light knock on the door was answered by a loud injunction to enter. She did so, reminding herself to keep her face blank, her eyes downcast.

A swift glance located Lord Aberfield seated before the fire, one foot heavily bandaged, resting on a footstool. Thea uttered a mental curse: gout. He’d be in a foul mood.

David escorted her over to a chair. He smiled at her and cast a warning sort of glance at their father.

‘Good afternoon, sir.’

Aberfield shot a glare at David. ‘Took your damn time, didn’t you?’

David looked amused. ‘Next time I’ll arrange winged horses, sir.’

Aberfield scowled and turned his gaze to Thea. ‘Sit down. Hurry up. I’ve not got all day to waste on this. As for you, sirrah—’ he turned to his son ‘—you may wait outside to take her over to Almeria Arnsworth. You’ve no more to do here.’

‘I think not, sir,’ said David calmly. ‘I’ll stay.’ Grey eyes snapped fire.

‘The devil you will,’ said Aberfield. ‘You’ve interfered quite enough. Writing your lying letters.’

A satisfied look of understanding came into David’s face. ‘So that’s it. He did receive my letters before he died!’

‘Out.’ The softness of Aberfield’s voice did not disguise his fury.

‘Go to hell, sir.’

Thea blinked as she sat down. David’s tones were as polite as they had been when he bid their father good day, and she didn’t understand in the least what they were talking about. To whom had David written and what did it have to do with her coming to London?

Unable to quell his only son and heir’s outright defiance, Aberfield snapped his attention back to Thea. ‘Get that mealy mouthed look off your face,’ he shot at her. ‘You don’t fool me, girl. I know what you—’

‘Enough!’ said David sharply.

Aberfield’s eyes bulged, but he said only, ‘Suppose he’s told you already why I sent for you? Eh? Interfering cub!’

‘No,’ said Thea.

‘No?’ His colour rose. ‘If I say he’s an interfering—’

‘I’ve no idea why you sent for me,’ she interrupted him.

‘Don’t speak over me!’ he snarled. ‘Surrounded by worthless fools!’ He caught David’s eye and took a deep breath, evidently attempting to control himself. He continued in bitter tones, ‘Well, he’ll have told you that you are to go to Almeria Arnsworth for the Season?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, sir, but I don’t understand why.’

He snorted. ‘Aye. And well you might not! God knows what I did to be saddled with you!’ He caught David’s eye again and said, ‘Everything’s different now.’ He swept up a sheaf of papers from a wine table beside him and thrust them at her. ‘Read those—if you can! What a damned mess! Thought I’d made things plain to the fool; but a few fairy tales, spun by—’

‘I did what I thought right, sir,’ said David.

An extraordinary noise burst from Aberfield, but he controlled himself and said to Thea, ‘David must needs meddle, blast his eyes! I’ve no choice; but by God, if you’re to marry, you’ll marry as I say!’

Again she met David’s eyes. This time he shook his head, his expression faintly apologetic.

‘Read them, Thea,’ he said gently.

What had he done?

Leaning forward, Thea took the papers from her father, forcing her expression to utter stillness, her hands to steadiness, despite the shaking of her insides.

The first paper was straightforward enough—a letter from a firm of London solicitors, assuring Lord Aberfield of their humble duty and informing him that it was their sad task to apprise him of the death in Bombay, some months earlier, of his brother-in-law, Theodore James Kirkcudbright. Thea bit her lip. Uncle Theo had been her godfather. She had been his heiress. Once.

She continued reading. The lawyers drew Lord Aberfield’s attention to the enclosed copy of Mr Kirkcudbright’s Last Will and Testament, which they believed to be rather different from the previous one. There were also two letters from the late Mr Kirkcudbright: one to his esteemed brother-in-law, the fifth Viscount Aberfield, and one to his goddaughter, Dorothea Sophie Winslow, only daughter of the said Viscount Aberfield. They believed the letters would sufficiently explicate Mr Kirkcudbright’s intentions and remained his humble servants, et cetera, et cetera.

Puzzled, Thea turned to the letter addressed to herself. Her godfather had not written to her in several years … not since he had written to express his shame and disappointment in her.

My dear Dorothea,

I shall be dead and buried before you read this, and can only pray that your brother has not been misled by his Partiality into overstating your comparative Innocence in the Affair your father related to me several years ago. You will understand that in reinstating you in my Will I have placed the strictest controls upon your inheritance, so that you are not placed in the road of Temptation again. It is not my intention to reward any Transgression, but to show my Good Faith, and give you the opportunity to redress the situation by making a good marriage.

I remain your affectionate godfather and uncle,

Theodore Kirkcudbright

David had persuaded him to reinstate her.

Her stomach churning, she turned to the letter addressed to her father—then hesitated. ‘This one is addressed to you, sir—’

‘Read the lot!’ he said savagely. ‘Damn fool! I told him! Warned him what you were—and he does this!’

Sick and shaking, Thea looked at the letter to her father. And frowned. She was to have two hundred a year? From her twenty-fifth to thirtieth birthday, unless she married with her father’s approval in the meantime, after which she would have the rest of the income … that Mr Kirkcudbright understood from his nephew that not all the blame could attach to Thea … that Aberfield’s foolish attitude … She risked a glance at her father over the letter. No wonder he looked apoplectic.

Her world spun and reshaped itself. Two hundred a year—her twenty-fifth birthday was less than three months away … she would be free. Independent. What happened after her thirtieth birthday?

She turned to the will. Apart from various minor bequests, the major one was to herself. And after her thirtieth birthday she received the entire income from the bequest.

Dazed, she looked up and met her father’s bitter gaze.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘God, what a coil! I told him what had happened! And he does this! Now there’s no help for it—you’ll have to marry! Almeria Arnsworth will find you a husband.’

‘Only if that’s what Thea wants,’ interrupted David.

Aberfield ignored that. ‘It shouldn’t be too hard with fifty thousand to sweeten the deal.’

Thea dropped the papers. ‘Fifty thousand?’

Lord Aberfield snorted. ‘That’s about the figure. In trust, of course. Thank God Theodore retained that much sense, despite David’s meddling. And believe me, I’ll see that you never get more than the two hundred a year if you don’t marry with my permission!’

Two hundred a year until her thirtieth birthday. Thea said nothing, retrieving the papers from the floor. It was wealth. An independence. And it would be hers in less than three months. All she had to do was to avoid her father’s matrimonial plans until then. An odd crunching noise distracted her. She looked up. Aberfield was grinding his teeth.

‘Don’t get any ideas about setting up your own establishment after your birthday,’ he warned her. ‘You’ll be married long before then. In fact,’ he said, ‘you’ll be married by the end of the Season!’ He looked triumphant. ‘Dunhaven—he’ll have you.’

‘What!’

This exploded from David. ‘Dunhaven? For God’s sake, sir! Are you insane?’

Aberfield banged the arm of his chair. ‘Who else would have her?’ He cast a contemptuous glance at his daughter. ‘No point being fussy at this stage. Thing is to get her married off.’

‘Thea,’ began David, ‘you don’t have to—’

She waved him to silence and lifted her chin a notch and considered Aberfield from an entirely new perspective—that of having a choice.

Playing for time, she said, ‘I assume, then, that Lord Dunhaven is now a widower?’

‘Just out of mourning,’ confirmed Aberfield. ‘And looking for a bride.’

Her mind worked furiously. Appearing to fall in with his plans would be far safer. Safer than outright defiance anyway. He had shown once before that there was little he would not do to force her compliance … If she allowed him to think that she would toe the line …

Calmly she rose to her feet. ‘I shall look forward to renewing my acquaintance with Lord Dunhaven then. I won’t keep you any longer, sir. I have no doubt that I shall be perfectly safe under Lady Arnsworth’s roof.’

David’s sharply indrawn breath told her that he had understood her meaning perfectly.

Aberfield’s face was mottled. ‘Just remember: this time, you’ll do as you’re bid. Don’t expect me to protect you if you play fast and loose with another suitor!’

Her temper slipped its leash very slightly. ‘Nothing, sir,’ she said, ‘could possibly lead me to expect anything of the sort.’

‘Miss Winslow and Mr Winslow, my lady,’ Myles announced. His eyes flickered briefly to Richard, with what Richard would have sworn was a look of amused sympathy.

So he’d been right. A trap. And Myles knew all about it. He wouldn’t have been surprised had the dainty gilt chair he sat in suddenly sprouted shackles as Almeria rose and swept forward to greet her visitors.

Richard rose automatically as Thea Winslow and her brother came forward. Then he blinked in frowning disbelief. Could this be Thea? Dressed all in grey, not a scrap of colour, not a frill nor flounce relieved the drab, functional appearance of her pelisse and bonnet. She looked more like a governess or companion than an heiress.

Almeria said, ‘Welcome, my dears.’ She took Thea by the hand and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. ‘Dear Dorothea, do come and sit down.’ She led her to a chair, still patting her hand affectionately. ‘I am sure you are exhausted after your journey. Shall I ring for some tea?’

Even her cheeks looked grey. A pang went through him. Did she still mourn Lallerton?

For an instant their eyes met, and shock hit him as her gaze blanked. She hadn’t recognised him.

But would he have recognised her? The soft tawny curls were doubtless still there, hidden beneath the bonnet and cap. And her eyes—perhaps it was the grey of her gown, but he remembered them as more blue than grey. He remembered her face as vivid, expressive—not this blank mask with shuttered eyes. And she was thinner than he remembered.

He could have passed her in the street, even spoken to her, and not realised who she was. Yet now that he looked closely, in some strange way he did recognise her—as one sees the likeness between a waxwork doll and a friend.

The ache inside deepened. Had grief done this to her?

Thea’s breath jerked in as she realised that Lady Arnsworth had a gentleman with her.

The gentleman had risen and regarded her with a friendly smile on his face. She lifted her chin a little. Surely he was familiar … tall, a spare frame, dark brown hair, his face lined a little … no, it couldn’t be—

‘I am sure you both remember my nephew, Mr Richard Blakehurst.’

It was. Richard Blakehurst. Lady Arnsworth’s nephew and other godchild. Richard with his broken leg. As a boy he’d spent months here at Arnsworth House recovering after a riding accident that left it doubtful if he would ever walk again without the aid of crutches.

David was the first to speak, his voice coldly biting. ‘Blakehurst. I didn’t expect to see you here.’

Richard’s eyes narrowed at this chilly acknowledgement. ‘A mutual feeling, Winslow. How do you do?’

Eyes glittering, David strode forward and took the proffered hand.

‘Servant, Blakehurst.’ His tone suggested anything but cordiality.

Thea felt her cheeks burn. For heaven’s sake! Surely David did not imagine that Richard could possibly have joined the ranks of fortune hunters? Or that he could pose the least danger to her?

Seemingly unconcerned, Richard turned to her.

Swallowing hard, she nodded. ‘I … yes. I remember Mr Blakehurst. You are well, sir?’

The dark brows shot up. His eyes. She had forgotten how expressive they were. And she did not remember him as being quite so tall. Or the planes of his face to be so … so hard.

He inclined his head. ‘Very well, I thank you, Miss Winslow. Delighted to meet you again.’

Panic flooded her as he came towards her, hand outstretched. He was going to take her hand. He would touch her. And she had stripped off her gloves in the hall …

Richard. This is Richard … you knew him as a boy … She forced herself to stillness. But Richard Blakehurst was no longer a boy. Tall, broad-shouldered—despite the remaining halt in his stride, Richard was a man …

Deliberately she lifted her chin. She knew Richard; he had been her friend—it wouldn’t be too bad … Braced to withstand her usual panic, she held out her hand. A gentle vice gripped it. Her breath jerked in and caught as tingling warmth laced every nerve.

Their eyes met, his suddenly intent, even startled. She was wildly conscious of the strength of his long fingers. They tightened very slightly, as though staking a claim, and an instant later released her.

The sudden silence seemed to hum with awareness as she struggled to understand what had happened.

Lady Arnsworth bustled up. ‘Do sit down, dear Dorothea,’ she said. ‘How nice that Richard was here to meet you. It must be several years since you met.’

‘Eight, or … or thereabouts,’ Thea temporised, as she sat down. He had attended her come-out ball. Eight years ago, though his touch hadn’t seared her.

‘Of course,’ said Lady Arnsworth. She turned to her nephew. ‘Although I dare say, Richard, that you see Mr Winslow from time to time?’

‘Not often of late years,’ said Richard, resuming his seat.

Thea tried to listen, nodding occasionally, as Lady Arnsworth outlined all her plans for the Season, which were comprehensive to say the least.

Richard must be … two and thirty now, surely. He was about eight years older than she. He couldn’t really be any taller than she remembered. It just seemed that way for some reason. She flickered sideways glances at him, trying to understand what it was about him that was so different to her.

Lady Arnsworth continued to expound her campaign. Almack’s, of course. There could be not the least trouble in the world gaining vouchers …

Perhaps it was just that he was broader. Yes. That was it. He was a long way removed from the rather slight young man she remembered. She wondered if he still enjoyed chess … He had been a formidable opponent and she did not doubt that he was even more formidable now. Something about the calm self-contained gaze told her that. Still waters …

Only none of that explained why her whole body had seemed to shimmer and leap to life when he took her hand …

Lady Arnsworth preened a little as she listed the invitations they were likely to receive. Once people knew that dear Dorothea was at Arnsworth House, there would be invitations aplenty. And Lord Dunhaven had already left his card.

An odd choking noise came from Richard, and, glancing at him, Thea had the distinct impression that something had struck a jarring note with Mr Richard Blakehurst. His jaw bore a startling resemblance to solid stone.

A glance at David revealed his jaw in much the same condition, which was no surprise at all after what he had said about Lord Dunhaven as they crossed the Square.

Lady Arnsworth sailed on, listing all the more influential hostesses who would be aux anges to receive the Honourable Miss Winslow.

The Honourable, wealthy Miss Winslow. Lady Arnsworth didn’t bother to spell that out.

Mr Blakehurst’s fathomless gaze met hers over the rim of his glass. Thea forced herself not to look away, to keep her own expression blank … Richard had … had grown up. That was all. It had been surprise, nothing more. Nothing deeper.

Lady Arnsworth finished, ‘I don’t doubt we will be invited everywhere. Everyone will wish to make Dorothea’s acquaintance, you may be sure.’

‘Oh, without a doubt,’ said Mr Blakehurst. ‘How could it possibly be otherwise?’

Thea’s gaze narrowed at the faintly ironic tone, as a spurt of annoyance flared, swiftly suppressed. Control. She could not afford to betray anything.

Lady Arnsworth shot Richard a quelling glare and turned back to Thea.

‘Now, my dear,’ she said, ‘should you like to go up to your bedchamber and rest? Dinner will not be for some time, but perhaps some tea on a tray?’

Another strangled noise came from Richard, but, ignoring this, Lady Arnsworth smiled graciously at David. ‘And I am sure, Mr Winslow, that you will wish to inform Lord Aberfield that Dorothea is safely with me. My nephew will see you out. I shall bid you farewell now.’

Chapter Two

There was something distinctly strained about Richard’s voice as he assured Lady Arnsworth that he would not be in the least put out, but Thea had no time to ponder on it as she bid David farewell, and Lady Arnsworth led her from the room.

All along the upper hallway, Lady Arnsworth waxed lyrical about the joys of London. Especially for ‘ … a young lady as well-dowered as you, dear Dorothea!’

Thea could not repress a chill, remembering how people clustered around heiresses. Gentlemen, smiling, pretending affection, while all the time … She pushed the thought away. She would manage perfectly well once she was accustomed.

Except—’I … ma’am, I would really rather not have dozens of suitors tripping over themselves. After all—’

After all, what? What can you possibly tell her that would convince her you don’t want a husband?

Lady Arnsworth opened the door to the bedchamber, an arrested expression on her face. ‘Dozens of suitors?’

It was as though the idea had never occurred to her.

Thea flushed. Was she that much of an antidote these days? ‘Well, fortune hunters,’ she said, following her godmother across the threshold.

A maidservant was already putting her belongings away.

‘Fortune hunters? Oh, dear me, no! There will be nothing like that.’

And the sun might rise in the west. ‘There won’t?’

‘Oh, no … now I am sure you will be perfectly comfortable in this chamber. And don’t worry about fortune hunters. You may trust me to see to that. Why, the very idea! The maid will have your things unpacked in no time,’ she said. ‘And if there is anything you require, of course you must tell me.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Thea politely. ‘Er, you seem very certain about the fortune hunters.’

‘Ah, the girl has finished.’ Lady Arnsworth flipped her hand at the maid. ‘That will be all.’

The maid dropped a curtsy and left. Lady Arnsworth turned back to Thea.

‘My dear, what a sensible girl you are!’ Her ladyship was all smiles as she took Thea’s hand. ‘While naturally your circumstances will attract a certain amount of attention, you may rest assured that as your sponsor and chaperon, I shall be most careful to ensure that only the most eligible suitors are brought to your notice. Two, perhaps three at the most should be quite sufficient.’

Thea blinked as Lady Arnsworth patted her hand and repressed a shiver at even that simple touch. Two or three? What would her ladyship think if she knew that Thea didn’t want any suitors?

She tried. ‘As to that, ma’am, I have no thought of marriage. I … I find the whole idea … that is—’ Her throat tightened.

Lady Arnsworth looked away and fiddled with her rings, turning them to better display the stones. ‘Ah, yes. Your father did mention that—

‘Of course, such things are not quite unknown.’ There was something very odd in her voice, not quite distaste … She met Thea’s puzzled gaze. ‘Generally one does not approve, but under the circumstances—and your fortune is considerable. I am sure you need not worry.’ She fussed with her cuffs, still avoiding Thea’s shocked gaze.

Thea said nothing to this, but gripped her underlip hard between her teeth.

‘Naturally your years of, er, mourning have given you ample time for reflection.’

‘They certainly have,’ said Thea, finding her voice.

Looking far more at ease, Lady Arnsworth said carefully, ‘Indeed your feelings are quite understandable. I found the marriage act most unpleasant myself. But it is our duty. And once you have done your duty and provided the heir—and a spare, of course—if you wish it, most gentlemen will respect a lady’s natural modesty and seek their pleasures elsewhere for the most part. Men, of course, are different. Very different. Now, I must change. I will be out this evening, but tomorrow we will have to do some shopping.’ She cast a pained glance at Thea’s travelling dress. ‘Yes. A new wardrobe is of the first importance! I venture to suggest that you will feel very different when properly gowned!’

And with that, Lady Arnsworth whisked herself out of the room.

Staring at the closed door, Thea faced the fact that her father had told Lady Arnsworth the truth. Or at least the truth as he saw it. And she had the oddest notion that it had not been the fifty thousand pounds that had tipped the balance for Almeria Arnsworth … although that would certainly be the case with most of society. She felt sick to her stomach, thinking of the next couple of months to be spent in the full glare of society and its crowding, jostling throng … all of whom would turn on her if they knew the truth … From nowhere panic ambushed her, sinking familiar claws deep. Her stomach clenched, warding off the striking terror. She forced her body to relax, her lungs to draw breath steadily, blanking her mind. And as suddenly it was gone, a chill warning, leaving her cold and shaking, but free and rational. Free to wonder if she had been completely insane to imagine that she could do this.

As the drawing room door clicked behind Almeria and her houseguest, Richard throttled the urge to swear resoundingly. He could only marvel at the neatness of the trap, as he sat down. A trap compounded of his own good manners. The same good manners that would keep him from strangling his godmother when she returned. Very well, he was fond of Almeria too, and she was family.

‘Quite a coincidence that you are here to greet my sister, Blakehurst,’ remarked David in biting accents.

Richard’s normally even temper flickered. ‘Just so,’ he said. ‘Do take a seat again, Winslow.’

Perhaps he would strangle Almeria. Affectionately, of course. If he lived long enough. Judging by Winslow’s narrowed gaze, there was every chance he might not.

‘You are staying in town?’ David asked, in deceptively casual tones. He remained standing.

Not deceived in the slightest, Richard said, ‘I am. Here, as a matter of fact.’

The silence that followed this admission seethed.

Richard sat back and waited. Winslow’s grey eyes resembled nothing more than twin blades.

‘How very … convenient.’

Richard’s temper did a great deal more than flicker. It smoked and curled at the edges. Winslow’s attitude reeked of protective elder brother, although why he would imagine that Thea required protection from himself was beyond Richard’s comprehension. And there was something else in Winslow’s level gaze: scorn.

‘Can I pour you a brandy?’ he offered politely, damping down his temper.

Winslow declined. ‘Thank you. No. I will take my leave of you.’

Richard smiled. ‘Then no doubt I shall see you again. You will be calling on Miss Winslow, I dare say.’

‘Most definitely,’ her brother replied in clipped tones. ‘If only to keep an eye on all the scaff and raff who cluster around heiresses.’

Richard blinked. Then anger welled up—it was a very long time since anyone had accused him of being a fortune hunter. And even then, at least he had been well aware of the chit’s fortune! This time …

‘No need to summon the butler. I’ll find my own way out.’ David executed a perfunctory bow and left.

Left alone, Richard said several things he had suppressed when Almeria left the room—and a few more for good measure. While he’d known that Thea must at least be respectably dowered, the term heiress suggested a great deal more. And while Almeria’s penchant for dropping stray heiresses in his path had caused him considerable embarrassment on occasion, he couldn’t recall that it had ever put him in danger of his life before. There had been a definite glint of gun metal in Winslow’s eyes.

He took a deep breath. And then there was Thea herself. Something had wrought a change in her that went far beyond years. Far beyond the change from a young girl on the eve of her come-out to a young woman. Thea-the-girl had been exuberant, bubbling over with mischief. Thea-the-woman seemed half-lost in shadow … only there had been that flash of light when their hands met—as though something had awakened inside her.

And as for her blasted, hitherto unsuspected fortune—Winslow was right; it would have the fortune hunters out in force.

By the time Almeria returned to the drawing room, he had managed to reduce the situation to its proper proportion. Almeria was matchmaking. No more. No less. He rose as she sailed into the room, saying airily, ‘I must have forgot to make clear to you that Dorothea will be my guest for the Season! ‘Tis positively shocking how forgetful one becomes as the years advance!’

Despite himself, Richard nearly grinned. ‘Quite shocking,’ he said gravely. Not that he, nor anyone else, would dare suggest to Almeria that she was advanced in years. Although she must be slipping if she expected him to believe that all this had not been carefully prearranged.

Occasionally a little unsubtlety was called for.

He settled for being extremely unsubtle.

‘Almeria—what the deuce are you up to?’

‘Up to?’ she said with a lift of her brows. ‘Why should you imagine I am up to anything? Really, Richard!’

‘Fudge,’ he said bluntly. ‘Don’t waste your breath, Almeria. Instead, tell me precisely what is the extent of Thea’s fortune. I was not aware she had one.’

Almeria looked a little conscious. ‘Her godfather’s fortune. Not the sort of thing one counts on, although he always intended to leave it to her, but after all, he might have married. And it is not a terribly big fortune as these things go, of course.’

The prickle at the back of his neck escalated into outright alarm bells.

‘Just how not-terribly-big are we talking about here?’ he pressed.

‘Only fifty thousand,’ said Almeria with an airy wave. ‘And derived from trade, of course!’ This last with a faint grimace.

Fifty thousand? Only fifty thousand? Hell and damnation! With that much at stake, it wouldn’t surprise him to hear that Almeria already had the special licence in her reticule and a tame bishop in the back parlour.

The suspicion that he had stepped into a well-laid and very sticky trap was unavoidable.

But he could make one or two things plain.

‘Almeria—let us be quite clear. Although I intend to marry, I am not in the market for an heiress, and—’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Almeria settled her skirts with a swish as she sat down. ‘Naturally when Aberfield asked that I chaperon Dorothea, I thought of you—since you were going to visit me anyway …’ She looked more than a trifle evasive.

‘Was I?’

Richard couldn’t recall his plans including anything of the sort. Almeria’s summons to visit her as soon as he reached town had arrived several days ago quite unheralded. However, that wasn’t to say that Almeria’s plans …

She glared at him. ‘Since I was intending to invite you—’

The moment she had an heiress staying with her—that went without saying.

‘Richard, you must marry sensibly!’ she said crossly. ‘You need a wife, the right wife. Especially now that you have bought that property in Kent. One assumes you intend to get an heir!’

Wisely, Richard held his counsel. There was nothing to gain from encouraging Almeria. No matter how right she happened to be.

‘And as for leaving these things to take care of themselves,’ she said, returning to an earlier theme, ‘I would have thought the danger of that was made plain by the appalling mess Max has—’

‘Enough!’ He controlled himself with an effort and said in a gentler tone, ‘Almeria, I cannot possibly remain here if you are to criticise Max and Verity. He is happy. Does that count for nothing?’

Goaded, Almeria snapped, ‘And how long can it last before she does something disgraceful?’

Enough was enough. ‘Like what? Cuckold him? Is that what you mean?’

Her colour rose. ‘Exactly!’

He shrugged. ‘Then he would have to cope with it. In his own way.’ Seeing Almeria’s mouth open, he added, ‘Just as our father did, in fact.’

Her mouth closed.

‘Did you think I never realised? That summer I broke my leg and stayed with you here, I knew then.’

Almeria was scarlet. ‘At least my sister was discreet!’ she said furiously. ‘I do not say that I approved of her behaviour, but she did not bring any disgrace upon the family!’ With which she rose, swept past him and left the drawing room again. The door shut with the sort of controlled click that was a well-bred woman’s alternative to slamming it. Settling back in his chair, he took a measured sip of brandy and muttered a few things that it was as well Almeria couldn’t hear. What the devil was he to do now?

He had to wonder if every god in the pantheon had conspired against him. His laudable plan of reconciling Almeria to Max’s marriage was clearly misfiring. Instead of accepting his own delight in the match, the mere sight of him was enough to stir up all her outrage at the ruin of his supposed expectations. Worse, she was now about to fling fifty thousand pounds’ worth of heiress at his head. Although probably not with Aberfield’s blessing.

In fact, Aberfield would probably succumb to apoplexy if he knew what Almeria was up to. A viscount, and a wealthy one at that, Aberfield didn’t have a seat in the cabinet any more, but he wielded a fair amount of influence with those who did.

Almeria was howling at the moon. Aberfield would never accept a match to a younger son, remarkable only for living within his means, his fortune respectable but no more, and about as much interested in a political career as he was interested in succeeding to his twin’s title—to wit, not at all. All Richard wanted was a quiet, private life improving his recently purchased acres and reading his books.

Nigel Lallerton was a younger son. He dismissed that as irrelevant. Lallerton had been set for a safe seat in parliament, supporting his father’s interest. Not to mention Aberfield’s interest. Lallerton’s father, Lord Chasewater, had been an old political crony. No doubt the match was stitched up between them as mutually beneficial. It had probably been sheer luck that Thea had cared so deeply for Lallerton.

Stretching out his stiff leg, he considered his options.

If he returned to the country, Almeria would think it was because of what she’d said about Verity. Richard frowned. Max could look after Verity, but even so, he hesitated to expose his sister-in-law to any more of Almeria’s rancour. Nor did he wish the rift between Max and Almeria to widen.

Besides, Almeria would be hurt if he left. She was actually fond of him, he reminded himself firmly. When he’d broken his leg, she had come up to town and had him to stay as soon as the doctors said his leg had healed enough for him to travel. Not that a twelve-year-old with a broken leg, wondering if he would ever walk again, had been precisely grateful for that, but nevertheless she had been kind to him. Buying him as many books as he could read, insisting that the kitchen made his favourite cake at least once a day. She had even put up with his dog, although she hated dogs in the house.

He grimaced. His own mother, while professing to be utterly devoted to her sons, had attended a succession of house parties that summer. He hadn’t understood why at first … Almeria had taken over. Brisk, no-nonsense and frequently acerbic on the subject of his idiocy in trying to ride that damned hunter in the first place, but she had been there, while his own mother wafted through London several times between gatherings and recommended laudanum when she thought he looked out of sorts. She had invariably been accompanied by Lord Ketterley—he grimaced. Ketterley had seemed such a decent fellow … it had been Max, cynical, rebellious Max, who had worked it all out …

Almeria hadn’t even complained when she discovered that he had inveigled Myles into playing chess with him. Her face when she caught them, though! Three days later she had appeared triumphantly with her other godchild, five-year-old Thea Winslow, announcing that Dear Dorothea is come to stay as well, and she is most interested in learning to play chess … The twelve-year-old Richard had barely choked back his disgust at having dear, little Dorothea foisted upon him. He’d taught her to play chess in sheer self-defence.

He found himself smiling as he remembered the little girl who had pored over the chess board, chewing her bottom lip with her untidy curls for ever falling into her eyes. Even at sixteen when she had made her come-out, her unruly curls had tended to escape their bonds. He’d teased her for it … He frowned as something occurred to him; there hadn’t been a wisp in sight today. For all he knew, she might be bald under that ghastly bonnet. Not that he understood anything about fashion, but he could recognise an ugly bonnet when he saw one.

An odd thought came to him—could he help Thea?

Help Thea? An heiress?

Even an heiress needs a friend.

He grimaced. Almeria would be looking for every opportunity to throw them together. Was he really going to be so foolish as to assist her? A memory of grey eyes that should have been blue suggested that he was.

He sighed. It would probably be polite to inform Braybrook in person that he no longer had a houseguest.

Julian, Lord Braybrook, received the news that his guest of twenty-four hours would be departing, with a suspicious degree of sangfroid.

He laid down his pen, leaned back in his desk chair and said merely, ‘Ah.’ Not at all as though the news came as a surprise.

Richard eyed him warily.

‘Food not up to standard, old chap?’ enquired Braybrook in tones of polite interest. ‘Bed unaired?’

Richard grinned. ‘Indigestible. And damned chilly. How the devil did you find out so fast?’

‘Thanks,’ said Braybrook drily. ‘For God’s sake, Ricky! Are you mad? As for how I found out—I have just sustained a visit from the outraged brother!’

‘Winslow?’

‘She’s only got the one,’ said Braybrook.

Richard nodded slowly. ‘I’d forgotten you were friendly. He’s not been in town much the last few years.’

‘No,’ said Braybrook. ‘But he recalled that I was also acquainted with you. You may imagine my surprise when he informed me that you were staying with Lady Arnsworth.’ He shot Richard an odd glance. ‘I was under the impression you planned to seek out lodgings.’

‘It’s not what it looks like,’ said Richard, rather shocked to realise that his teeth were gritted.

‘Of course not. And I do hope you will appreciate my discretion in not informing Winslow that your sojourn with Lady Arnsworth is of such recent date.’

‘Dammit, Julian! I didn’t even know Miss Winslow was expected when Almeria persuaded me to stay!’

‘Then what did persuade you?’ He flung up a hand as Richard glared at him. ‘Oh, don’t be a gudgeon! I know you aren’t the sort to dangle after heiresses! I even did my best to reassure Winslow on that head; but I will admit to a very human curiosity about what possible cause you could have for staying with Lady Arnsworth!’ He grinned. ‘Apart from my unaired beds and the indigestible food.’

Despite his annoyance, Richard laughed. Damn. Telling Julian that in some odd way he was worried about Thea would have the fellow leaping to all sorts of unwarranted conclusions. Instead he fell back on his original reason for accepting. ‘Almeria is still very bitter about Max’s marriage, you know,’ he said.

Braybrook looked rather self-conscious. ‘So I hear.’

Something about his voice alerted Richard. ‘Yes?’

‘I had a letter from Serena,’ said Braybrook.

Richard nodded. Serena, Lady Braybrook, was the previous Lord Braybrook’s widow. Julian’s stepmother. Almeria had long considered it her duty to keep the invalid Lady Braybrook fully apprised of her stepson’s indiscretions.

‘Yes?’

‘Lady Arnsworth had written to her.’

Richard suppressed a grin at the irritation in his voice. ‘Ah. Giving her advice on how to marry you off?’

Braybrook snorted. ‘Precisely. Citing Max as a fearful example of what happens when a man is left to his own devices in the matter.’

‘Annoying,’ replied Richard, ‘but there’s nothing new in that. She said as much to me this afternoon. She’s doubly furious because of the expected baby.’

The blue eyes narrowed. ‘Maybe. Did she also express doubts about the child’s paternity?’

‘What?’

‘No. I didn’t think she’d have said that to you. Obviously you don’t have to worry about it going any further, but she hinted at it in her letter to Serena.’

Richard swore. ‘Is she still harping on that? She said something to that effect last year.’

‘To you?’

‘And Max,’ said Richard grimly.

Braybrook’s jaw dropped. ‘That would explain why Max is at outs with her.’

‘Exactly,’ said Richard. ‘Which is why I agreed to stay with her,’ he went on. ‘To try to convince her that Max’s marriage has not consigned me to poverty, before she says something to create a permanent breach between herself and Max!’

A sceptical brow lifted. ‘And questioning the child’s paternity to his face hasn’t done that already?’

Richard grimaced. ‘Not quite. Max doesn’t want a breach any more than I do, but if it comes to a choice between Almeria or protecting Verity—’ He broke off. ‘You know what he will do.’

Braybrook made a rude noise. ‘Slight understatement there, Ricky. If it came to a choice between the entire world and protecting Lady Blakehurst, Max would consign the lot of us to perdition!’

Richard smiled. ‘True.’

Braybrook looked curious. ‘You know, Ricky—I’ve never quite understood just why Lady Arnsworth was so fixated on Max remaining single?’

Richard frowned. ‘Max never told you?’

‘I never asked.’

He nodded. ‘It was my accident that started it. Mama and Almeria blamed Max for daring me to ride the cursed horse. Never mind that I was perfectly capable of saying no to him, he’d suggested it and therefore it was all his fault. Later, I was supposed to go into the army—Mama insisted that my leg made that unsuitable, and that Max should be bought a commission instead.’

‘What else did they have in mind for him?’ asked Julian.

‘The church, if you can believe it.’

A most peculiar choking sound came from Lord Braybrook.

‘Quite,’ said Richard. ‘I think he preferred the army on the whole. He was a damn sight better suited to it than I was.’ He sighed. ‘And then Freddy died not long after our father. And suddenly Max was the earl. But instead of demanding that he settle down and secure the succession, both Mama and Almeria decided between them that he owed it to me to remain single!’

‘How very melodramatic of them,’ observed Julian.

Richard snorted. ‘I didn’t take it seriously, but Max did. He always blamed himself for my accident anyway and Mama and Almeria had rubbed it in with a vengeance over the years.’

Braybrook’s mouth twitched. ‘And, of course, it’s plain to the meanest intelligence that you yourself are bitterly disappointed in being cut out of an earldom,’ he said drily.

‘Bitterly,’ said Richard, yawning. ‘I’ve enough money for my wants.’

‘And if you don’t,’ said Braybrook, ‘you could always marry Miss Winslow.’ He grinned wickedly. ‘No point cutting off your nose to spite your face, you know. After all, she might be your perfect bride!’

‘As long as her brother doesn’t shoot me first,’ said Richard sarcastically.

Unholy amusement gleamed in bright blue eyes. ‘A risk, of course. Mind you, it would certainly calm Lady Arnsworth down to see you safely legshackled to an heiress!’ He grinned. ‘Proof positive that your game leg and Max’s marriage have not combined to blight your life.’

‘Oh, go to the devil, Julian,’ recommended Richard.

All the same, the flippant advice niggled at him as he blew out his bedside lamp later that night, after walking back to Arnsworth House, as it had done all through dinner and numerous hands of piquet afterwards. A circumstance that had led to Julian relieving him of a vast, if imaginary, fortune.

In the best spare bedchamber, Thea Winslow was probably sound asleep … a thought that had made him very, very edgy as he’d tiptoed past to his own room … It had been a distinct shock to find a sleepy footman waiting up for him. He’d forgotten to keep his voice down as he told the man never to do such a thing again. He hoped it hadn’t disturbed Thea … He pushed the recurring thought of Thea away. Thea Winslow, sleeping peacefully just down the hallway, was no concern of his. Or she ought not to be.

No point cutting off your nose to spite your face … she might be your perfect bride …

Leaving perfect out of it, he had always intended to marry. Marriage had always made complete sense—at some dim, unspecified future time. Apparently the future had arrived. With the purchase of an estate and a London house, marriage was becoming, if not imperative, then at least desirable. All he needed to do was choose the right woman—and of course persuade her that he was the right man. Yes, a sensible, intelligent woman with a sense of humour. She didn’t need to be wealthy, just someone he liked and respected … His stomach clenched—someone who wouldn’t view a child’s broken leg as an interruption to her own life. Someone who wouldn’t mind that her husband had absolutely no ambition to figure in society, but preferred a quiet life in the country with his books and acres, and was happy to remain there with him for the most part. Happy to remain, not self-sacrificing … not complaining that she had nothing to amuse her, and flitting off to yet another house party with her lover—he slammed a lid down on that; there was no point being bitter about the past, but you could learn from it. He added another criterion: honour. He wanted a woman to whom honour was more important than discretion.

Common sense firmly in place, he permitted his thoughts to turn to Thea. He liked her. He always had. She had always been blazingly honest as a child, and young girl, sometimes when it might have been wiser to dissemble a little. And she was loyal—if she had mourned Nigel Lallerton so deeply, he needed no further proof of that. What if she were the right choice for him? The sensible, logical choice … folly to discount her simply because of Almeria’s entirely predictable matchmaking.

She was here in the house. It was the perfect opportunity to find out if she really would suit him. He caught himself—if they would suit. For all he knew, his bookish habits might drive her to distraction. Or his tendency to leave curls of shaved wood everywhere from his whittling. If their old childhood friendship could become an adult friendship and the basis for a successful marriage … an irritatingly rational voice suggested that perhaps he was being a little bit too rational about this, that perhaps he might look for a woman to love … after all, love wasn’t ruining Max’s life. Quite the opposite.

He rolled over and punched the pillow. That was all very well, but if he hadn’t fallen in love in thirty-two years, what were the odds of it happening now? A sensible marriage would be far more … sensible. Logical.

Safe.

His father had loved—and look what that had led to … a totally unsuitable choice. Max had been lucky. Damned lucky.

There could be no harm in spending time with Thea, and renewing their friendship. He liked that idea. What he didn’t like was the memory of Thea as he had seen her that afternoon, all the old laughter and liveliness quenched. A feeling that was not in the least sensible stole over him … whatever had been responsible for the grey shadow in eyes that ought to have been blue—he wanted to remove it.

Hours after going to bed Thea lay waiting for sleep. Perhaps she should light a lamp and read for a while. The strange bed unnerved her … but it was so late. Surely she would sleep if she closed her eyes and emptied her mind. She had become very good at that over the years—keeping her mind utterly blank, refusing to allow emotion to creep in.

But now, back in London, among people who had known her as a child, a young girl—even though her body ached with tiredness, the thoughts and feelings held sleep at bay.

A little spark of anger flared in a dark corner of her heart, a corner she never looked into. From her father’s point of view, her marriage now was an unquestioned necessity. She rolled over and thumped the pillow. She would not, under any circumstances, acquiesce to any match proposed by her father.

The little spark had caught, lighting up the corner. Thea shut her eyes to it, dousing it. She wouldn’t look there. She mustn’t. Better that it remained shadowed. Hidden from the light. If she permitted herself to feel anything again … anger, hurt … even love, she pushed them all away. Safer to remain calm. Unmoved. As untouched as she could ever be.

The news would be all over London that Miss Winslow, only daughter of Viscount Aberfield and heiress to fifty thousand pounds, was residing in Grosvenor Square with Lady Arnsworth. She would be sought out. Courted, flattered, every social distinction pressed upon her.

The thought sickened her.

Money bought acceptance; with fifty thousand pounds, as long as the truth remained a whisper, the past would be ignored by many. Not by all, but many including her own father.

She gritted her teeth. She didn’t want that sort of acceptance anyway. Especially not from Aberfield. Uncle James had shown more understanding and affection for her than her own father. He had been prepared to believe her innocence and reverse his decision to disinherit her. Aberfield had reinstated her only because of the money. It was easier somehow to think of him as Aberfield, not Papa. It wasn’t as though he wanted her as his daughter. All he wanted was for her money to secure a husband of benefit to himself.

A queer thought came to her—she doubted that her money would buy Richard’s good opinion if ever he knew the truth. She could count on his honesty. She shivered, and drew the blankets closer. Why was she thinking of Richard anyway? How could she know what he had become? She hadn’t seen him since her come-out ball.

The memory slipped past her defences. He had danced with her that night, laughing because her wretched hair was escaping, enjoying the ball as much as she, although he rarely danced because of his leg. He had danced with her twice, and then she hadn’t seen him again until today.

She pushed the memory away. Richard would be revolted if he knew the truth; at best he would feel sorry for her.

She didn’t want pity. She wanted nothing of anyone. She didn’t need anyone—she could stand by herself. And in less than three months she would be free. Only … what on earth would she do with her freedom once she had it? She would enjoy it, that was what. And in the meantime she would enjoy herself now. Here. In London. She was not going to permit her fears to rule her life—she would not wait for her twenty-fifth birthday to release her, she would begin now. Tomorrow—no, it was tomorrow already. Today. She would begin today. She had put off enough tomorrows.

Thea arose early the following morning and dressed without summoning a maid—she could manage her short wraparound stays herself. Unsurprisingly when she went downstairs, she found the breakfast parlour empty. Having been out the previous evening, Lady Arnsworth would probably not arise until noon. Fully expecting to have to ring for tea and toast, she was startled to find a varied selection of food set out in chafing dishes on the sideboard, including, to her great surprise, sirloin.

Puzzled at this very masculine inclusion, Thea helped herself to toast, poached eggs and ham, and made a pot of tea from the urn steaming in the corner.

She enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, and afterwards sipped her tea with lingering enjoyment, wondering what she might do with her day. A day in which she might do precisely as she pleased.

Contemplating this rare treasure, Thea poured another cup of tea. She might take one of the maids and go for a walk. She could visit Hatchards. She might—

Stare at Mr Richard Blakehurst strolling into the breakfast parlour as though he owned it! At this hour! Swallowing her tea with difficulty, she realised that his limp was far less noticeable these days, more a slight halt in the stride than a limp. The harsh lines pain had etched in his face made him look rather forbidding.

Until he smiled his familiar crooked smile.

Which he was doing now, the corners of his eyes creasing in the way she remembered. His whole face lightened. She remembered that too, Richard smiling at her as he clumsily partnered her in a country dance. But he’d always been just Richard. An extra brother. Someone dependable. A dear friend. She didn’t remember that she had ever thought of him as attractive …

‘Good morning, Thea,’ he said pleasantly.

She found herself smiling back.

Attractive? Surely not.

Oh, yes, he was. Even more so as his smile deepened in response to her own.

‘Good morning,’ she returned, confused. ‘Er, Lady Arnsworth is not yet down, sir.’

His brows rose. ‘Just as well,’ he said, strolling to the sideboard. ‘Or you would have to revive me with burnt feathers.’

A giggle escaped her at the image, and with a perfectly straight face Richard added, ‘No proper lady leaves her bedchamber before noon, you know.’

Laughter bubbled up. ‘Are you implying, sir—?’

‘That proper ladies bore me,’ he said, grinning. ‘That’s better. You should laugh more often. And stop calling me sir, Thea. It makes my teeth ache. Now, what have we here?’ He lifted the lid of one of the chafing dishes.

She glared at him. ‘A trifle early for morning calls, is it not?’ she enquired. ‘Especially when your aunt is still abed.’ Better to ignore the implication that she didn’t laugh enough.

He looked around, with a sudden frown. ‘She didn’t tell you?’

‘Tell me what?’

The frown deepened. ‘This isn’t a morning call. I’m staying here too.’

‘What!’ Her teacup clattered into its saucer. ‘Why?’

‘Heiress hunting,’ he said blandly, carving some sirloin.

‘I beg your pardon?’ she said icily.

‘Absolved,’ he said promptly. ‘I’m sure you didn’t mean to be rude.’

Her mouth twitched. She had forgotten his ability to turn the tables so neatly in any verbal sparring.

He helped himself to mustard, sat down and smiled at her again. ‘Don’t blame me. Curse our mutual godmother.’ He took a mouthful.

‘But why are you staying here?’ she asked, refusing to return that annoyingly infectious smile. Smiles like that ought to be outlawed anyway!

He finished his mouthful and said, ‘Because I have business in London and Almeria invited me.’

‘Oh.’ His business was none of her concern. ‘Then—’

‘I am not pursuing you,’ he growled. ‘And so you may tell your fire-eating brother! You could have twice the fortune and I wouldn’t be interested in it! I have a little more pride than that!’

For a moment shocked silence hung between them.

Shame burnt her cheeks, and deep inside, coldness spread, leaching through her, a slow poison welling up. She fought it down, forcing herself to seem untouched, unmoved.

‘I suppose I must thank you for making your sentiments so plain,’ she said stiffly. It didn’t matter. It didn’t! After all, she didn’t want him, or any man, to pursue her. The chill spread further. How had he known? Lady Arnsworth?

Then—’Oh, damn!’ said Richard. ‘I mean, I beg your pardon, Thea. That was not at all how I meant to put it. What I meant is that I am not on the catch for an heiress. Any heiress. Unfortunately for us, Almeria has other ideas.’

Thea took a shaky breath. She had thought—for one dreadful eternal instant—that he knew. ‘I … very well …’ Then his remark about Lady Arnsworth’s plans crashed into her. ‘What do you mean, Lady Arnsworth has other ideas?’

He looked at her in disbelief. ‘Thea—stop wool-gathering. Think—her goddaughter with a fortune of fifty thousand pounds; her godson and favourite nephew, a younger son with no expectations whatsoever—clearly a match made in heaven.’

Her eyes widened as that stabbed home. Oh, God! Why hadn’t she seen it? No wonder Lady Arnsworth had assured her that there would be no swarms of fortune hunters! She took a couple of careful, deep breaths and met Richard’s gaze.

He was looking at her oddly. ‘Are you feeling quite the thing?’

She took a sip of tea. If she looked as shocked as she felt, then he had some cause for asking. ‘Perfectly well, thank you, sir,’ she lied. ‘Er, thank you for your honesty.’ At least he had been honest.

He frowned. ‘Thea, if you think I am going to call you Miss Winslow and stand upon ceremony with you, then think again,’ he said in rising irritation. ‘And stop calling me sir!’

At this inauspicious moment the door opened and the butler came in with a coffee pot.

‘Your coffee, sir.’ His tones oozed reproof.

‘Ah, thank you, Myles. That will be all.’

‘Yes, sir. Very good, sir.’ Myles placed the coffee pot before Richard and removed himself with all the air of a man removing himself from potential crossfire.

Thea met Richard’s glare head on. ‘Mr Blakehurst, you have been so kind as to make clear your position—mine is similar. I have no interest in marriage to you whatsoever. If you are concerned that your aunt wishes to promote a match between us, you may rest assured she will receive no encouragement or assistance from me. Good day. Sir. If you will take my advice, any familiarity between us will merely encourage any mistaken assumptions! In future I shall request breakfast in my bedchamber. It will be far safer for both of us if we are not alone together!’

She stalked out, leaving Richard contemplating his breakfast, furiously aware that he had displayed all the finesse of a cavalry charge. Nor had he made his position clear. Now that he thought about it, she had always been able to get under his skin with the greatest of ease, deflecting him from what he wished to say. And that knack she had of getting the last word was like to drive him insane.

But at least their argument had banished the shadows in her eyes. They’d been positively snapping sparks before she walked out. As though the waxwork doll had come to life or split to let out the old, passionate Thea … She was still too pale—or perhaps it was just the effect of the slightly too big, dull grey gown.

Muttering to himself, he poured a cup of coffee and stirred in several lumps of sugar. What really annoyed him was that in one sense she was right about them avoiding each other. The last thing Almeria needed was encouragement. She would be having a field day, dropping not-so-chance remarks about duty and commenting on all the advantages of the union—he paused, quite unable to think of any arguments Almeria would be able to advance in his cause beyond the purely mercenary ones. He didn’t, however, let that fool him into believing Almeria wouldn’t think of some.

He didn’t want to avoid Thea. Why the hell should he? They were friends, and how the devil could he discover if they would suit if they were avoiding each other?

Chapter Three

Thea stared at the rose-pink gauze evening gown in the arms of the modiste’s assistant. She loved pink and this was, without a doubt, at the very forefront of fashion, but … She gulped—it appeared to be missing its bodice … and the sleeves consisted of the tiniest scraps of gauze … but the way the light shifted on it … as though it were alive. Delicate embroidered flowers decorated the rouleau at the hem. Temptation flickered; involuntarily her fingertips brushed over it. So soft, so fine—there was nothing of it at all … She drew back.

‘N … no. No, I couldn’t possibly wear that,’ she said cravenly.

‘Mais, mademoiselle,’ wailed the modiste, ‘it is of the finest, ze mos’ beautiful—madame!’ She appealed to Lady Arnsworth who had stepped away to examine a dress length in softest blue merino draped over a chair.

Lady Arnsworth looked up. ‘Excellent, Monique. Precisely what she should wear! With proper stays, of course.’

‘But, Lady Arnsworth!’ protested Thea, ignoring the reference to stays. She hadn’t worn long stays in years. They were impossible without a maid. ‘The bodice!’

‘Bodice? What about the bodice?’

‘It doesn’t have one!’ said Thea. The thought of appearing in such a gown, exposed to the gaze of all—her skin crawled at the thought of people, men, staring at her, leering. Touching her. No. It would be unbearable. But the gown really was very pretty …

Lady Arnsworth examined the gown. ‘Dreadful the way some females flaunt their charms,’ she said, subjecting the non-existent bodice to keen scrutiny. ‘If charms one can call them when they are exposed to every vulgar gaze!’

Thea nodded.

‘It is of the first importance that you should not draw attention to yourself,’ continued Lady Arnsworth. ‘But …’ She hesitated. ‘As an heiress, there will of course be those only too swift to be spiteful, whatever you do! It is a very lovely gown, Dorothea, but if you do not like it …’

Thea remained silent. That was the problem; she did like it. Very much.

The modiste, her mouth primmed in distaste, cast an affronted glance at Thea’s grey dress, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like sackcloth! and issued a stream of voluble instructions to her assistant, along with the pink gown, which was borne away.

Sackcloth? Thea considered her current wardrobe. Her gowns were all grey … or brown. Discreet, modest, and … dull. No doubt any gowns provided by Madame Monique would be beautifully cut, and the material exquisite … but, did she really want them to be grey?

Sackcloth? She swallowed. That was the word that came to mind when she thought of her wardrobe. And there were probably some ashes about somewhere as well.

The old, rebellious spark, dimmed for years, flared. After all, she had never meant to dress in grey for the rest of her life. It was just the way it had turned out after … after Lallerton’s death. There had been no money with which to purchase other clothes after her period of official mourning … decreed by her father, and enforced by Aunt Maria … even a pink riband for her hair had been burnt.

The spark ignited. How was shrouding herself in more grey helping her to enjoy herself? She took a very deep breath.

‘If you please, madame—’ she directed what she hoped was a friendly smile at the modiste ‘—that pretty pink gown—I should like to try it on after all.’

Madame’s eyes brightened. ‘Mais oui! But of course.’ Now beaming, the modiste continued, ‘The colour will be ravissement, of course. It will bring out the pretty colour in mademoiselle’s cheeks. We will put away ces robes tristes. One does not wish to cover oneself in sadness. The pink. Oui—the pink. And there are others, mademoiselle!’ She rushed away.

Others? Thea gulped. What had she let loose?

No. She pushed the doubts away. She might feel alive again in the pink gown. A dangerous thing being alive, but the pink gown beckoned. She would enjoy the pink gown. As for the non-existent sleeves—well, she would be wearing long gloves. It would be concealing enough.

Madame came back, bearing the pink evening gown as tenderly as a babe. An assistant trailed behind, a rainbow of silks and satins cascading from her arms. Thea viewed it all with intense satisfaction.

Her gowns. Her choices.

Her life. To enjoy.

Lady Arnsworth gave an approving little nod. ‘Excellent. Very sensible, my dear.’

By the time Thea left the modiste she had ordered an entire new wardrobe from the skin out, and was garbed in a new walking dress and a pelisse of turkey red. She still couldn’t quite believe that she had spent so much money. And she felt completely different—just as Lady Arnsworth had predicted.

‘That bonnet,’ announced the other woman as she settled herself in the barouche, ‘is an abomination. It always was, I dare say, but it is far more noticeable with your new clothes. We shall have to buy you a new one. Several new ones. Now.’ She leaned forward to give directions to the coachman. ‘And afterwards,’ she said, ‘we shall drive in the park.’

Her old bonnet consigned to a dust heap, Thea found herself being driven at a snail’s pace through the leafy green of the park. Fashionable London had returned to life after the festivities of the previous evening and their progress was impeded by the number of times the coachman was obliged to stop so that Lady Arnsworth might exchange greetings with her acquaintances.

Just as Thea had expected, no one seemed terribly surprised to learn the identity of Lady Arnsworth’s companion; most remembered her from her first Season.

The carriageway was crowded, horses ridden by nattily turned-out gentleman and elegant women, weaving between the carriages, chatter and laughter filling the air as society preened itself. A show, she reminded herself. Like a peacock’s tail. Nothing more. And she wasn’t frightened of peacocks after all.

‘Oh!’ Lady Arnsworth’s exclamation pulled her back. ‘Goodness me—’tis Laetitia Chasewater. I dare say given your connection, Dorothea, that she will call. Nothing could be more fortunate.’

Thea’s breath jerked in. The lady in question was seated in her own barouche on the opposite side of the carriageway a little further along. Elegantly gowned in soft grey, tastefully trimmed with black, the lady smiled and inclined her head.

‘There … there is no connection, ma’am,’ said Thea, her stomach churning. ‘I should not like her ladyship to feel obliged—’

‘Nonsense,’ said Lady Arnsworth. ‘Why, ‘tis common knowledge that poor Nigel was by far her favourite child, and that she was very happy about the match between you. There! She is beckoning to you! Of course you must step over to greet her. Edmund …’ she indicated the footman perched up behind them ‘ … will attend you.’

Immediately the footman leapt down from his perch and opened the door. Thea dragged in a breath as she stepped out, bracing herself to greet the woman who would have been her mother-in-law. It would have been quite distressing enough without the awareness that a large portion of fashionable London had stopped in its tracks to view the exchange of greetings. Peafowl, she reminded herself, were harmless.

‘My dear Miss Winslow,’ said Lady Chasewater, with a sad smile, holding out her hand. Hesitantly Thea laid hers in it, and thin gloved fingers tightened like claws. ‘How delightful to see you again,’ said her ladyship. ‘I think I have not seen you since, well …’ The grey eyes became distant for a moment, before she went on. ‘’Tis all a very long time ago. I am glad you have come up to town again.’ She patted Thea’s hand. ‘One cannot mourn for ever, my dear.’

No. One couldn’t. Nor could one jerk one’s hand away from an elderly lady.

Cold and clammy, Thea managed a polite response, her stomach tying itself in knots.

‘And how does Aberfield go on? I understand him to be suffering dreadfully from the gout at the moment.’ She did not pause for a response, but continued, ‘I found some letters from him to Chasewater some time ago.’ Her smile became reminiscent. ‘After Chasewater died. Such memories as they brought back! All our hopes!’

Nothing in Lady Chasewater’s languid voice betokened more than polite interest, but Thea’s heart raced.

‘Did you, ma’am?’ she said with forced calm. ‘I am sorry if it was distressing for you.’ Of course Aberfield had corresponded with Lord Chasewater … it would have been unavoidable.

Lady Chasewater patted her hand again. ‘Oh, no. Why should you regret what is past? I shall do myself the pleasure of calling on Almeria very soon. Now, I must not keep you.’ And she gave Thea’s hand another gentle pat as she released it.

‘Good day, ma’am,’ said Thea, relaxing slightly as she stepped back from the carriageway.

The barouche moved on and Thea breathed a sigh of relief, trying to quell the shivering that persisted despite the warmth of the sun and her new pelisse.

Upon reaching Arnsworth House again, Thea retired to her chamber to remove her gloves, bonnet and pelisse. Several dress boxes were already piled on her bed, having been delivered from the modiste’s in her absence.

Not bothering to summon a maid, Thea set about unpacking them. These were only a fraction of what she had bought. The rest had required alteration, including the dusky pink evening gown which madame had promised would be delivered that same day, assuring Thea that her minions would not rest until it was done.

Thea could only gulp at her expenditure. In one afternoon she had spent ten times more than she had in the preceding eight years. And that was just at the modiste. She had—she was forced to admit—enjoyed it, once she had let herself go. Not that she wanted to fling her money about all the time. After this spree there would be no need. But, oh, it was lovely to know that when she dressed tomorrow morning there would be something pretty to put on. That—

‘Ah. There you are, Dorothea.’ The door had opened and Lady Arnsworth looked in. ‘Do come down when you are ready. I have asked for tea to be brought to the drawing room.’

She looked critically at the new dresses on the bed and hanging over the back of the chair. ‘Hmm. That will do for a start. Once a few more invitations have arrived, we shall think again. Do be quick, dear.’

Thea gulped as the door closed behind her godmother. A few more invitations sounded as though some had already arrived.

She hurried with the dresses. No doubt Lady Arnsworth had further plans to unveil for the Season. Balls, routs, dinners, soirées, making calls. All the activities of the social whirl. At least she had a day or two before she must plunge into it. Hardly anyone yet knew that she was in town, which meant she was safe for a couple of nights at least …

‘Good God! That’s … it can’t be! Not the Winslow chit!’ Richard, whatever he’d been saying to Braybrook forgotten, stiffened as he heard the middle-aged matron’s amazed tones ring out in the middle of the Fothergills’ very crowded drawing room that evening. Forcibly he resisted the temptation to turn and stare her down. Whoever she was.

Instead he looked around for Thea. He found Almeria almost immediately, regal in purple, and …

The unknown female behind him continued. ‘I had the most interesting letter, my dear! Why, she was barely out when …’ Her voice dropped, and turning his head slightly, Richard could see several be-turbaned matrons, feathers a-quiver, nodding and casting startled looks at Thea as the knowledgeable one disgorged her burden of gossip.

‘And you say there was something more to it? Some indiscretion? I understood that story about her grief to be …’ began one. Damn it all! Could a girl not be absent from society for a few years without the tabbies deciding that there must be ‘something more to it’? Were their own hearts so withered that they could not understand grief?

Another lady leaned forward, murmuring behind her fan. All he heard was, ‘—hurst!’

‘No!’ Eyes popping, the first lady cast another, disbelieving look at Thea. ‘How much? And Almeria actually has him staying with her? In the very house?’

There were times when the mercenary tendencies of society amused Richard. This was not one of them.

Braybrook caught his eye. ‘People are so predictable, are they not, Ricky? And, no, you cannot tell her off for it. Much less demand satisfaction.’

Richard had to unclench his jaw before he could respond. And Julian did it for him anyway.

‘It should be entertaining to watch them all trying to work out precisely how great an indiscretion can be glossed over with fifty thousand pounds.’ There was an odd snap in his voice.

‘What indiscretion?’ growled Richard.

Julian’s brows drew together, and he nodded to another acquaintance. Then he said lightly, ‘The imaginary one they are talking about, of course, Ricky. And do, please, unclench your fists.’

Looking down, Richard was startled to discover that his fists were indeed clenched. Since Julian hadn’t even glanced at his hands … He glared at his friend.

Braybrook raised a dark brow. ‘Your voice, old chap. It always gives you away.’

Behind them the matron continued, ‘Well, I can’t say I should like the connection for Marianne, but—’ a tinge of scornful condescension crept into her voice ‘—I dare say Aberfield can’t afford to be fussy getting this one off his hands; after all, Dunhaven does need an heir.’

Her companion tittered in agreement.

All consideration of discretion crashed to splinters as Richard spun and skewered the startled women with a glare that could have felled a gorgon. He didn’t waste time on words, merely stared at them coldly as they flounced and muttered, before hurrying off through the crowd. Dragging in a deep breath, he turned and looked again … this time he found her.

Every nerve taut in shock, tension rippled through him. What the hell did she think she was doing? No longer the grey mouse who had snapped his head off at breakfast, but a vision in shimmering rose-pink gauze. A soft, dusky shade—exactly like … like something waiting to be plucked. He backed right away from that analogy. The light brown curls were piled high, a pink bandeau holding them in place, gold lights glinting in the blaze of candlelight … but it wasn’t the change in her appearance that had fury simmering through every vein.

Aberfield had lost no time at all in offering his daughter up on the altar of political expedience—Lord Dunhaven hovered beside her like a dog guarding a juicy bone.

‘Ah.’ Braybrook nudged him. ‘That is Miss Winslow over there, is it not? In rose pink?’ A brief pause and then Braybrook added, ‘With Dunhaven.’

‘Yes,’ Richard grated. Inside him something growled, and Braybrook’s less-than-parliamentary remark about old goats went unanswered—Richard was already forging a path through the crowd.

Braybrook blinked. Then his gaze narrowed. How very unlike Ricky not to think a strategy through first. And while a full-frontal assault might be sufficient, a little flanking manoeuvre would not go astray.

Thea had completely underestimated the speed with which news could travel through fashionable society. Any number of people had seen her in the park and realised her identity. And of course all the people to whom Lady Arnsworth had presented her had been only too happy to mention their acquaintance with the latest heiress. Mrs Dallimore had been swift to bear the tidings to her sister, Lady Fothergill, who had dashed off a charming note assuring Lady Arnsworth that of course she would be delighted to welcome dear Lady Arnsworth’s protégée to her little party that very evening.

In Thea’s book, Lady Fothergill’s assembly did not qualify as a little party.

She had forgotten what it felt like to be one of three hundred people squashed into one house. The roar of conversation, mingled with the half-heard strains of the small orchestra made it almost impossible to hear what was said to one. And the heat of all those bodies, the mingled aromas of perfume, cologne and overheated humanity, rose in an almost overpowering wave. Chandeliers and wall sconces blazed with wax candles, adding to the heat. At least this was only an assembly. There would be no dancing tonight.

Once that would not have pleased her at all. She had loved dancing. Loved the music, melody and rhythm sweeping her along in delight. Now she fought to keep a polite smile plastered on her face. And the knowledge that the following evening she was expected to attend a ball feathered chills down her spine.

People kept touching her, brushing by her. They couldn’t help it, of course, in the press, but nevertheless her skin crawled and her stomach clenched, a solid lump of panic churning within. Each time she kicked her chin a notch higher and breathed with fierce determination. It was foolish, irrational—she wouldn’t give in to it!

As various people greeted them, Thea’s nerves began to steady, and she realised with an odd shock that, although she disliked the crowd, the fear of exposing herself was ebbing. She might be uncomfortable, but she wasn’t going to faint or panic, even when one dowager went so far as to prod her with a fan, commenting that it was time and more that she did her duty. She shot a gimlet-eyed stare at Lady Arnsworth. ‘And I hear you have that nephew of yours with you. Well, it might be worse!’ and stumped off, leaning on a cane.

‘Such a dreadful crush!’ pronounced Lady Arnsworth in scathing tones, as the dowager retreated. ‘Really, I wonder that Louisa cares to invite so many. I have not seen a single person I wished to see.’ She smiled graciously, inclining her head at another lady. ‘Lady Broome! How nice … yes. A frightful crush. I shall look forward to a comfortable cose later!’

Lady Broome sailed away into the seething silks and satins.

Lady Arnsworth shuddered. ‘Vulgar creature! Her father was a merchant. I vow she smells of the shop!’

Thea remembered Lady Broome as a very good-natured, unaffected woman—not at all vulgar. And her own fortune, now respectably invested in the Funds, derived from her uncle’s involvement with the East India Company. Perhaps Lady Arnsworth’s sense of smell was selective … like her tolerance for other failings.

The gentlemen were no less assiduous in their attentions, several claiming to remember her from her brief Season.

She smiled and replied politely to their compliments, vaguely remembering names and faces from eight years ago. The smile was the important thing: vague, gracious, never direct. Let them think her cold, uninviting …

‘Oh, goodness me!’ muttered Lady Arnsworth, nipping at Thea’s arm in warning with gloved fingers.

Thea recognised Lord Dunhaven at once. Slightly above average height, his powerful frame drew attention as he strolled towards them, his expression intent.

‘Really! I did not think he could possibly be serious!’ muttered Lady Arnsworth to Thea. Then, in far more gracious tones, ‘Lord Dunhaven! How do you do?’

Instantly Thea was aware that although his lordship exchanged polite greetings with Lady Arnsworth, all his attention was on her. Intent, knowing eyes looked her up and down. She stiffened her spine against the tremor that went through her as Lady Arnsworth presented her. ‘You recall Lord Aberfield’s daughter? Miss Winslow, this is Lord Dunhaven.’

Thin lips curved in acknowledgement. ‘Certainly, ma’am. I called on Aberfield earlier and he mentioned that she had arrived.’ His gaze returned to Thea. ‘Good evening, Miss Winslow.’ He extended his hand with all the air of one conferring a signal honour upon the recipient.

Thea repressed a shudder, violently aware of her scanty bodice, as she placed her hand in his. She remembered Lord Dunhaven well; she had never liked him. Lady Dunhaven had always been casting nervous glances at him, agreeing with everything he said.

‘How do you do, my lord?’ She curtsied slightly as he bowed over her hand, and the odour of his pomaded hair sank into her. Her stomach roiled, but she lifted her chin. His lordship seemed inclined to retain possession of her hand and place it on his arm, but she withdrew it firmly. Something about Lord Dunhaven made her skin crawl, even through her white kid gloves. She quelled the urge to rub her glove as though it might be soiled. There was something about the way he looked at her—assessing, judging, as though she were a filly he contemplated buying.

‘It is some years since you were in town, Miss Winslow,’ he said. ‘I will be happy to act as your guide in some measure. Aberfield was most anxious that your time in London should be spent profitably.’

Thea barely suppressed a snort. ‘Really, sir? I am sure we can depend on Lady Arnsworth to ensure that my time is not wasted.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said her ladyship. ‘I have no doubt that—’

‘Almeria! How lovely to see you! And Miss Winslow! How delightful!’

Whatever Lady Arnsworth had meant to say was lost as Lady Chasewater came up to greet them.

‘My dear—I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you again so soon—how much it gladdens my mother’s heart.’

Dragging in a breath, Thea pinned a smile in place. ‘Lady Chasewater,’ she said with a smile. ‘How kind of you.’

Something lit in Lady Chasewater’s eyes, a spark deep within. ‘My dear, you must not feel obliged to me. My poor Nigel—there! his name is spoken between us—let me assure you, he would not have expected you to mourn—now, would he?’

Thea shook her head. God help her, it was the truth.

‘Of course not,’ said Lady Chasewater. ‘And I am so glad you have returned,’ she continued, patting Thea’s hand. ‘People do say such foolish things, you know. But you may count on me to do everything I can. Perhaps if you were to drive with me in the park one day …’

Somehow Thea’s heart kept pumping gelid blood around her body. Somehow she held herself still, mastered the frantic need to pull her hands away, and kept a smile frozen to her face as her voice fought its way past the choking blockage in her throat.

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

Lady Arnsworth chimed in, ‘Yes, indeed, Dorothea will be honoured. An excellent notion and so kind of you, Laetitia. It will do her a great deal of good to be seen with you.’

‘Oh, tush, Almeria!’ said Lady Chasewater. ‘Why, she was to be my daughter-in-law!’ Her gaze flashed to Thea. ‘I would have been a grandmama by now. And poor Nigel has been dead these eight years, and no one ever speaks of him to me.’ A sad smile accompanied these words. ‘I know Dorothea will understand! I may call you Dorothea?’ As she spoke, she released Thea’s hands with a little pressure.

‘Of course, ma’am.’

‘And you will drive with me?’

A drive in the park. That was all. So why did she feel as though she were being manoeuvred to the gallows?

She lifted her chin. ‘Thank you, ma’am. That will be delightful.’

Lady Chasewater inclined her head. ‘Excellent, my dear. I shall send a little note round. Now, if I am not much mistaken, Lord Dunhaven wishes to stroll with you, Dorothea, and is wishing me elsewhere.’ She cast an arch smile at his lordship, who smirked and disclaimed.

‘Aberfield must be pleased to know that Dorothea is drawing such distinguished attention.’ She rapped his lordship on the arm with her fan. ‘And so pleasant to see you again now that your period of mourning is over. I am sure we all hope to see you happy again very soon.’

Lacing her farewells with another gracious smile, she glided away through the crowd.

‘If you would honour me, Miss Winslow?’ Dunhaven extended his arm, and Lady Arnsworth cleared her throat. He accorded her the briefest of smiles. ‘Your ladyship has no objection?’

‘Of course not,’ said Lady Arnsworth, although Thea had the distinct impression that she would have liked to rattle off several objections.

As they strolled, Lord Dunhaven presenting her to this person and that, Thea could almost feel the whispers eddying in their wake. Faint smiles, half-hidden behind fans, betrayed a cynical acceptance. And as they proceeded she felt colder and colder from the inside out, as though the chill leached from somewhere deep within. She kicked her chin a notch higher, and told herself that a few people sliding away through the crowd at their approach meant nothing, that the speculative sideways glances were mere curiosity, nothing more.

Lord Dunhaven appeared not to notice, as though such things were beneath him. Instead he regaled Thea with an exact account of all the various improvements he had undertaken at his principal country seat, the refurbished stables, the rearrangement of the principal apartments.

‘I should like very much to show it all to you, Miss Winslow,’ he said, after telling her how his new billiard room was laid out.

Before Thea could do more than skim over all the possible ramifications of this, she prickled with sudden awareness as a tall figure came up beside her. She turned sharply and warmth flooded her, dispelling the growing chill.

Richard, immaculately turned out in utterly correct evening garb.

‘Good evening, Miss Winslow. Servant, Dunhaven.’

Thea blinked. Anything less servant-like than Richard’s clipped tones would have been hard to imagine. He sounded as though he’d swallowed a razor blade made of ice. Even his bow held an arrogance that reminded her all at once that he was after all the son of an earl, one of the damn-your-eyes Blakehursts: assured, at home in the ton for all his scholarly nature.

The contrast between the two men was startling. Very few would have described Richard’s evening clothes as stylish, but somehow the comfortably fitted coat over broad, lean shoulders had a greater elegance than Dunhaven’s tightly fitted and, she suspected, padded coat. Dunhaven dripped with expensive fobs, rings and a very large diamond blazed in his cravat. Richard’s jewellery consisted of a pearl nestled quietly in his cravat and a plain gold ring.

Dunhaven looked his disdain. ‘Ah, Mr Blakehurst, is it not? How surprising to see you here.’

A spurt of anger shot through Thea at the sneering tone, but Richard merely looked amused.

‘Is it, Dunhaven? I assure you that I overcome my boredom with this sort of thing quite regularly enough for the hostesses not to completely despair of my attendance.’ He smiled at Thea. ‘Good evening, Miss Winslow. May I take you to find some champagne?’

Thea blinked. As simple as that.

‘Certainly, sir. That would be lovely. I’m sure his lordship will excuse me.’

Dunhaven’s hand came across and settled in hard possession on Thea’s fingers, clamping them to his arm. ‘There is no need, Miss Winslow. I shall be happy to escort you and find you something suitable for a lady to drink. Some ratafia, I think you would prefer.’

Not the usual paralysing fear, but anger surged through her. With a sharp movement, she slid her fingers from under Dunhaven’s grip. Telling her what to do was bad enough, but presuming to tell her what she would like was going entirely too far. Besides, she didn’t like ratafia.

‘Dunhaven! Just the man I was looking for.’

The newcomer was familiar to Thea. Tall, with jet-black hair and brilliant, deep blue eyes—surely … Shock lurched through her—yes, it was David’s friend, Julian Trentham … only he had succeeded now to his father’s title—Viscount Braybrook.

He smiled at her and bowed. ‘Miss Winslow. Braybrook at your service. Friend of your brother’s, if you recall? You won’t mind if I steal Dunhaven, will you? Blakehurst here will look after you.’ He glanced at Richard, ‘Won’t you, old chap?’

Richard’s mouth twitched. ‘I think that could be managed.’

Thea’s gaze narrowed, despite her suddenly pounding heart. There was something wicked in Lord Braybrook’s limpid blue eyes. However, she wasn’t fool enough to reject a lifeline, no matter how it presented itself. ‘Of … of course.’ She seized the opportunity to step away from Dunhaven. Richard caught her hand and set it on his arm, anchoring it there and again that shock of awareness jolted through her at his touch. Dazed, she met Braybrook’s gaze, but the bright eyes told her nothing—what would David have told him? Could he possibly know any of the truth?

‘You’ll excuse us, gentlemen.’ Richard’s clipped voice shook her back to herself, and he drew her away through the crowd.

‘What the devil are you playing at?’ he muttered, and nodded curtly at an acquaintance smiling at him. ‘Dunhaven, of all men! He’s desperate to marry again and sire an heir. He’s looking for a bride! A nice, young, fertile bride to bear his sons!’

‘He’s also a friend of my father’s!’ said Thea, blushing scarlet at Richard’s blunt assessment. ‘I can’t just cut him, or snub him, when—’

‘Then let Almeria do it for you!’ came the riposte. ‘Trust me, she’ll be only too happy to see him off with a flea in his ear!’

She didn’t doubt that for a moment, but—

‘Even Lady Arnsworth can’t do that when my father has practically given his blessing to the match!’ she snapped.

‘What?’They were near an open door, and Richard whirled her through it and along a corridor. He opened another door and she found herself whisked into the library. It was empty, lit by a single lamp. Even in her annoyance she could not repress a spurt of amusement. Trust Richard to know the location of the library.

He faced her in the dim light. ‘What the hell are you talking about? Dunhaven is old enough to be your father! You can’t be serious!’

Furious that he could even think she might accept such a match, Thea glared at him. ‘Perhaps you might care to mention that to Aberfield?’

‘I would if I thought it would have the least effect! For God’s sake, Thea! Dunhaven’s a complete wart. He’s so desperate to cut his brother out of the succession, it’s a wonder he hasn’t found a young enough widow with a couple of brats to her credit!’

The moment the words were out of his mouth he knew he’d said the wrong thing. She flinched, as though he had struck her, and the colour drained from her face.

Something white hot jolted through Richard. He caught her arm, steadying her, feeling her tremble. ‘Thea! Are you all right?’

‘He couldn’t!’ she whispered. ‘Even Aberfield wouldn’t do that to me!’

Richard slipped his arm around her waist to support her, and she shook her head very slightly as if to clear it, tensing. Ignoring her attempt to pull away, he guided her to a sofa and eased her down onto it, seating himself beside her.

‘Just sit,’ he told her.

Her chin came up. ‘I am perfectly well, thank you.’

‘Dammit, Thea—you are not all right!’ he said furiously. ‘You nearly fainted!’

‘I did not!’ she snapped. ‘I was merely a little dizzy. It’s … it’s stuffy in here! Look, I must go back—if we’re caught here together!’

There would be the very devil to pay. He’d be offering for her immediately. Surprisingly the idea didn’t send the usual battle alert along his nerves.

‘I can think of worse fates,’ he told her. ‘For both of us.’

The mere thought of Dunhaven touching her in any way at all had something growling inside him—a clawed beast with a distinctly greenish cast to its eyes.

Blue eyes snapped fire at him in the dim light. ‘But you said you don’t want to marry me, so—’

‘The devil I did!’ he growled. And right now, with that pink gown hinting at feminine mysteries, the delicate lace edge at her breasts that tempted a man to slide his finger beneath to tease velvet-soft flesh—he tore his mind free of its imaginings and concentrated on reality.

Reality was glaring at him. ‘Yes, you did. At breakfast!’

‘I never said that,’ he told her bluntly. ‘I told you I wouldn’t marry you for your fortune. First rule of scholarship: don’t tamper with the text!’ Or with those silken glossy curls feathering about her brow—or the one lying against the slender, creamy column of her neck … especially not that one. His own collar itched.

A merry voice interrupted. ‘Thea! I thought it was you! How naughty of you to hide away here with Mr Blakehurst. And how delightful to see you after all these years! Do you know, I quite thought you must have retired to a convent.’ A slender woman stood in the doorway, several feathers nodding in her dark, elaborately coiffed hair. ‘I couldn’t believe it when they said you were here,’ she continued, ‘and then I saw you vanishing out of the door! Am I interrupting?’ She stepped into the room, leaving the door open. ‘Are you about to box his ears?’

Richard recognised the fashionably dressed young matron.

Lady Fox-Heaton’s famous smile beamed as she came across the room, holding out her hands to Thea in unaffected pleasure.

Hesitantly Thea placed her own in them and stood up. ‘Diana—how well you look.’ She smiled. ‘You are married, of course?’

Diana Fox-Heaton flushed slightly. ‘Yes. Had you not heard?’

At Thea’s denial, Lady Fox-Heaton looked troubled. ‘Oh, well, I … I married Francis—Francis Fox-Heaton.’ She sighed. ‘You will remember him, of course—he was friendly with poor Mr Lallerton.’

To Richard it seemed that Thea’s expression froze.

‘You married Sir Francis Fox-Heaton?’ she said carefully.

Lady Fox-Heaton’s smile glimmered. ‘Oh, yes. And I know what you are thinking! How did I come to marry a mere baronet? We were all going to marry earls at the very least, were we not? But Sir Francis is an MP now! Such consequence!’

Richard repressed a snort. It was rumoured that Diana had outraged her family by dismissing a marquis to marry Fox-Heaton. A love match if ever there was one.

‘How lovely for you,’ said Thea. But Richard could not rid himself of the impression that she thought it anything but lovely.

‘Yes,’ said Diana cheerfully. ‘It is. But for now, we had better get you back to the party. If I saw you leave, you may be sure others did, and I must say—there are some very odd stories circulating anyway.’ She gave Richard a severe look. ‘I should have thought, Mr Blakehurst, that you had more sense than this.’

Richard choked.

‘Odd stories?’ Thea’s query sounded casual. Too casual, thought Richard. Were she not wearing gloves, he’d swear her knuckles would be showing white.

‘Very odd,’ said Diana. ‘I’ll explain later.’

Returning to the party, Richard was hailed by a small group headed by the Marquis of Callington, wanting his opinion on the value of the late King’s library, recently presented to the nation by his Majesty. More than happy to promote his belief that the value of the library was immense, he joined them, but discovered to his disgust that part of his mind remained focused on Thea. His gaze kept straying to where she stood with Diana Fox-Heaton and a number of other young matrons, and several men whom usually he considered good enough fellows, but whom right now he would have cheerfully flung through a window. Men who were far too wary to hang around most matrimonially inclined young girls and their mamas—but who might nevertheless be interested in a woman with an independent fortune …

‘Well, the last thing we want is a repeat of the tragedy that you say befell the Cotton manuscripts, Ricky,’ said Callington.

Richard dragged his mind back to agree with Callington’s conclusion that it was of the first importance to ensure that the late King’s library was well protected from fire or any other calamity. He breathed a sigh of relief to see that David Winslow had joined the little group about Thea. If Winslow was ready to carve slices out of his hide, then he was well able to re-educate the thinking of any other overly libidinous suitors.

Chapter Four

By the end of the evening, Thea felt as though she had been boiled up in a copper with the sheets. She was exhausted, limp, by the time Almeria summoned the carriage to return to Grosvenor Square. But she had survived. She had renewed her acquaintance with a number of women who had been brought out in the same season as herself and had been accepted back into their number.

Her public acceptance by Diana Fox-Heaton ensured that. Diana had accompanied her back to the drawing room. Several women she had known as a girl had come up to her, inviting her to various parties. She thought about Diana as the maid readied her for bed. They had not been close friends years ago, but they had liked each other. And Diana had gone out of her way to help tonight. She had warned her that rumours were circulating. Rumours that suggested Miss Winslow’s long absence from society might have very little to do with mourning a lost love …

She shivered. Diana was married to Sir Francis—one of the very few people who could have any inkling of the truth. He had been a close friend of Nigel Lallerton’s, that was how she had come to know Diana. They had been part of the same circle. What would he say to his wife’s renewed friendship with her?

She slipped into bed and blew out the lamp. Despite her exhaustion, sleep mocked her. Diana had been quite as outspoken as Richard on the subject of Lord Dunhaven … Francis says he simply wants a brood mare—and that no father of sense will give his consent to such a marriage. You know, there was all sorts of gossip when his wife died—but nothing could be done. No servant would ever speak out in a matter like that!

Thea shivered. Aberfield, however, was willing to promote the match.

A hard-edged face slid into focus. Dark eyes that usually spoke of cool control, self-discipline—eyes that had positively blazed with some violent emotion this evening. Heat flickered, tingling inside her—Richard must really loathe Dunhaven for some reason, she told herself. She didn’t think she had ever seen him so angry—except once when he was a boy, and his mother had just visited … She sighed. She hadn’t much liked Richard’s mother herself and she wondered what the new Lady Blakehurst was like … Richard seemed to like her, even if Lady Arnsworth didn’t.

Richard walked back to Grosvenor Square in company with Braybrook. They had ended the evening in the card room, playing piquet for penny points with an added shilling for a game, and a pound a rubber. Richard had emerged ahead by a couple of pounds and half a bottle of brandy.

‘The sad thing is,’ said Richard, jingling the coins in his pocket, ‘that if I played for larger stakes, I’d lose resoundingly!’

‘Naturally,’ said Braybrook. ‘My father always said much the same; you only win when you can afford to lose. Pity he didn’t take his own advice speculating. Here we are—Arnsworth House.’

‘So it is,’ said Richard, inspecting the familiar portico.

A faint scraping sound brought both of them swinging around sharply. A small dark shape detached itself from the steps leading down to the area and resolved itself into a boy.

‘What the devil are you doing there?’ demanded Richard.

The lad hung back. ‘Would one of you be Mr Richard Blakehurst?’

‘What’s that to you, lad?’ asked Braybrook suspiciously.

Richard shook his head. ‘It’s all right, Julian,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’m Mr Blakehurst.’

‘Note for you then, guv,’ said the boy, approaching. ‘From a lidy,’ and pushed the note into Richard’s hand. He was gone in a flash, racing off along the pavement and disappearing around the corner into Upper Grosvenor Street, before either of them could stop him.

Richard stared after him with raised brows. ‘Idiot boy,’ he said. ‘I’d have given him sixpence. Wonder who’s writing me love notes?’

Braybrook raised his brows. ‘Love notes, Ricky? You?’

Richard grinned, breaking the seal and opening the note. ‘Do you think you and Max are the only men in London ever to—good God!’

He stared in disgust. Who the hell had penned this filth?

Braybrook twitched the note out of his hand and read aloud, ‘How many times will you tup the gilded whore tonight?’ In an expressionless voice, he said, ‘Charming, Ricky. Absolutely charming.’ He handed it back.

Crumpling the note in his fist, Richard shoved it deep in the pocket of his coat. ‘Quite.’

The burning question, of course, was just who was the gilded whore? He hoped, he very much hoped, that he didn’t know the answer.

‘Sure you won’t seek lodgings, old man?’ asked Braybrook.

Richard shook his head curtly and limped up the steps, refusing to acknowledge the wisdom of the suggestion.

Thea frowned at the note from Lady Chasewater, inviting her to drive her in the park the following day. Relieved that it wasn’t for that afternoon, Thea managed to persuade Lady Arnsworth that a quiet hour in the back parlour would be more beneficial than more shopping.

Reluctantly, her ladyship consented. ‘Very well, dear. If you are quite sure it is necessary. You do look pale. And of course you must send a note accepting Laetitia’s invitation. She is very influential. And there must be no question of you not being able to attend the Montacute ball this evening, so I suppose …’

Thea assured her that with a little quiet she would be perfectly ready to attend the ball and Lady Arnsworth departed.

Telling Myles that she was not at home to anyone, Thea asked for a pot of tea to be brought to her in the parlour.

Ten minutes later she was ensconced on a sofa with her writing box and sipping her tea. Peace descended in the familiar room. Faint sounds from the street and the mews reached her, but they seemed oddly detached, as though the house hung suspended beyond the noise.

Hastily she wrote a note to Lady Chasewater, assuring her that she would be delighted to drive with her the following day. Then she summoned a footman to take the note. That done, she took out another sheet of paper to write to Aunt Maria.

For a few moments her pen scratched away. Then it stilled as her concentration wavered and she gazed about the familiar room. Little had changed since last she had been there. It was not a public room, and the furniture was rather old-fashioned and crowded. Not a crocodile leg or sphinx in sight, as though the room had been forgotten when Lady Arnsworth redecorated.

Of all the rooms in Arnsworth House, this was the one she had always known best when she visited as a child. Here Richard had spent his days after the riding accident that broke his left leg. Here, she had been introduced to him at the age of five, as a suitable chess opponent. She smiled, remembering. The twelve-year-old Richard had barely choked off the exclamation of disgust. He had, however, taught her to play chess.

She laid the pen down.

What was he really like now? She had known him as a boy, but did she know the man? Perhaps she did. No doubt he still loved dogs. And horses. The fuss there had been when he insisted on riding again after his accident! His mother and Lady Arnsworth would have kept him wrapped in cotton wool on the sofa if he hadn’t been so stubborn about it. She couldn’t believe that would have changed. Richard could make a mule look cooperative.

Which probably meant he was in no danger of being lured into a matrimonial trap with her.

And he was still kind. Protective. The thought stole through her, insensibly warming. He had been protective last night. No, that had not changed. So perhaps she did still know him. A little. Far better than he could know her.

The child who had known Richard was gone beyond recall, as if a knife had slashed the thread of her life leaving it in two utterly separate pieces. Short useless pieces that could never be woven back into the pattern.

No one knew her now. Sometimes she wished she didn’t know herself. There was no point wondering about Richard Blakehurst. He was no concern of hers. She thrust the thoughts away and went back to her letter. That was how she had learnt to manage. One thing at a time; concentrate on the task at hand.

The only sound within the parlour was the scratching of Thea’s pen as she concentrated on manufacturing neat, ladylike sentences for Aunt Mary.

A light tap at the door disturbed her.

‘Yes?’

The door opened and Myles came in. ‘A note for you, miss.’

‘Oh. Thank you, Myles.’

She took the note with a smile.

‘Will that be all, miss?’

‘Yes, thank you. I’ll ring if I need to send a reply.’

As the door closed behind the butler, Thea looked at the note. A single sheet folded once and sealed with a plain seal. It was directed to Miss Winslow, Arnsworth House, in clumsy, ill-formed capitals. Thea frowned, broke the seal and opened the note.

Time stood still and her veins congealed as the single word slashed her hard-won peace to shreds: SLUT.

Who? Who?

How long she sat staring at the note, she had no idea, but a deep voice wrenched her out of the nightmare with a shock like icy water.

‘What the deuce have you got here?’

The writing box hit the floor, accompanied by the crash of splintering glass and china as the inkpot and teacup broke. Thea found herself on her feet, every sense at full stretch, one fist clenched. Ready to fight.

Richard’s shocked face steadied her. ‘It’s only me, Thea.’ Then, ‘Damn! Stay still!’

He strode towards her, his expression fiercely intent.

Despite herself, she flinched, stepping back.

‘Damn it, woman! I said to stay still!’ he roared.

She froze in sheer outrage, and he was beside her, his booted feet crunching on the ruins of the inkpot and teacup.

And gasped as she was lifted bodily with ease and dumped back on the sofa with a marked lack of ceremony.

‘And stay there,’ he growled, ‘while I send for someone to clear this up. Those slippers won’t protect you from a shard of glass!’

She looked down. Broken glass and china sat in the lake of spilled ink and tea soaking into the Turkey carpet. And with them the anonymous note.

Sanity flooded back in some measure, but the violence of her reaction still shook her. ‘I … I didn’t hear you come in.’ She leaned forward and reached for the paper.

His mouth quirked. ‘Obviously.’ And before she could stop him, he had bent down for the note. ‘Here you—’ it was open, face up—’Good God!’ he exclaimed, staring at the note.

Then he looked up and Thea’s stomach turned over as she met his eyes. Fury, sheer protective fury blazed there.

Oh, God! If Richard tried to find out …

For a moment the shocked silence held, then Richard spoke, scarcely recognising his own voice, soft, deadly. ‘Who the devil sent you this?’ He forced himself to consider the matter logically, controlling the choking rage. Last night’s note had disgusted him, but this! His fingers shook in the effort not to shred the note.

He turned it over. Like his, the seal had been plain, the writing consisted of clumsy and ill-formed capitals … and directed very clearly to Thea. This piece of … of filth had been intended for her. As last night’s note had been directed straight to him. His fist clenched, crushing the note. His own note he might have ignored, but if he ever found out who had sent this—he’d serve them the same way. Slowly.

‘Who sent it?’ he repeated.

‘I don’t know.’ There was not the least tremor in her voice now and her eyes were steady and clear. ‘Myles brought it in. It’s nothing to fuss about, Richard. Just foolish spite.’ She essayed a faint laugh. ‘No doubt the rumours of my fortune inspired it. I’d burn it, but the fire isn’t lit.’

Undoubtedly the fire was where it belonged. If he had not been watching her for a moment before he spoke and startled her, he might have believed her not to be upset. But he had seen the pallor of her face as she stared at the note, seen her hands trembling. She had been so lost in whatever emotion had gripped her that she had not even heard him enter the room. And now she was trying to hide it from him.

Surely a piece of casual spite would not strike to the heart like that? She had looked devastated. Had she heard the whispers the previous night? Should he mention his own note? Common sense said he should. But …

‘Do you receive many letters like that?’

‘No! Give it back, Richard. I’ll burn it later.’

‘I’ll deal with it,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you touching it again.’ The thought of a piece of vileness like this coming anywhere near her offended him. He put the crumpled note in his pocket.

Flushing, she met his gaze. ‘I thought you were out.’

As an attempt to change the subject it was pitiful. ‘I came home,’ he said. ‘Thea, that note—’

‘Please—no,’ she interrupted. ‘I know what you would say—that I ought to find out who sent it, but really, Richard, it doesn’t matter. Just burn it for me. It’s just someone … someone who doesn’t like me, I suppose. Someone … very unhappy.’

‘How do you work that out?’ he growled.

Her eyes dropped. ‘Oh, well … can you imagine a happy person sending a note like that?’

He couldn’t, of course. There were times when feminine intuition was absolutely irrefutable. Only he could have sworn she meant something far more specific. Something personal. That she knew who had sent it, or at least suspected.

‘Leave it, Richard,’ she urged. ‘There’s no point making a fuss. It was horrid and I admit gave me quite a shock, but that’s all.’ She smiled at him, eyes steady. ‘What brought you in here?’

Another attempt to change the subject.

He didn’t like it. Not one little bit. Every instinct told him that Thea was deeply shaken, that her increasing calm was a façade, that if she knew of the note he had received she would be even more upset. For now he would accept her reticence. It seemed more important to distract her from the vile note. And definitely more important to distract her from wondering what he might do about it.

‘What brought me in here?’ He smiled. ‘Myles told me you were here and he swears that Almeria is out.’ The mess of ink and tea caught his eye and he reached out to ring the bell. ‘So I thought it would be safe to have a game of chess without giving her any encouragement.’

‘Chess? In here? Do you … do you think that’s wise?’ Suddenly self-conscious, she said, ‘If Lady Arnsworth has some idea … that is, that we … that we—’

She broke off and Richard had to suppress a grin.

‘That we might make a match of it?’ he suggested helpfully. ‘So she’s spoken to you about it, has she?’

She flushed. ‘She didn’t precisely say anything to me. Only …’

Richard laughed. ‘Didn’t she? You escaped lightly. She said a great deal to me. Very precisely and in detail. You must know that Almeria has been trying to marry me off to the nearest available fortune for the past ten years!’

Something flickered in her face. Pain? This was not the moment to suggest to her that maybe they should give some thought to Almeria’s matchmaking. Not when she had just stopped calling him sir with every second breath. Instead, he said gently, ‘Thea, we need not consider it. You must know that I would never court any woman for her fortune, let alone you. We can still be friends, can we not? Despite Almeria’s meddling?’

For a moment Thea hesitated. Friends … it would be safer not … Yet, unbidden, some long-buried, unrecognisable sensation unfurled within her. She nodded. ‘Friends. Yes.’

He smiled. ‘Good. Then leave Miss Winslow in the drawing room where she belongs.’ He rose, stepped carefully over the mess of ink and broken glass and china and went over to a large, old-fashioned chest under the window. ‘Now, let’s see …’

Leave Miss Winslow in the drawing room …

‘What do you mean?’

He shot her a glance. ‘Miss Winslow is all very well for the rest of the world. But I’ve always been quite fond of Thea.’

He knelt down with a muttered curse and pulled out the bottom drawer. ‘Ah hah! Here we are.’

Despite her confusion, Thea felt the unaccustomed smile curving her lips, warming her heart. He had found the old chess set he had taught her to play with. And there in the corner, half-hidden behind a fire screen, was the little chess table.

That sensation inside her stirred again, and this time she recognised it with shock. It was happiness. She had been so utterly determined to enjoy herself, even if she had to pretend, and here happiness had been quietly waiting within to be let out. Along with the Thea he said he was fond of? Was she waiting to escape too?

Automatically the old words of challenge rose to her lips. ‘No quarter? No chivalry?’

His answering smile flashed, lighting the dark brown eyes. ‘To the death!’

Together they set out the pieces, the memories of all the times they had done this stretching back and forth between them.

‘You were about five when I taught you how to do this,’ said Richard.

She looked up, an answering smile in her eyes. ‘You must have thought I was the most frightful little pest.’

‘I did. And I was furious with Almeria. I’d been enjoying my games with Myles. He kept having to rush off to do his job, so I had plenty of time to contemplate my moves. Try to work out what he would do next. And, of course, he could actually play. A distinct advantage.’

‘Rather than having to teach me?’

He thought back, pushing out a pawn. ‘You learnt fast enough. Once you found your voice and started asking questions.’

‘I was terrified your leg would fall off,’ confessed Thea.

‘What!’ A pawn went flying as he spluttered with laughter.

She went scarlet. ‘Well, from what Lady Arnsworth told Mama, I thought your leg had been broken off and stuck back on. And my nurse was always saying I could talk the hind leg off a donkey, so I thought if it fell off again while I was there everyone would blame me!’ She glared at him, as though daring him to laugh.

Laughter shook him anyway, as he righted the fallen pawn. Amazing how one could laugh at a terror almost twenty years old. At the time he’d still been having nightmares that he would lose the leg after all.

‘No wonder you didn’t say anything,’ he said with a grin.

Bit by bit, the constraint between them loosened and he found himself telling her what he had been doing since last he’d seen her. Learning about the land to be, in essence, Max’s steward. ‘Since I have now bought my own place, at least I know what I’m doing,’ he said.

‘Your own place?’

And he told her about the small property just ten miles from Blakeney over the North Downs; the sheep grazing on the uplands and the old house and gardens nestled in their small, hidden valley, sheltered from the worst of the storms that could sweep up the Channel.

‘Not grand,’ he said, ‘but it will be a home. Enough for me.’

‘Sheep?’ she said. ‘You? I thought you would remain at Oxford.’

If Max had not inherited, he probably would have. ‘Sheep,’ he informed her, ‘have a long and noble history in this country. I’ve been going through the Blakeney papers. Centuries they go back, and sheep are mentioned frequently.’ Odd, but he was finding the task just as stimulating as more conventional study at Oxford. He tried to explain that to Thea in answer to her questions, and realised that somehow he had done nothing but talk about his own concerns for over an hour.

He looked at the mantel clock. Well over an hour. ‘I must be boring you rigid!’ he said. ‘Why on earth didn’t you tell me to shut up?’

‘Because you weren’t boring me,’ she said. ‘Because I was imagining it all, and seeing how right it all is for you. It sounds wonderful, Richard. Peaceful, yet busy. Fulfilling. Something practical to fill your days, and something to occupy your mind. That was always what you needed.’

With a shock he realised that she was exactly right, that Oxford had never quite been right for him because of that. That he had given it up and come home so readily when Max asked, because deep down he had known that.

‘And you?’ he asked. ‘What have your days held?’ Too late he remembered that the question might be unwelcome, but it was gone now, and could no more be recalled than a loosed arrow.

Only in the tightening of her mouth did he see the question strike home. She didn’t look up from the board, but said at last, ‘Very little. After … after I was considered out of mourning I remained with Aunt Maria. She … she required a companion, and since I had—have—no wish to marry, it seemed the logical thing.’ She moved her knight.

He didn’t know what to say. She had said that yesterday—that she did not wish to marry. But surely …

‘My brother thought that he would never marry,’ he said. ‘And I doubt that he has ever been happier than he is now.’

She did look up at that. ‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘Tell me about your sister-in-law. She is … expecting a baby, is she not?’

He heard the faint hesitation and ached. Was that something she had wanted, and thought now was for ever lost to her? Nevertheless, she had changed the subject, and he could only respect that. So he made his countermove, and told her a little about Max and Verity, that the baby was nearly due, and that Max was terrified. Far more so than Verity herself.

Thea did not look up again, but surveyed the board, apparently concentrating, soft pink lips very slightly pursed. But her hands, resting in her lap, shifted continually, fiddling with her cuffs, turning a small turquoise ring on her little finger.

He should be concentrating himself, predicting her likely move and its consequences. He knew what he wanted her to do, what nine people out of ten would do at this point. Only it seemed unimportant, compared to the stray curl escaping to tickle her face and make her frown. She pushed it back and his own fingers itched to capture the wisp and tuck it in safely. Or to release a few more of her softly curling tresses to twine about his fingers. He leaned forwards …

She glanced up, pushing the errant wisp out of her eyes yet again. Their eyes met, his suddenly narrowed, intent; hers wide and startled. Reality reined in his half-formed desire. What in Hades had come over him? He needed to conduct this courtship logically … and playing chess was a very rational and logical thing to do.

Dazed, he realised that in the space of two hours he’d gone from considering the possibility of amatch to courtship. Thea had loved once, and was disinclined to give her heart again. Would she perhaps consider a marriage based on friendship? Mutual interests and understanding? Would that be enough for her?

She reached out and he watched, fascinated, as the slender, graceful fingers hovered over her knight. He rather thought she had seen his little trap. And the next question occurred to him: would such a marriage be enough for him?

The door opened.

‘Mr Winslow,’ announced Myles.

‘David!’ cried Thea as her brother stalked in.

Richard looked up. Winslow’s eyes glinted gun metal as he took in the scene.

‘Good afternoon, Winslow.’ For a moment the quiet greeting hung there and then David Winslow seemed to relax infinitesimally.

‘Blakehurst.’ A rather reluctant smile curved his mouth. ‘I remember that you were fond of chess. Am I interrupting?’

Thea glanced back at him questioningly.

‘Yes. You are,’ said Richard blandly. ‘You will have to wait about three seconds for your sister.’ He shot Thea a grin. ‘It will take her about that long to mop up my king.’

Thea chuckled, an unshadowed ripple of delight that sent streamers of pleasure curling through him. A sudden movement caught his attention. About to seat himself on the sofa, David Winslow’s head had jerked up, his gaze fixed on his sister, as though he had only just seen her. Startled grey eyes flickered to Richard, and then back to Thea in wonder and speculation.

‘Don’t let me disturb you,’ he said with an odd smile.

As Richard had predicted, his king fell in short order.

‘Ah, well,’ he said. ‘That will teach me not to underestimate you again. I’ll take my revenge on another occasion, Thea.’ He rose and turned to Winslow. ‘I’ll bid you good day and leave you with your sister.’

Winslow stood. ‘As to that, Blakehurst …’ He hesitated, seeming to consider something and coming to a swift decision. ‘I was hoping for a word with you later.’

Richard held his gaze. ‘Were you, indeed?’ A challenge? A warning?

Winslow looked very slightly embarrassed. Probably not a challenge, then. ‘Er, yes. Perhaps you might care to dine with me this evening at my lodgings? I’m in Jermyn Street.’ He took his case out of his pocket and handed a card to Richard.

Definitely not a challenge.

Richard took the card. ‘Very well, Winslow. What time?’

‘Will eight suit you?’

‘Of course. I shall look forward to it.’ He smiled at Thea. ‘Save me a dance this evening, won’t you? Or even two.’

‘A dance?’

‘Yes, a dance.’ He grinned at her look of confusion. ‘You know what a dance is—something you do with your legs.’

The door closed behind him and Thea strangled the urge to scream in frustration. Curse him! She knew what a dance was—what she really wanted to know was if he envisioned dancing with her or still preferred to sit out because of his leg. Although … something you do with your legs … that did rather suggest that he intended to dance …

Banishing speculation, she turned to David. ‘Why do you wish to speak to Richard?’

He didn’t answer immediately. Just stared thoughtfully at the chess set.

‘I’d forgotten how fond of you he was, Thea,’ he said at last. ‘I understand he stepped in for you with Dunhaven last night—’ he frowned ‘—even if he did take you off somewhere alone.’

She saw where that was going immediately.

‘No!’ she said furiously, banishing the memory of the earlier look in Richard’s eyes that had for a moment spoken of more than friendship. ‘I mean, yes, he did—but don’t read anything into it beyond his good nature! He wished to warn me about Dunhaven. Just as you did!’

Not kiss her. And even if he had, any curiosity she might have felt on what it might have been like had been well and truly extinguished years ago. She knew what a man’s kisses were like.

‘Thea—’

‘No!’ She ignored the odd little voice that whispered that she wished it could have been different, that she could share the peaceful life Richard was creating for himself. And that she was being illogical in lumping all men and their kisses in the one pile. Richard’s kisses might be as different as the man himself.

There was no rule forcing fear to be logical.

Forcing that out of her mind as well, she said, ‘You are perfectly right; Richard is fond of me. He considers me a friend. Leave it, David. I don’t have so many friends that I can afford to lose one.’

‘Are you so sure that you would lose a friend?’

She laughed at that. A sound without a vestige of humour. ‘Ask yourself how you might react in a similar situation.’

David sighed. ‘Very well. Why don’t you put on a bonnet and pelisse? I’ll take you to Gunther’s for an ice.’

She stared. ‘An ice?’

He smiled. ‘Why not? You like them. Or you certainly used to. And I’m prepared to wager you haven’t had one in eight years!’

Richard found Myles in the butler’s pantry. This was one of those moments when action was vital. Apart from the need to do something about the letters, he needed something to occupy his mind. Something other than the queer longing that stirred in him at the memory of Thea saying he had found exactly what he needed in life. In one sense she was perfectly correct, but he had a niggling idea that something was still missing. Or if not missing, perhaps unrecognised. Some final colour or shape to complete the picture. One thread to knit the whole.

‘Who sent the note, Mr Richard?’ Myles looked puzzled. ‘Why, I’m sure I couldn’t say. Edmund must have answered the door, I believe, since he was on duty in the entrance hall. He came to me with the note, asking where Miss Winslow might be. I took it up to her.’

Richard nodded. ‘Very well. Send Edmund to me in my room, please.’

Ten minutes later, Richard swore as his bedchamber door closed behind Edmund. The footman had not seen whoever had delivered the note. It had been pushed under the front door and the bell rung. He’d had a brief glimpse of a boy running off. A dead end. But perhaps he could learn something from the notes themselves.

Frowning, he found the note from last night, pulled Thea’s note out of his pocket and spread the pair of them out flat on the dressing table. He’d looked at enough old documents in his life. Surely he could tell something from these?

Not much. Each had been written on the same ordinary, good-quality paper. The watermark wouldn’t help. It was common enough. What about the handwriting? A contrived-looking scrawl of capitals, which he suspected was nothing like the writer’s ordinary hand. A faint fragrance teased him … feminine, flowery. Frowning, he sniffed at the note. The odour seemed to cling to it … as though the writer had perhaps been wearing perfume—on her wrists, at the pulse points. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He was looking for a woman.

He also had the answer he hadn’t wanted the night before; the gilded whore referred to in his note was Thea herself. Something else from the previous evening came back to him; a woman’s voice, dripping with malicious gossip about Thea—I had the most interesting letter, my dear … Such a simple way to start gossip if you didn’t wish to be identified.

Deep inside he was conscious of fury burning with a cold intensity. When he found the culprit …

Common sense spoke up; unless the sender was foolish enough to send any more notes here to Arnsworth House, it was going to be devilishly hard to find out who she was. His jaw hardened. Difficult, perhaps, but not impossible. And there was something else; with a grim sense of resignation, Richard acknowledged that whatever the wisdom of seeking lodgings all thought of it had been abandoned—he was remaining at Arnsworth House.

Chapter Five

Richard limped up the steps of Winslow’s Jermyn Street lodgings, still wondering what might have inspired the invitation. A servant led him to a snug, if rather untidy, parlour, and his host stood up with a friendly smile, which didn’t quite disguise the frown in his eyes.

‘Blakehurst.’ Winslow held out his hand and Richard shook it.

Winslow went straight to the point as the door closed behind the servant. ‘I owe you an apology. Brandy?’

Richard raised his brows. ‘Oh? Yes, please.’

Winslow looked rueful, as he poured a glass of brandy and handed it to him. ‘Yes. I rather leapt to conclusions the other day. Braybrook put me right.’

Richard couldn’t quite suppress a snort. ‘Don’t refine upon it too much, Winslow,’ he said. ‘By now most of society has leapt to the same obvious conclusion.’ Including the harpy who had penned those poisonous notes.

‘So I hear.’ Winslow gestured to a comfortable-looking leather chair on one side of the crackling fire.

Richard sat down and they sipped quietly for a few moments before Winslow broke the silence. ‘Braybrook gave me some advice.’

Richard looked at him carefully. That sounded dangerous. Julian’s advice was frequently sound and always outrageous. ‘Did he?’ He managed to sound mildly interested rather than suspicious.

‘Yes.’ Winslow swirled the brandy in his glass, and met Richard’s gaze over the rim. ‘Apart from convincing me that if you were hanging out for a rich wife Lady Arnsworth would have married you off years ago—’

Despite the simmering remnants of his annoyance with Winslow, Richard laughed.

‘He also said that you were in the perfect position to help Thea.’

Richard choked on his brandy.

A moment later, after a helpful bang on the back from Winslow, Richard cleared his throat.

‘And just how did he come to that conclusion?’ he asked.

Winslow grimaced. ‘One, you aren’t hanging out for a wife. Two, you’re on the spot. Three …’ He hesitated and then said, ‘Well, I saw that for myself this afternoon. You were always kind to Thea when she was a child. She sees you as a friend. And when Braybrook told me about your run in with Dunhaven last night, he said you wouldn’t ask a lot of questions I couldn’t answer.’

Richard was silent for a moment, wondering just what Winslow thought he had seen that afternoon. ‘Bearing in mind all those questions I am apparently too discreet to ask,’ he said, with only the merest hint of irony, ‘would you care to explain exactly why Thea might be supposed to require my assistance? And perhaps even what you think I can do?’

‘Thea is … disinclined to marry,’ began Winslow. ‘After her—that is, after what happened eight years ago, she does not wish it. Unfortunately, our father sees matters quite differently. He wants her married.’ Narrowed grey eyes glittered. ‘I understand you share my opinion of Dunhaven as a parti for my sister?’

‘I should think it extremely likely,’ said Richard evenly. ‘He’s a wart.’ He tried to ignore the response boiling up inside him at the idea of Thea and Dunhaven. Over my dead body.

‘Quite.’

It took Richard a moment to realise he hadn’t actually spoken that last phrase aloud; that Winslow had merely agreed with his summation of Dunhaven’s charms. ‘There was talk,’ he said slowly, ‘about the death of Dunhaven’s wife.’ He loathed gossip and avoided spreading it, but in this instance he’d make an exception.

Winslow said nothing. Just waited. He didn’t even look surprised, so there was no point suggesting that he mention this to Aberfield. Aberfield knew and didn’t care.

Hell and damnation. ‘You know, Winslow, you really didn’t need to ask. Did you think I’d let an excrescence like Dunhaven anywhere near her?’

‘There’ll be others too,’ said Winslow quietly. ‘He’s the worst, I agree. But if she really does not wish to marry, I don’t want to see our father force her into it.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Richard could not quite believe what he was hearing. ‘Why would—?’

‘Gossip,’ said Winslow savagely.

‘What?’ That made no sense at all.

Winslow hesitated, as though choosing his words carefully.

At last he said, ‘Someone let it out how much Thea’s inheritance is. Our father decided to marry her off to his satisfaction before she became a target for fortune hunters.’

Richard frowned. Winslow wasn’t telling him everything. But then, he hadn’t told Winslow everything …

‘Forgive me, Winslow, but I overheard some speculation last night—’ Seeing his companion’s suddenly narrowed gaze, he said irritably, ‘Oh, for God’s sake! Take a damper! You’ve asked my assistance and I’m more than willing to help, but I need to know what’s going on.’

Winslow subsided and Richard continued, ‘Some of the tabbies were speculating that there might have been a reason other than grief at Lallerton’s death, some indiscretion, that has kept Thea in retirement.’

‘Were they, indeed?’ grated Winslow.

‘Yes. And, no, as Julian informed me at the time, we can’t call them out over it.’

Winslow gave an unwilling crack of laughter. ‘We? Blakehurst, calling someone out on a woman’s behalf is usually reserved for her brother or her husband! Or her betrothed.’

Richard ignored that. To his shock, the idea of calling someone out on Thea’s behalf didn’t feel in the least out of place. Especially if it turned out to be Dunhaven. Banishing the thought, he stuck to the point. ‘It strikes me that, given it was Thea’s first appearance in years, the gossip was surprisingly fast. Even for London. Which suggests that people were talking even before Thea came to town. Is that part of the reason for your father’s determination to marry her off?’

Winslow’s fingers drummed on the table, and again Richard had the impression that he was considering his answer.

Finally, ‘Yes. He doesn’t want any hint of scandal. He’s being considered again for a Cabinet position.’

All perfectly reasonable. But why had the gossip started in the first place? Who had started it? Gossip was part of life in society, but usually it was about current events. Not a non-existent scandal that was eight years old to boot. Not unless someone had an axe to grind …

‘So someone wants to block your father’s Cabinet appointment.’ It was the obvious solution.

Winslow looked arrested. ‘What?’ He caught himself hurriedly. ‘Well, yes. That … that would fit.’

Except that it was so bloody obvious, Winslow shouldn’t look surprised. And where did the notes fit in? And was he going to mention the notes to Winslow? Thea obviously hadn’t mentioned hers. If she had, Winslow would know that he knew. Which answered his question.

‘Blakehurst?’

He looked up. ‘Sorry. Thinking.’

Winslow looked rueful. ‘Braybrook warned me about that too. Said you wouldn’t ask questions, but that wouldn’t stop you thinking them. Shall I ring to have our dinner brought in?’

‘By all means,’ said Richard. He wouldn’t mention the notes yet. The least he could do was tell Thea about his own note before telling her brother. Nor did he consider it necessary to inform Winslow that he had already decided to keep an eye on Thea. Winslow would want to know why, and he wasn’t entirely sure he was ready to give that answer. But he was still curious …

Winslow tossed off the remains of his brandy and tugged on the bell pull.

Watching him narrowly, Richard asked his last question. ‘Why not you? You are her brother. No one could censure you for protecting your sister from a match with Dunhaven, even if your father is mad enough to think it acceptable.’

‘I am afraid, Blakehurst,’ said Winslow apologetically, ‘that that is one of those questions I cannot answer.’

He’d rather thought it might be. Which meant he’d have to find out by himself. And how those damned letters were connected—if they were. And there was another question he hadn’t even bothered to ask—why did Aberfield think Dunhaven an acceptable match for his daughter?

Thea gazed about the rooms Lady Montacute had hired for the evening with a growing sense of confidence. The heavy perfume of hothouse flowers mingled with melting wax, noise and heat. It should have panicked her, and yet it did not.

Madame Monique had sent an exquisite ball gown in a brilliant shade of poppy muslin, trimmed with tiny sprigs of gold and gold lace. ‘A bold colour per’aps,’ madame had said. ‘But you are a leetle older. There is not the need to dress à la jeune fille …’

She had not been convinced at the time, but now she began to understand what Lady Arnsworth had meant about feeling different with a new wardrobe. Somehow the bright gown was like armour. The young girl might be gone, but gone also was the acquiescent creature who had slowly taken her place. In her poppy-bright gown and matching headdress, she felt secure in a fortress. Of course, she thought with a spurt of amusement, the new, perfectly fitted stays might have something to do with that!

And the dainty fan of peacock feathers was the ultimate weapon in a lady’s arsenal … with it one could hold the world safely at bay. And, buoying her courage was the fact that Richard had asked her to save him two dances. Not that he danced very much, Almeria told her. He preferred to sit out and chat to his partners, which suited her perfectly. It meant that she wouldn’t have to waltz. She thought she could manage all the other dances, but the waltz terrified her, the thought of being held in a close embrace brushing ice down her spine.

Waving her fan negligently, she smiled at Mr Fielding. She could do this. She just hoped Richard would appear in time for the first waltz.

‘No, sir, I fear that I am already engaged for both waltzes.’

Richard, entering the ballroom with Winslow, saw Thea at once and his breath jerked in. Standing beside a potted palm, with Almeria seated on a chaise beside her, Thea was the centre of a small group of men, all jostling and vying for position.

‘Damn!’ muttered Winslow. He started forward.

‘Winslow! Might I have word, if you please?’

Sir Francis Fox-Heaton, tall, elegant and frowning slightly, stood just ahead of them. ‘I intended to call tomorrow, but since you are here …’ He cast a faint smile at Richard. ‘Mr Blakehurst. You will excuse us?’

Winslow turned to Richard, his mouth a hard line. ‘I’ll find you later. Would you mind …?’

‘You asked already, if you recall,’ said Richard.

A slight relaxation of the jaw that might have been a smile. ‘So I did. Thank you.’ He turned. ‘At your service, Fox-Heaton.’

Richard made his bow to Almeria and to Thea, exchanging friendly greetings with the various gentlemen attempting to capture Thea’s attention. Most of them harmless, he forcibly reminded himself, and it occurred to him that she was not paying them a great deal of attention. He had the oddest notion that she was, in some way, not really there. That for all her smiles, and polite responses to her admirers, she was otherwhere, and that gently waving peacock fan had something to do with it.

He saw Dunhaven approach and the growling creature within stirred restlessly. Dunhaven was not harmless, in any way, shape or form.

‘Oh, I say, Miss Winslow,’ Tom Fielding was protesting. ‘It’s a great deal too bad! Both the waltzes, and you won’t say who has been granted them, so we can—’

‘Miss Winslow,’ cut in Lord Dunhaven, ‘will be dancing the waltz with myself, Fielding. A prior arrangement, you understand.’

The air of assured ownership had the beast sitting up snarling.

‘Oh?’ Thea’s eyes narrowed and the fan stilled. ‘A prior arrangement with whom, my lord? I fear it was not with me.’

The beast subsided very slightly. Polite, gentle Thea had just delivered a snub one of the Patronesses of Almack’s might have envied.

A smile, and the resumed gentle movement of the fan, served only to hone the edge in her dulcet tones.

Almeria, chatting to Lady Hornfleet, turned her head slightly, clearly listening.

Lord Dunhaven cleared his throat and frowned at her. ‘I felt that under the circumstances—I was speaking to your father this afternoon—’

‘Were you, my lord?’ The cutting edge glittered with frost. ‘And how was he?’

‘Very well, Miss Winslow.’ Dunhaven bestowed an indulgent and proprietorial smile on Thea that had Richard grinding his teeth. Almeria’s head snapped around and she stared at him.

Richard clenched his jaw into silence as Dunhaven continued. ‘He assured me that you would be most happy—’

‘How times change, my lord,’ said Richard, his jaw escaping his control. ‘Nowadays, whatever customs may have pertained in Lord Aberfield’s youth, one solicits the lady, not her father, for a dance.’ With a slight bow, he added, ‘As I did earlier.’ Earlier could mean a great many things, not necessarily that he had been alone with Thea in Arnsworth House that afternoon.

And not for anything would he employ Dunhaven’s strategy of forcing Thea into a position where she must either dance or deal him a set-down. They had not agreed on which dances, but if she wished it …

Over the top of that lethal fan, blue eyes questioned him.

He smiled.

‘Perhaps another time, my lord,’ she said, stepping away from Dunhaven. ‘I have indeed promised this dance to Mr Blakehurst.’

Dunhaven’s eyes narrowed in dislike as he swung to look at Richard. ‘Oh? I didn’t realise you danced, Blakehurst. How very singular!’

The indrawn hiss of Thea’s breath was balm to his cold fury.

‘Of course my nephew dances, sir!’ snapped Almeria.

‘No, my lord?’ Richard looked his lordship up and down with mild curiosity, and the earl reddened with annoyance. ‘Ah, well, there’s plenty of time yet for you to acquaint yourself with all manner of things you don’t know. I do dance. Upon occasion. When I consider the effort worthwhile.’ He flicked a glance at Thea. ‘It’s a little like culping wafers at Manton’s, you know. I only bother to engage in matches with those I know can give me a halfway decent match.’

Over the peacock feather fan Thea’s blue eyes glimmered with silent laughter.

She turned, saying coolly to Dunhaven, ‘Perhaps a country dance, my lord. I have promised both waltzes to Mr Blakehurst.’

Richard uttered a mental malediction. He doubted that his leg would survive two waltzes in one evening.

Dunhaven nodded curtly. ‘Servant, Miss Winslow.’ He nodded even more curtly to Richard, turned on his heel and stalked away. Thea knew a moment’s fear. Richard might be the son, and brother, of earls, but Dunhaven was a powerful man—what if he—?

‘Shall we, my dear?’ said Richard, offering his arm. As she permitted him to steer her through the crowd, he gave a deep laugh. ‘Pompous ass,’ he said.

‘Richard! It’s not funny!’ she whispered fiercely. ‘What if he—?’

‘If he tries anything with you,’ said Richard, in deadly quiet tones, ‘I will take great pleasure in dealing with him.’ All vestiges of amusement had vanished.

‘I’m not worried about me!’ she snapped. ‘I’m worried about you!’

He blinked, patently surprised. And then a quite different sort of smile crept across his face. A tender smile, a smile that spoke of things she had long considered lost to her. Despite the warning bell clanging deep within her, a glowing sensation spread through her, and for a moment there hung between them something almost tangible. She caught her breath … if only—oh, if only!

‘Where shall we sit out?’ she asked.

‘Sit out?’ He stared at her. ‘We’re going to dance.’

‘Dance?’

‘Well, of course! Unless—’ An odd look came into his eyes. ‘Unless you would prefer to sit out?’

Shock slammed into her. He wanted to dance? Actually dance? She hadn’t really believed that he could mean it.

It would be safer not to dance. This shattering awareness of him unsettled her as it was. Dancing, being held in his arms, with music a shimmering web around them, would be twice as dizzying. Like the sudden blaze in the dark eyes as he stared at her.

She had never intended to dance—she had not thought he would want it.

And yet, why should she not? What harm could there be in dancing with Richard? Of all men, he was the one she would feel most comfortable with. She summoned a smile, swallowed the last of her champagne and said, ‘I would be honoured to dance with you, Richard.’

He took her empty champagne glass and handed it, along with his own, to a footman. Then, with another devastating smile, he offered her his arm. ‘Our dance, I believe,’ he said. He steered her on to the dance floor and swept her into the waltz.

She didn’t know what she had expected. Not fear. Certainly not that. And not revulsion. Not with Richard. Never with him. But … the chill … the sense of distance she had learnt to place mentally between herself and anyone who came too close … she had felt it all evening as people jostled around her and she had held them at bay with her fan. Especially with Lord Dunhaven. And now …

Now, in Richard’s arms, adjusting her steps to his uneven strides, the fan dangled unneeded from her wrist, and she felt only warmth, and an enveloping closeness. Whatever she had expected, it had not been this.

Held safely by his arms in the surging rhythm of the dance, she was wildly conscious of his strength, his sheer maleness. It brought only pleasure, a purring, purely feminine delight that he had thought her worth the effort. She felt alive, as she had not in years.

She lifted her gaze to his face. It was as if she had never truly seen him before. Strongly chiselled planes, the deep brown eyes set under dark brows. So familiar. And yet new. New lines, graven she thought, by pain. And he was simply older. More mature. To some his face might look forbidding, yet his smile denied that. And he was smiling now. At her. As though having her in his arms was a pleasure. Her breath hitched and she found herself smiling back.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Not as far as he could recall, anyway. And it was quite some time since he had danced at all, let alone waltzed. In fact, Thea was one of the very few women he had ever waltzed with.

His stride was as awkward and uneven as ever. That wasn’t different. What shocked him was the sheer delight in having Thea’s slender, supple body in his arms completely overrode the increasing ache in his leg. Worse, the delight of looking down into her soft blue eyes, seeing the delicate colour fanned on the pale cheeks, and her slightly parted lips nearly made him forget which leg ached.

And then she smiled up at him. A tentative smile, uncertain, as though unsure of its welcome. His breath caught. Never before in his life had he been conscious of an urge to sweep a dance partner out of sight and kiss her, and himself, senseless. With a shock he realised that if he gave in to the urge, he might forget all about sweeping them out of sight.

The music was like a drug, its rhythm one with their shifting bodies. Never had he been so wildly aware of a woman—as a woman. Never had every sense clamoured for more. To be closer, to breathe her soft flowery scent, to hear the soft hush of her breathing. Never had he known the urge to pull a woman closer in the dance so that her thighs shifted against his, so that her breasts touched his coat. Every muscle hardened savagely in the effort not to just do it.

He knew at once when she felt the change in him. The sudden tension in his arms as he fought not to haul her closer, the added clumsiness in his stride, which owed nothing to the ache in his leg.

‘Richard?’

Somehow he met her concerned gaze.

‘I knew this would hurt your leg! Do you wish to stop?’

‘Not in the least,’ he informed her. It wasn’t his leg that was causing the problem.

‘You are sure it doesn’t hurt?’

‘Quite sure,’ he lied. ‘It’s, er, just a kink. Moving will ease it.’ Only not the sort of moving he was doing at the moment. Or at any other moment in the foreseeable future for that matter.

By the end of the dance they were at the far end of the dance floor from the chaperons. Richard was violently aware that Thea was flushed, glowing and radiant. And that he was heated in an odd tingling way that had nothing to do with the heat of the ballroom and everything to do with the slow heat consuming him. Aware that although the dance had finished, music still sang and ached to every heavy beat of the blood in his veins.

He fought for control, reminding himself that it had been a while since he had been with a woman. Casual liaisons with discreet widows had lost their savour some time ago. Apparently with the inevitable result that desire had conducted an ambush in the most impossible, and unexpected, place imaginable. All perfectly logical, if potentially embarrassing.

She looked up at him and his breath caught as their eyes met.

Good lord! What a place to realise that he desired a woman! Especially a woman as untouchable as his aunt’s protégée and goddaughter. Unthinkable.

Well, no, not unthinkable precisely, since he was thinking about it. But definitely inappropriate.

Carefully he stepped back, his mind reeling at the wave of tenderness that poured over him. At the sight of her smiling up at him, all shadows fled, just as he had wanted. This was different, somehow—more than desire. Oh, he’d always liked his partners—what was the point in going to bed and being intimate with someone you didn’t like? But this shattering ache?

‘More champagne, Thea?’ he suggested, in as light a tone as he could muster. He’d known Thea for so long—not surprising if he felt protective towards her. She was lovely—desire was not surprising either. But this tenderness, this welling up of delight merely to see her smile … to see her smile in his arms—this was different.

‘Good evening, Mr Blakehurst.’

Chill disapproval splintered in the voice.

Richard turned slowly to find Lord Aberfield watching them, his face expressionless. ‘Lord Aberfield.’ He acknowledged the older man with a bow. Beside him, Thea stood motionless. Silent.

The moment stretched as Richard felt the tension sing between the pair of them. He flicked a glance at Thea. No shadows, but the woman he had been dancing with was gone. In her place stood a marble statue, blue eyes frozen to arctic winter.

Then, in a voice that cut like a polar wind, she spoke. ‘Good evening, my lord.’

A perfectly correct form of address … for a perfect stranger. As a young woman’s greeting to her father, it was the ultimate snub. And in that icily correct voice, it was a snub with a sting in the tail.

Not surprisingly Aberfield’s face turned slightly purple.

Thea continued, ‘You are well again, my lord?’

‘Very well,’ he grated. ‘A word with you, Dorothea! In private.’

Her brows lifted. ‘Oh? Yes, I think that is possible.’

Aberfield’s teeth grated audibly at the implication that Thea might have, if she had chosen, refused his request. ‘Perhaps, daughter,’ he said with silky emphasis, ‘you would come with me, then. There is much that I wish to discuss with you. Privately.’

‘Now?’ Her fan flickered open with a swish, and she disappeared behind it. ‘I assumed you meant to call tomorrow at Arnsworth House. Yes, that would be better. Far more scope for privacy there. What time will suit you?’

‘Now would suit me!’ snapped Aberfield.

Thea’s smile was a naked blade. ‘I am afraid, dear sir, that Lady Arnsworth would be sadly inconvenienced were I to steal her carriage and return home now. But I am perfectly happy to hold myself at your disposal tomorrow. Call at whatever time suits you. I promise you shall find me home.’

For a moment it looked as though Aberfield might explode, but he nodded and stalked away.

To say that Lady Arnsworth was unimpressed the following morning to hear that her protégée had undertaken to remain at home all day awaiting her father’s convenience, would have been an understatement.

‘You were to drive with Lady Chasewater, you remember?’ said Lady Arnsworth.

‘I sent her a note explaining,’ said Thea. A very convenient added benefit she had not thought of at the time. ‘I felt my father’s request must take precedence.’

There was no answer to that, and Lady Arnsworth didn’t attempt one, only saying, ‘But he gave no indication of when he might call?’

Thea contrived to look repentant. ‘No, ma’am. He wished to speak to me privately, and at a ball—’ She spread her hands. No need to tell Lady Arnsworth that it had been her strategy to avoid leaving the safety of a crowd with Aberfield. She didn’t trust him an inch.

Lady Arnsworth pursed her lips. ‘Very well, my dear. There is nothing to be done. I must pay some calls this afternoon, and I shall drive in the park afterwards. Naturally I shall give instructions to Myles that he must admit only your father, and any female visitors you might have. No gentlemen, of course, unless your brother were to call.’ A very faint smile played about her lips.

‘Oh, of course,’ agreed Thea.

Lady Arnsworth nodded. ‘Yes. And, dear, if you play chess with Richard again, it might be for the best if you were to leave the door open.’

Thea’s jaw dropped, as her ladyship continued, ‘You may trust Richard, of course, as you would your own brother, but it doesn’t do to give the gossips the least bit of encouragement, you know. If anyone were to call and find you together—well!’ She patted Thea’s hand. ‘Your father wouldn’t like it at all.’

Chapter Six

‘Lord Aberfield is here to see you, miss,’ said Myles. ‘Shall I show him in here?’

Thea laid down her pen and considered the alternatives. She was in the back parlour, writing a note to accept an invitation to attend a picnic with Diana Fox-Heaton the following week. While being received in there would sting his pride, she hesitated. Somehow the back parlour of Arnsworth House was associated with happy times, with her childhood visiting the house, with Richard teaching her to play chess, with his slightly crooked smile. She did not want Aberfield anywhere within spitting distance of those memories.

‘No. Show his lordship into the drawing room, please, Myles. And, Myles—?’ An inner demon suggested another way she might infuriate Aberfield. ‘Tell his lordship that I will be with him very shortly.’

She heard Aberfield being ushered into the next room, heard Myles offer refreshment, and heard it refused. Deliberately she completed her letter to Diana. And read it over. Then she sealed it, addressed it, rang the bell and waited for Myles.

When he came, she smiled and handed him the note with instructions to have it delivered at once. ‘And bring tea to the drawing room in fifteen minutes, please, Myles.’

Then, feeling that she had made her point, Thea settled her elegant morning gown, tucked a stray curl back into place under her lace cap, assumed an indifferent expression, and strolled through the door connecting the back parlour and drawing room.

‘Good afternoon, my lord. I’ve kept you waiting.’ It could be construed as an apology. Just.

Aberfield turned and glared at her. ‘Where the devil have you been, miss?’ His colour was high, and the faded blue eyes glittered at her.

She granted him her most gracious smile. ‘Finishing a letter, my lord. Do be seated and tell me what I may do for you.’ She sat in a small chair set slightly apart, and waited.

Aberfield didn’t waste time on niceties. ‘You can tell me what the devil you’re playing at with Blakehurst,’ he snarled. ‘Waltzing with him when Dunhaven had honoured you with an invitation to dance!’

So that had got back to him. Lord, he was a fool! Had he learned nothing from the past?

‘Playing at, my lord?’ she queried. ‘Unlike some, I play no games. Mr Blakehurst asked me to dance with him—’

‘Asked you after Dunhaven asked you!’ snapped Aberfield.

‘Not at all,’ she said sweetly. ‘He had asked me earlier.’

Aberfield looked her over. ‘Think you can get him up to scratch, do you?’ He snorted. ‘I doubt it! Too high in the instep the Blakehursts, even if his brother has made a fool of himself.’

Thea froze and Aberfield continued, his voice contemptuous. ‘Knew Almeria Arnsworth would try her damnedest to marry you to him, but he’s dodged every other heiress she’s found. Some of ‘em a damn sight wealthier than you!’ His lip curled. ‘And they weren’t some other man’s leavings.’

Words, meaningless words. They can’t hurt unless I permit it …

Something Richard had said about Dunhaven slid through her mind, displacing her father’s barb: He’s so desperate … it’s a wonder he hasn’t found a young enough widow with a couple of brats to her credit … What had Aberfield told Dunhaven? She didn’t really believe it, not quite. But if she trailed the lure …

‘One wonders,’ she mused, ‘what can possibly have induced Lord Dunhaven to relax his standards.’

The fish rose. ‘Dunhaven needs an heir,’ he told her. ‘For a wealthy bride he knows can breed a brat, he’s willing to overlook things.’

‘I have no “brat”, as you put it.’

Just aching grief and guilt over the death of a nameless child she had neither seen nor held, and the opium-hazed memory of a newborn wail.

Aberfield opened his mouth and shut it again. His gaze shifted and then he shrugged. ‘Even if the whelp died, you still went full term,’ he said.

Bile rose, choking and sour.

‘More than his first wife ever did,’ he continued. ‘For that assurance and your fortune, it’s worth it to him.’

She swallowed the bile, reaching for control. ‘I’m sure it is,’ she said. ‘But tell me, my lord—was it not rather a risk for you, confiding so much in Dunhaven?’

‘Why should he talk about his bride?’ Cold triumph gleamed. ‘No reason for him to talk if you’re married. And he’s willing to marry you.’

‘But if I don’t marry him—?’

Aberfield’s fists clenched. ‘You’ll marry him, or I’ll … I’ll—!’

‘You’ll what, my lord?’ The time for dissembling was past. She stood up, casting aside caution. ‘You really have no power left, sir. Do you?’ She smiled. ‘You may cast me off, but in two and a half months I turn twenty-five and will have two hundred pounds a year. A pittance to you, I am sure, but I will manage very well. And just think of the gossip if you cut off my allowance now.’

Aberfield had risen as well, his face mottled. ‘And this is the gratitude I receive for protecting you from your folly eight years ago!’

Thea rang the bell. ‘I think there is nothing more to be said, my lord.’

‘I’ll see you don’t get a penny of the money!’ he blustered.

She laughed. ‘You can’t. Under the terms of the will, once I turn twenty-five there is nothing you can do to block the two hundred a year. With that I will be independent and can do as I please.’

Aberfield’s colour deepened to an alarming purple. ‘You mean to have Blakehurst, then?’

‘That, my lord, is not your concern.’

His teeth clenched, he said, ‘Make sure he understands you’ll not see a penny more than the two hundred before your thirtieth birthday.’

The door opened to admit the butler.

‘Ah, Myles. His lordship was just leaving.’

His face stiff with fury, Aberfield stalked out of the room without another word.

As the door closed, Thea sank on to the sofa, all the cold fury ebbing to leave her drained and shaking. But she had done it! Stood up to Aberfield and forced him to realise that he had no power over her any longer. That there was nothing he could do to force her marriage or control her actions. That knowledge had fuelled his anger. His parting shot about only receiving the two hundred per annum until she turned thirty suggested that he accepted that she would not marry Dunhaven. Which left her free to contemplate the sort of life she wanted for herself.

The future stretched out before her, not golden, but peaceful. Or it would be if she could only rid herself of the guilt and pain—the child had been an innocent, blameless of any wrongdoing. Had her actions been responsible for its death? At the very least she had been partly responsible for its unmourned, unmarked grave. It. That sounded so cold. So uncaring. Like Aberfield’s reference to the child as a brat or whelp. As though its very life hadn’t mattered. It again. She had no other way to think of her lost baby. A shudder racked her as she stared blindly into the empty fireplace. She was vaguely aware that the doorbell had rung. An annoyed voice echoed in the front hall, followed by the slam of the front door. It wasn’t important. Her vision blurred. She didn’t even know if her baby had been a boy or a girl … they had refused to tell her.

For the first time in seven years someone had spoken of her dead baby—as proof of her fertility. Her hands clenched into fists until the nails dug into her palms as she looked back at the mess her younger self had made of everything. If only she had known … had realised in time … She swallowed hard. She could see now what she should have done … and it was far, far too late. She felt cold, cold all over, as though a void inside her had been filled with ice.

The door opened and she looked round. ‘Yes, Myles?’

‘Your tea, miss.’ The old man looked at her kindly. ‘If I may say so, Miss Thea, you look as though a nap wouldn’t go astray. Why don’t you go on up and I’ll send one of the maids to help you?’

Heat pricked at her eyes at the kindness in his voice. What a fool she was to feel like crying because of a simple expression of kindness when her father’s callous actions merely left her cold with fury.

‘Thank you, Myles,’ she said, forcing words past the choking lump in her throat. ‘I’ll do that.’ She went over to the door. ‘I’ll leave the tea for now. I’m sorry to waste your time.’

He shook his head. ‘Not to worry, Miss Thea.’ He hesitated. ‘Lord Dunhaven called. Just after Lord Aberfield left.’

So that was who had owned the loud, blustering voice.

‘You denied me?’

Myles’s mouth flickered into what in a less well-trained butler might have been a smile. ‘No, Miss Thea, although her ladyship had instructed me to do so.’ The smile escaped its bonds. ‘Mr Blakehurst beat me to it.’

Warmth eased the aching chill within her.

‘I am never at home to Lord Dunhaven,’ she told him. ‘Nor …’ she drew a deep breath ‘ … to Lord Aberfield, unless I have informed you of a prior appointment.’

‘Very good, Miss Thea.’

She nodded and left the room.

The maid answered her summons and helped her out of her gown and stays. Clad only in her shift, Thea snuggled down under the bedclothes and closed her eyes.

When she opened them again the shadows in the room had moved. She yawned and stretched. She felt better, although she didn’t think she had slept for terribly long. A glance at the clock on the mantel confirmed this. She hadn’t slept for more than an hour and a half. But she felt refreshed, in spirit as much as body.

It was as though facing her father had drained a poison from her, its passage leaving her cleansed. She was a long way from happy, but there was no longer the sapping despair. Her gaze fell on a carved wooden box beside the armoire. Now there was a task she had been putting off—sorting out her collection of … of what? Rubbish? Tangible memories? Ever since she was a little girl she had kept cherished mementoes in that box. Reminders of past joy. Birthday party invitations, tickets to Astley’s Amphitheatre, courtesy of a generous impulse on the part of Richard when she was ten, letters, even a few from her mother after she had been banished to Aunt Maria, despite Aberfield’s orders to the contrary. David’s letters. And some things that had given her pain … like the brief, factual note her father had written informing her of her mother’s illness and death, after the funeral had taken place.

That had been almost the last thing she had put in apart from David’s letters. For the past year or so she had not even dared to look inside, just shoving each letter in and locking the box again.

But now … now she had things to put in it again. Invitations. Notes from Diana—telling her that friendship could endure. There was a little pile of papers down in the drawer of the escritoire in the drawing room. She would take the box down there and sort it out. When she had glanced into it before leaving Yorkshire it had been a terrible mess. It was time to sort it all out. She rang for a maid to help her with her stays.

She found the drawing room occupied.

His back to the door, Richard was sitting near the window in one of Almeria’s prized Egyptian chairs, complete with gilt crocodile arms. Not odd in itself, but the chair was placed squarely in the middle of a raft of newspaper sheets. A faint scraping sound gave her the clue, and she understood; Richard was carving. He had the tea table beside him, and on it she could see several knives, a cloth and several small wooden objects on more spread newspaper.

Silent laughter welled up. He hadn’t changed at all. Except that he obviously thought of the newspaper for himself now, rather than after Lady Arnsworth scolded him for making a mess.

She cleared her throat and he glanced round, frowning.

‘Ah.’ The frown disappeared. ‘Ring the bell.’

She did so, and then asked, ‘Why?’

‘Myles will bring some tea now you are awake. Did you sleep well?’

She nodded. ‘Am I disturbing you?’

‘Idiot. What have you got there?’

A blush heated her cheeks. ‘My collection, for want of a better word.’ Heavens! He’d think all this rubbish … well, rubbish!

‘Collection?’ He looked curious. ‘I had no idea you collected something. What is it? Sea shells? Roman coins? Max and I used to find them around Blakeney when we were boys.’

‘Nothing so exciting,’ she told him, and explained.

To her complete surprise he wasn’t in the least dismissive. ‘When you’re an old, old woman, your grandchildren will find that fascinating. It will tell them something about how you lived.’

She set the box down on the escritoire, and said dubiously, ‘I suppose so.’ Perhaps David’s grandchildren.

He laughed. ‘Would you believe the British Museum has an extensive collection of ephemera, courtesy of old Miss Banks?’

‘Miss Banks?’ She lifted the lid of the box.

‘Sir Joseph Banks, the naturalist’s, sister. After she died a few years ago her entire collection came to the museum.’ He paused. ‘All nineteen thousand items of it.’

Thea dropped the lid with a bang. ‘Ninetee—! Good God!’

‘Quite,’ said Richard with a chuckle. ‘Visiting cards, invitations, admission tickets, you name it—she kept it.’

Thea looked at her own collection. ‘I think I need a new box.’ She opened the lid again and lifted out some of the contents.

His husky laugh warmed her. ‘I’ll make one for you.’

‘Would you?’ The warmth spread, and she reached into the box again. Her fingers felt something small and hard, irregularly shaped, at the bottom. Curious she delved and drew it out—’Ohh …’

In her hand lay a small wooden bird, rather crudely carved, its beak open, wings half-spread. Richard had made it for her, and all these years it had lain forgotten in the box, the unheard song stilled. She had thought it left behind when she went to Yorkshire.

‘What have you got there?’

Blinking hard, she turned and held out the little bird on the palm of her hand.

For a moment he seemed not to understand. Then, ‘You’ve kept it all these years?’ There was an odd note in his voice.

Scarlet, she said, ‘I had forgotten all about it.’ Desperate to change the subject, she asked, ‘What … what are you making now?’

‘Something to hang over the cradle for my godson or goddaughter,’ he answered. ‘Max and Verity’s child. Tell me what you think.’

She went over to the table and a gasp of delight escaped her. Five gaily painted little wooden horses, in various attitudes, pranced there. A sixth, as yet unpainted was in his hand. ‘Not very exciting,’ he said. ‘I did think of dragons, but these pieces of wood insisted on being ponies. I’m just doing the finishing touches to this one before painting it.’

‘They are lovely,’ she said softly. ‘And I think your godchild will treasure them.’ She reached out and stroked the nose of one pony with her forefinger. ‘They’re like my box of clutter—one day your great-nephews and nieces will look at these and think of you.’ Perhaps even his great-great nephews and nieces. And so on until the children no longer knew anything about the man who had carved these dancing ponies so long ago. But they would know the toy had been made with love.

Just as she had remembered the wooden bird.

Very softly, she said, ‘I shall like to think of you making something like this for your own children one day, Richard.’

He went very still as her words fell into a deep silence within him.

Until a year ago he had assumed that one day he would marry. There was no reason not to, but marriage had never been compelling. He had been busy, satisfied with his life, and his role as Max’s steward. Indeed, that role was still his. But ever since Max’s marriage he had been increasingly aware that something was missing in his life, and that it was time to fill the void.

‘Thea—’ Unsure what he was going to say, only knowing that words were there, he reached for her hand.

The door opened without warning.

He slewed around in his chair.

‘Damn it, Myles! What the devil do you want now?’

Myles looked severely shaken. ‘Mr Richard—there … there is a magistrate in the front hall—’

There came a sharp gasp from Thea. Richard reached out and took her hand, enveloping it in his, shocked to feel her trembling.

‘A what?’ Surely Myles hadn’t said—

‘A magistrate, sir. Sir Giles Mason. From Bow Street. Requesting an interview with Miss Winslow.’ Myles swallowed. ‘I know her ladyship will not like it, but, sir, perhaps you—since her ladyship isn’t here?’

Her ladyship would probably have apoplexy when she found out, reflected Richard, but he couldn’t see any alternative. Thea’s hand, still lost in his, was trembling, although when he looked up at her, she appeared perfectly calm.

‘I’d better see him, I think,’ she said. Her voice was perfectly calm too. Turning to the butler, she continued, ‘Tell Sir Giles that I will see him in the dining—’

‘Show Sir Giles up, Myles,’ said Richard, cutting straight across Thea. He eyed her in flat-out challenge. ‘If you think for one moment that I am going to permit you to see a magistrate alone, you have some more thinking to do.’

‘But—’

‘But nothing,’ he interrupted. ‘Call me a coward, but I have no intention of admitting to Almeria that I let you face this alone!’

The door shut behind Myles.

‘Thea …’ he caught her other hand, holding them both in a gentle clasp ‘ … do you have any idea what this might be about?’

She shook her head, and her eyes met his unflinchingly, but a deep, slow blush mantled her cheeks … He swore mentally and let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

‘I hope,’ he said grimly, ‘that you can lie a great deal more convincingly for Sir Giles’s benefit.’

Sir Giles was a tall, grizzled man with a slight stoop. In his late fifties, Richard judged. Shrewd green eyes looked over the top of half-moon spectacles and flickered down to a sheaf of papers he had produced from a small case.

Polite greetings over, he got straight down to business.

‘Miss Winslow, I am sure this must be a shock for you, and I am very glad that you have a responsible friend to support you in this. Painful though it must be for you, I must ask you some questions about your late, er, betrothed, Mr Nigel Lallerton.’

Shock jolted through Richard. He stole a sideways glance at Thea. There was not the least hint of surprise, manufactured or otherwise.

‘Yes, sir.’

Sir Giles looked at her closely. ‘That doesn’t surprise you?’

‘Your being here at all is a surprise, Sir Giles.’

The magistrate cleared his throat. ‘No doubt. Now—did anyone dislike Mr Lallerton? Have a quarrel with him?’

She hesitated, then said, ‘I am sure there were many, sir.’

‘Many?’

‘No one is universally popular,’ she said, her hands shifting restlessly in her lap, pleating her skirts.

Richard reached out and took possession of one hand; instantly the other lay utterly still.

‘Hmm. I meant,’ said Sir Giles, ‘was there anyone in particular who might have had a grudge against Mr Laller—?’

‘Would you mind informing Miss Winslow of the reason for these questions, Sir Giles?’ said Richard.

The older man’s mouth tightened. ‘We have received information, sir, that, far from dying in a shooting accident when his gun misfired, Mr Lallerton was murdered.’

‘Information? From whom?’ asked Richard.

‘As to that,’ said Sir Giles, ‘the information was anonymous.’ Richard froze, but said nothing. Sir Giles continued. ‘We have made some enquiries into the matter, and it would appear that further investigation is in order.’

‘You take notice of anonymous information?’

Sir Giles shrugged. ‘Information is information, sir. Naturally we would not hang a man on the basis of an anonymous submission, but as a starting point for investigation, it is perfectly normal. Now, Miss Winslow—on the subject of your betrothed’s popularity—did you know of anyone who might have wished him ill?’

‘I know of no one who wished him dead,’ said Thea in a low voice. She met his eyes squarely, her face pale.

‘I see. And your own feelings …’ Sir Giles shifted in his seat ‘ … were you on good terms with Mr Lallerton? Happy about your coming marriage?’

Faint colour rose in Thea’s cheeks as she said, ‘I was counting the days, Sir Giles.’ Her hand in Richard’s shook.

‘And tell me, Miss Winslow—where were you when Mr Lallerton died?’

‘I was at my father’s principal seat in Hampshire. My mother was giving a house party.’

‘At which Mr Lallerton had been a guest. I understand he left rather precipitately and returned to London?’

‘That is correct, sir.’

‘And he had an accident in which his gun discharged and hit him in the leg, so that he bled to death?’

The pink deepened to crimson. ‘So I was told, sir.’

The green eyes were steady on her. ‘You can tell me nothing more, Miss Winslow?’

‘No, sir.’

The magistrate nodded. ‘Very well. If you should think of anything, please send a message to Bow Street. And I must warn you that I may question you again as the investigation proceeds.’ He rose. ‘I’ll bid you good day, Miss Winslow.’

His mind reeling, Richard saw Sir Giles out, accepting his repeated apologies for the intrusion.

Closing the front door, he faced the inescapable fact that Thea had not been in the least bit surprised by the direction of Sir Giles’s questioning. Which of itself suggested that there was something to find out, despite her neatness at sidestepping questions. He did not for one moment doubt that Sir Giles would return.

His mouth set grimly as he went back up to the drawing room. Hell’s teeth! If Nigel Lallerton had been murdered, how had it been covered up? Good God! Surely his family would have noticed if there had been anything suspicious about his death? And how the devil was he meant to protect Thea from this if she wouldn’t confide in him?

His jaw set in a state of considerable rigidity, he stalked into the drawing room, only to find that the bird had flown. Thea had taken her box and gone. Probably to her bedchamber. Well, if she thought that was going to stop him—from below came the sound of the front door opening … then,

‘Who called?’

Almeria’s outraged shriek came up to him in perfect clarity. He swore. Invading Thea’s bedchamber and forcing some answers from her was no longer an option. Hearing the sound of hurrying feet on the stairs, Richard braced himself, pushing to the back of his mind the realisation that of all the questions to which he wanted answers, the most pressing was not directly connected to Lallerton’s death.

He dearly wanted to know exactly what Thea had meant when she told Sir Giles that she was counting the days until her wedding.

‘Richard!’ Almeria hurried into the drawing room. ‘What is this that Myles tells me? What were you thinking of to permit such a thing?’

‘That admitting Mason was preferable to having him summon Thea to Bow Street,’ he told her.

‘But, surely …’ Almeria’s voice trailed away. ‘Good God! A pretty thing that would be!’

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Richard.

Almeria sat down, frowning. ‘It might be worse. Myles assures me that none of the other servants is aware of Sir Giles’s identity, and of course he won’t gossip. As long as that is the end of it.’ She eyed Richard in blatant speculation. ‘I understood from Myles that you remained with Dorothea—thank you, Richard. I am most grateful.’

‘Not at all, Almeria.’ Damn. Now she was extrapolating all sorts of things from his intervention.

‘I will be attending Lady Heathcote’s assembly with Dorothea this evening,’ she informed him. ‘After a dinner at the Rutherfords. Will you—?’

‘I will join you there, if you wish it,’ he assured her. He could see absolutely no need to acquaint Almeria with the fact that he had already been planning to attend whatever entertainment Thea might be gracing that evening. That would only serve to encourage her.

Breathing with careful concentration, Thea forced her hands to steady enough to remove the stopper from her ink bottle and dip the quill. Then she stared blindly at the blank paper. What should she write? If she were quick, she had enough time before she needed to bathe and dress for the dinner and assembly she was attending with Lady Arnsworth that evening.

Dearest David—a magistrate from Bow Street questioned me this afternoon and I lied faster than a fox can trot?

Or perhaps:

Dearest David—Bow Street is asking questions about Nigel Lallerton’s death …

A dry little sob escaped her. There was nothing she could write that might not be construed as a warning, suspicious in itself, unless … Her quill hovered above the paper and common sense finally broke through the fog of panic. What a ninnyhammer she was being!

She wrote quickly:

Dearest David—Sir Giles Mason, a magistrate, called this afternoon. He asked some very odd questions about Nigel Lallerton’s death. You will understand that I found it most distressing. I would like very much to discuss it with you at the earliest opportunity. I will not be home this evening; we are to attend Lady Heathcote’s assembly.

Your loving sister,

Thea

Quite unexceptionable, really. After all, there was nothing unusual in a sister asking her brother’s advice on such a matter. Ringing the bell, she summoned a footman and asked him to deliver the note to Jermyn Street immediately.

She could do nothing further.

To her relief, David approached her within ten minutes of her arrival at Lady Heathcote’s assembly. He came up and greeted them politely, chatting on general topics for a few moments. Then, ‘Lady Arnsworth, I wonder if I might steal my sister away from your side for a little?’

Lady Arnsworth looked a little dubious, but said, ‘Of course, Mr Winslow.’

He smiled and bowed, then led Thea away, saying in a low voice, ‘I received your note. We had better talk.’

‘Is there somewhere we may be private?’ she asked, just as softly.

‘Come with me.’

He took her to a small parlour on the next floor. Closing the door, he turned to her. ‘Very well—tell me.’

She did so, leaving out nothing.

He listened in shocked silence, his eyes hard. ‘Hell and damnation!’ he muttered. ‘Where the devil did that come from?’

‘David—what if you are arrested? You might hang!’ That fear had been tearing at her with black claws all afternoon until she could think of nothing else.

He looked up, obviously surprised. ‘Hang? Me?’ He took one look at the distress in her face and gave her a swift hug. ‘Don’t be a peagoose! It was a duel, not murder, and the only reason it was hushed up was to prevent your name coming into it. If it had become known that I had fought a duel with my sister’s betrothed, the next question would have been—what caused it? Someone would have worked it out.’ His mouth twisted cynically. ‘Even old Chasewater didn’t want that—some of the mud would have stuck to them as well.’

‘But—’

‘Thea, even if it comes out, I’m in no real danger. There are enough witnesses to prove that it was a fair duel. Yes, I might have to face a trial, but they would be unlikely to convict me. I’m safe enough, even if there is a bit of gossip.’ His mouth flattened. ‘What is of concern is the danger to you. You’re the one who will be ruined if this—’

‘I don’t care about that!’ said Thea.

‘Well, I do!’ he informed her. ‘You said Richard Blakehurst was there—what did you tell him?’

The world rocked. ‘Nothing,’ said Thea.

He sighed. ‘You’ll have to tell him in the end, you know.’

‘No,’ said Thea. ‘I won’t.’

David’s mouth tightened. ‘I think Richard Blakehurst is a better man than you give him credit for.’

Thea turned away and closed her eyes. He was. And that was precisely the problem.

Richard found Almeria almost as soon as he arrived. She was seated on a chaise longue, chatting to Lady Jersey, making frequent use of her fan in the stuffy, overheated salon. Full battle regalia, he noted. The famous Arnsworth diamonds blazed and dripped from every conceivable vantage point. Thea was nowhere to be seen.

His stomach clenched. Walking up to Almeria in front of Sally Jersey and demanding to know where Thea might be had as much appeal as strolling naked along Piccadilly. Sally Jersey might never stop talking, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t as shrewd as she could hold together …

He looked round again, and saw Thea slip into the salon with Winslow. David Winslow looked calm enough, but Richard could see him scanning the room, as though looking for someone in particular. He leaned down and murmured something to Thea, who frowned and looked straight across at him.

What the devil was she frowning at him for?

‘Evening, Ricky.’

He looked around. Braybrook stood at his elbow.

‘Julian.’

‘Something bothering you?’

Not for the first time, Richard cursed the blessing of a friend who knew you too damn well.

‘You might say that.’

‘I did,’ said Braybrook drily. ‘Ah, here comes Winslow with his sister.’

Sure enough, Winslow was escorting Thea straight towards them. Tall and slender, in the poppy-red muslin with gold trim.

He waited for them with Braybrook.

‘Blakehurst.’ Winslow greeted Richard with a quick handshake. ‘Can I trouble you to escort Thea back to Lady Arnsworth? I need a word with Braybrook.’

‘Of course. It’s no trouble at all.’ He smiled at Thea and offered his arm. Hesitantly, she took it. The light touch of her gloved hand, despite two layers of cloth, jolted through him like a lightning bolt. Some soft summery perfume laced with the sweet temptation of woman wreathed him.

And she only had her hand on his arm. He shuddered to think what the effect would be if he waltzed with her. He found himself wondering if this became less incapacitating with custom, if, after they were married, his reaction to her sheer proximity might be more manageable. Given that Max could function in a reasonably normal fashion now with Verity around, he had to assume that—shock hit him. Apparently he’d made his decision about offering for Thea without his mind being involved anywhere in the process.

‘I’ve told David what happened,’ she said.

That focused his mind very effectively. ‘What did he say?’

‘That I ought not to worry about it too much.’

Good God! Was Winslow insane? A ripple like this could overturn a woman’s reputation in a flash. And Thea, damn it, looked as though at least part of the load was off her mind.

He flung a glance after Winslow and Julian. The pair of them were standing by themselves, conversing with their heads close. Winslow looked taut, almost feral as he gesticulated. Whatever he might have said to reassure Thea, plainly it hadn’t convinced him. As he watched, the two of them were joined by Fox-Heaton, who looked as though he’d swallowed something unpleasant. The three of them made for the door.

He looked back at Thea. Her gaze followed Winslow and the other two as they left the room. The combination did not seem to surprise her one whit. Which was more than could be said for himself. While Winslow taking Julian into his confidence might come as no surprise, what the devil did Fox-Heaton have to do with it?

Memory supplied an unwelcome suggestion—Sir Francis had been a very close friend of Nigel Lallerton’s … if Lallerton’s death had not been an accident … Icy foreboding crawled up and down Richard’s spine. Fox-Heaton was exactly the sort of fellow who would ask some very awkward questions if any rumours began to circulate. This had all the makings of a scandal extraordinaire.

A surge of protective fury roared through him. No matter what it took, he was going to keep Thea safe from whatever folly her brother had committed …

‘Richard?’ Thea’s fingers tightened on his arm. ‘It’s Lady Chasewater.’

‘Confound it!’ muttered Richard, as he saw the Dowager Countess of Chasewater heading straight for them. ‘Don’t tell her about it. Not here.’ She turned dazed eyes on him, and he laid his hand on hers, squeezing it in reassurance. ‘Keep your chin up, and we’ll get through.’

Arranging a polite smile on his face, he said, ‘Good evening, Lady Chasewater.’

She gave him a distracted look. ‘Mr Blakehurst.’ She turned at once to Thea.

‘Dear Dorothea! Such a dreadful thing! I must tell you before someone else does!’

Hell and the devil! Surely not?

‘A magistrate, Sir Giles Mason, called on me to ask about poor Nigel,’ said Lady Chasewater in tones calculated to turn heads.

Several heads did turn, but she continued regardless. ‘It seems they are not after all quite happy about the way he died. There has been some suggestion that it might have been murder!’

Richard swore under his breath. No one nearby was making even a pretence of not listening, as her ladyship went on, ‘Can you imagine it? Who could possibly have wanted to kill my poor boy? Why! ‘Tis unthinkable!’

Not any more it wasn’t. The blasted female had just made sure the entire ton would be thinking about it by breakfast time.

Thea’s chin lifted. ‘Yes, a very dreadful thing.’

‘And so distressing for you, my dear!’ went on Lady Chasewater, apparently oblivious to the fact that by now at least fifty people had drawn closer the better to hear what she was saying.

Richard gritted his teeth. The cat had its head out of the bag now—how the hell could he shut her up before the whole beast escaped? ‘Ma’am, perhaps you would like to speak to Miss Winslow a little more privately? You might—’

‘And I understand he plans to call on you, my dearest Dorothea.’ She caught at Thea’s wrist. ‘Why, whatever would you be able to tell him?’

Shocked murmurs rippled outwards.

In a steady voice, Thea said, ‘Very little, ma’am, I am afraid. Sir Giles called this afternoon.’

‘Oh, my dear! You must let me know if I can be of the least help,’ she told Thea, clutching her wrist convulsively.

Keeping your tongue still would have been a start! It was far too late now. The cat was right out of the bag and scurrying around the room, leaving murmurs and exclamations of astonishment in its wake.

Fury sang in every fibre. Damn the blasted woman! Dimly he could feel pity for her; she had lost her son, and this must be upsetting for her, but didn’t she know better than to reveal the whole affair like this? Had she no discretion? All he could think was that the shock must have addled her wits.

By the time Richard left the assembly, scarcely anything else was being spoken of save the shocking news that Nigel Lallerton had apparently been brutally murdered.

‘Slaughtered, they say, my dear!’

He ignored several offers for snug games of cards and a bottle of brandy and walked home.

Hell’s own broth was brewing around him, and he had no idea how to get out of it. And getting out didn’t matter a damn beside the far more pressing need to protect Thea.

He wasn’t her brother, curse it! Winslow was the one with the right to defend her, but it seemed that Winslow was leaving it to him. Aside from her brother, there was Aberfield … Richard dismissed that idea. Any father who could view Dunhaven as a suitable husband for his daughter was worse than useless. And as for Dunhaven, who had been hovering all evening—Richard’s teeth ground savagely as he trod up the steps of Arnsworth House.

The only way to circumvent Dunhaven’s plans was for Thea to be married, or at the very least, betrothed. To someone else.

Someone like himself …

His latch key missed the keyhole.

He tried again, this time managing to unlock the door. Why hadn’t he seen it earlier? A simple solution was often the best, and the simplest way to protect Thea from the attentions of Dunhaven, and her father’s machinations, was to offer for her himself. Immediately. Otherwise, his power was limited. At least if they were betrothed he could deflect much of the inevitable gossip. And there was another thing—once they were betrothed, Thea might confide whatever she knew about Lallerton’s death to him, which would mean he could help her.

Closing the door, he acknowledged that there were other things motivating him. He liked Thea—more than liked. He cared about her. About the woman who had kept that badly carved little bird all these years. About the woman whose eyes spoke sometimes of a pain he could only guess at. And who could wipe him off a chessboard. He smiled as he picked up a candle from the hall table and lit it from a taper. It was the only candle there so Almeria and Thea must be in already. He blew out the taper.

Yes, the more he thought about the idea of marrying Thea, the more right it seemed. Once he could get past the idea of facing Almeria’s smug gloat. No point cutting off your nose to spite your face. There would probably be a certain air of well-fed-cat-picking-its-teeth-with-yellow-feathers about Braybrook too. Not even that had the power to bother him.

Not beside the anticipated delight of Thea as his wife, his bride, his lover … Desire kicked sharply as he trod up the stairs. If they were married, instead of passing her room with every muscle, nerve and sinew straining at the leash, he would be opening the door and stripping quietly, before sliding into bed with her … to hold her, love her gently … His blood burned and he realised to his horror that he had actually stopped at the door.

He took a shuddering breath. Tomorrow morning he was going to propose to Thea Winslow. It might be the only way to retain his sanity.

Chapter Seven

Thea stared blindly at her teacup. A piece of toast, reduced to crumbs on her bread-and-butter plate, bore mute testament to her lack of appetite. A sleepless night had left her with a crashing headache, and a churning stomach. The Heathcote assembly had turned into a nightmare with everyone speculating on the possible truth behind Nigel Lallerton’s death.

Perhaps she had been mad to admit that Sir Giles had called, but once Lady Chasewater had made the suggestion, there had seemed little point hiding anything. Aching pity stirred inside her. How hard this must be for the woman … she had adored Nigel …

‘Miss?’

The footman, James, stood just inside the door of the breakfast parlour, holding a silver salver. ‘Yes, James?’

‘A note for you, miss. It’s just been delivered.’

She set her teacup down carefully, with only the slightest of rattles. ‘A … a note?’ No. It couldn’t be. Foolish to think it might be another note like the one the other day … what purpose could such notes possibly serve now? All the damage had been well and truly done.

‘Thank you, James.’

He brought her the note and she took it, seeing instantly that it was addressed to her in the same scrawl as the last one. A chill slid through her. ‘That will be all, James.’ Her own voice, calm, oddly distant.

‘Yes, miss.’

She put the note by her plate, refusing to look at it until the door closed. Shivering now, she picked up her cup of tea and sipped, savouring it. There was more tea in the pot, and she poured herself another cup, adding milk with careful precision.

The note sat there. Unavoidable. She didn’t have to read it. There was a fire in the grate. She could drop it in there unread. That would be the sensible thing to do. Swiftly she rose, picked up the note and hurried over to the fireplace.

She stared at the dancing flames. Drop it in. That’s all you have to do. Only she couldn’t. After yesterday, and last night … what if the note contained a threat? A demand. Something that ought to be dealt with. She shivered—what if—?

With shaking fingers she broke the seal—first she would read it, just in case. Then she would burn it … Fumbling with cold, she unfolded the letter.

Did they tell you that the child was dead? Were you relieved, Slut?

The room spun around her in sickening swoops as she crushed the note. Dear God … bile rising in her throat, she bent down and placed the crumpled note on the fire. It hung there for a moment and then the edges blackened, slowly at first, and then in a consuming rush as the flames fed hungrily. It was gone in less than a minute, paper and ink reduced to ashes.

Only, it wasn’t gone. Not really. Because she had been fool enough to read it. She could not consign knowledge to the flames and the words remained, branded on her soul—but what could they possibly mean? The phrasing—Did they tell you …? What else should they have told her? Unless … unless they had lied.

She dragged in a breath, shutting her eyes as she fought for control.

The door opened.

‘Thea?’

She straightened at once and her breath caught. Richard had come in, dressed for riding, dark eyes fixed on her. Dear God … if he had read this note! Her glance flickered to the fire, half-expecting to see the accusation writhing in the flames.

‘Good … good morning, Richard.’

He frowned at her as he came into the parlour. ‘Did you sleep at all? You should still be abed. Are you all right?’

She forced a smile into place. ‘I was … just a little cold,’ she lied. Change the subject, quickly. ‘Have you been riding?’

He sat down at the table. ‘Yes. Thea—about last night—’

‘You must be hungry then.’ She rushed on. ‘Shall I ring for coffee? Were you up very early?’ Heavens! She was babbling like an idiot in her attempt to sound vaguely normal.

‘Thank you, but Myles knows I’m in. He’ll bring me some coffee, and I breakfasted before riding.’ He looked across at her. ‘Thea, don’t pretend with me. About last night—we need to talk. Privately.’

‘Oh.’ Her heart gave a funny little leap. She squashed it back into place and ordered her thoughts. Very carefully she said, ‘Is that wise, Richard?’

His gaze narrowed, and she flushed, remembering a comment of Diana’s about how peculiar it was to see Richard in town at all, let alone attending so many parties. Diana seemed perfectly certain that there would be an announcement at any moment—and that wagers had been laid that, finally, Lady Arnsworth would succeed in her dearest ambition.

‘After all, you can’t wish to … raise expectations, and … and then—’

His brows lifted. ‘Expectations?’

She could not quite identify the undercurrent in his voice.

‘Am I raising your expectations, Thea?’

He didn’t sound concerned, but then he was always in control of his thoughts and feelings.

‘Not mine!’ she clarified. ‘Society’s expectations.’

What Richard said about society had a certain eloquence to it.

‘You’re my friend, Thea,’ he told her. ‘And I don’t give a damn about anyone else’s expectations,’ he added, still with that odd, intent look. ‘Yours would be a different matter.’

A friend. Her heart, foolish organ, glowed. Should she tell him about this note? Not because she wanted him to do something about it, but simply to tell someone. So that she did not feel quite so alone.

No. She couldn’t. She could hear the conversation now.

Another note? What did this one say?

Oh, nothing much. Just … it was just nasty.

Nasty, how?

No, she couldn’t tell him what it had said. The other one had looked like general spitefulness. This one was more directly aimed. He would want an explanation. Yet another explanation she couldn’t give.

‘Thea? Thea! Are you all right?’

To her horror she realised that he had been speaking to her, trying to gain her attention.

She flushed. ‘I’m sorry, Richard. I … I was wool-gathering.’

‘With a vengeance,’ he agreed.

She pinned a bright smile in place. ‘What did you wish to say?’

He didn’t look at all convinced, but said, ‘I planned to drive out towards Richmond this morning in the curricle, if you would care to join me. We do need to talk.’

‘Driving … but …’ Her voice died in her throat and the walls of the present dissolved, memory flooding through the breach. Another offer to drive out on a sunny day … another curricle … shame, embarrassment, and terror stretched out their tentacles, pulling her back in time …

Come, Thea, you cannot possibly believe that I mean you the least harm. Your mama is perfectly happy for me to drive you out. She wishes you to entertain me … At least you might tell me the reason for your change of mind …

‘Thea? Thea? Is something wrong?’

His words made no sense. He had never asked before if anything was wrong. She tasted fear, sour in her mouth, and felt her knees buckle.

‘Thea!’

Strong hands gripped her, lifting her, and then she felt herself being lowered, helpless—

‘It’s all right, Thea. Here—just lie still.’

Just lie still, you stupid girl!

No! Not this time. She wouldn’t submit. Even as she felt the sofa beneath her, she squirmed, struggling wildly, clawing, striking out in panic.

The blackness cleared, dissolving to reveal an elegantly appointed breakfast parlour, and, instead of him, Richard Blakehurst bending over her, his cravat askew and a livid red mark on his left cheek.

Horror stabbed her.

‘I … I—’ The words dried up in her throat. There was nothing she could say in answer to the question in his shocked dark eyes. Cold flooded her from the flash of memory, and the disbelief on his face. What had she done?

Very slowly he straightened up.

‘You will perhaps be more comfortable if I take my coffee in the back parlour, Thea.’

Thea sank back on the sofa, shivering. But not from the resurgence of nightmare and fear. Horror seeped through her at what she had seen in his face.

What had she done? She had insulted one of the most honourable men in London in the worst possible manner.

Richard Blakehurst was the last man on earth who would take advantage of a woman. Anywhere. Let alone in his godmother’s breakfast parlour. She owed him an apology at the very least. And what could she say if he demanded an explanation?

I didn’t see you. I saw him. Felt his hands on me. Heard his voice, telling me to lie still … his weight crushing the breath out of me. His strength …

She choked off the flow of memory, before it could become a nightmare. Not for years had she had a reversion of memory like that—the nightmare leaping to hellish life in her waking mind. Once the slightest unexpected touch had been enough to cast her back into hell … she had thought she was past that. Plainly she was not. But for now it could not be allowed to matter. She had to find Richard and apologise.

And when she had done that, she must decide what she was to do about this last note.

Having retreated to the back parlour, Richard pulled a letter he was writing to his sister-in-law out of the small desk he used. Unfortunately, all he could see was Thea’s blanched terror, her dazed eyes.

How had he got himself into such a confounded mess? He’d thought she must be ill, that she was about to faint … dammit! She had fainted. If he hadn’t caught her, she would have landed on the floor.

He gritted his teeth. Plainly he should have let her hit the floor and simply walked out. Apparently his chivalrous behaviour in catching her and laying her on the sofa had been interpreted as attempted ravishment!

He took another sip of coffee and reached for his pen. Putting words on paper had never been so difficult.

The soft knock on the door startled him so that the pen sputtered all over his half-written letter.

‘Come in,’ he called.

The door opened and Thea slipped in.

‘Richard?’

He waited. He had no idea what to say anyway. Dammit! She had come looking for him, after as good as accusing him of attempting to rape her!

She looked stricken and his conscience accused him of wanting several pounds of flesh. At which point his body started speculating on which particular pounds he might start with. Banishing his fantasies forcibly, he consigned his conscience and good manners to hell, and waited, his mouth set grimly.

‘I’m … I’m sorry, Richard. I would like very much to drive out with you. That is, if you still wish it.’

All the offended fury melted in the face of her distress. And something else, deep inside him that he couldn’t even have put a name to, responded with a surge of tenderness.

‘I think that it is for me to apologise,’ he said quietly. ‘I frightened you. I’m sorry, Thea.’

She shook her head. ‘No, Richard. You are not to apologise. I think I’d feel better if you raged at me. It was not your fault. I know that you would never … never—’ She took a shuddering breath, and said in something approaching her normal voice, ‘It was just that I felt dizzy for a moment and became confused.’

He didn’t believe it for one moment, but smiled and said, ‘Then if you truly wish to drive out, I will order the curricle.’

‘Yes, please. It would be lovely. As long as Lady Arnsworth does not object.’

He couldn’t help laughing. ‘Almeria? I should think you’ll find her ready to hand you up into the curricle!’

She blushed.

‘In half an hour, then?’ he said.

‘Yes. Thank you. I’ll tell Lady Arnsworth now.’

Richard leaned back in his chair as Thea left the room. God help him; if Almeria knew what was in his mind, she’d be sending instructions around to Doctors’ Commons within ten minutes.

Which would definitely be jumping the gun. They weren’t anywhere near the point where a special licence was required. He’d intended proposing to her this morning. Suggesting that they marry quickly. Perhaps he needed to step back a little; discuss the idea with her. Point out the rational reasons for a match between them. If he could focus on them through the haze of fury that enveloped him when he thought of Dunhaven. Or the desire that tightened his loins every time he laid eyes on Thea.

Had she seen his thoughts in his eyes as she regained consciousness? If he were to be brutally honest with himself, he couldn’t swear even now that he wouldn’t have kissed her. He thought he wouldn’t. He hoped he wouldn’t! Surely he wasn’t such a cad as to take advantage of an unconscious woman? But he wasn’t quite sure. She’d exploded in panic before he’d been put to the test.

The worst of it was that little though he might like to admit it, the thought had been there. Oh, not to actually ravish her! But feeling her soft weight in his arms, breathing the fragrance of her hair, seeing those soft pink lips parted and vulnerable—his whole body had tightened with the urge to taste, his fingers had itched to caress her cheek and find out if it really was softer than silk. Not to mention the graceful curve of her throat.

He swore. If he kept on like this he’d be a basket case before ever they reached Richmond.

Thea was awaiting him in the hall, fashionably attired in a carriage dress of deep blue twill when he brought the curricle around to the front door. Almeria came out with her.

‘Thank you, Richard,’ she said, as he got down. ‘A drive is just what will do Dorothea good after last night. A dreadful business. I cannot believe that Laetitia Chasewater, of all people, was so lost to all sense of decorum! And I am determined that tonight we shall attend only Lady Fairchild’s musicale.’

‘A very sensible decision, Almeria.’

He understood perfectly. It was vital that Thea continued to be seen, but at a musicale chatter was perforce limited. Of course there would be supper afterwards, but, knowing Lady Fairchild, it would be a small, select affair. All the better if it were.

He handed Thea up into the curricle and hid a smile to see that Almeria, even if she hadn’t precisely pushed Thea into the vehicle, was reaching up to pat her on the hands.

‘Enjoy your drive, dear. And a little stroll along the river. I am sure you will find it refreshing.’

She stepped back and Richard gave his horses the office, putting them into a slow trot the moment his groom, Minchin, had swung up behind.

Impossible to have any private conversation with Minchin there, so he kept the talk to indifferent topics as he threaded the curricle through the streets and out on to Piccadilly. There the traffic rendered any conversation impossible, until he was past Apsley House and the Knightsbridge Turnpike.

They trotted on, out through the village of Chelsea and on down through Walham Green to cross the river at the Putney Bridge before turning west again to go around to Petersham. It was a glorious day, sunny with a gentle breeze and with London far behind them. Thea relaxed. It seemed that every bird in England was singing for joy in the hedgerows at the fragrance of wildflowers and damp grass, driving out all fear, all memory. She pushed it away, determined, if only for this one perfect day, to live entirely in the moment and not worry about what might be around the corner, or what lay shadowed in the past. Right here, right now, she was happy.

‘A penny for your thoughts.’

Richard’s voice broke in on her trance-like state. She sighed. ‘I was thinking that it would be lovely to live out in the country, somewhere like this, not too far from London so that one might come up easily to visit friends or go to the theatre.’

‘But still live peacefully away from the crash and clatter?’

She looked at him gratefully. ‘Yes, that’s it exactly. I think when all this is over, after my birthday, that is what I shall do.’

‘Your birthday?’

‘Once I turn twenty-five, under the terms of my uncle’s will, I receive two hundred pounds a year whether I marry or not, and whether Aberfield likes it or not. I can do as I please.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you disapprove?’

He laughed. ‘Would it make any difference to you?’

She hesitated, and Richard waited, oddly aware that her answer was somehow important. At last she said, ‘No. Not if I thought I was right. I should be sorry to disappoint you, but even if I make a mistake, it would be my mistake.’

He could hardly quarrel with that. It was his own creed—make your own mistakes and learn from them. His heart leapt in recognition. This could work. More than work.

Encouraged, he began to talk about his plans for his property, what improvements he had made in the house, how sheltered it was from the worst of the Channel storms. ‘A little further from London than this,’ he said, as he drew his horses up outside the inn in Petersham. ‘But still close enough to come up easily for a visit.’ Minchin sprang down and went to the horses’ heads. ‘And don’t tell Almeria,’ he added, ‘but I’ve just bought a small town house.’

‘Don’t tell her? She’d be delighted,’ said Thea.

He let himself down carefully to the road, aware that his leg had stiffened slightly. ‘Not when she finds out where it is, she won’t be.’

Thea looked her question.

‘Bloomsbury,’ he confessed.

Laughter rippled. ‘Near the museum?’

‘Mmm. She’ll probably have palpitations.’ Then, casually, ‘Should you mind?’

‘No, of course not.’

She looked at him oddly and he held up his hands to help her down. Time to change the subject. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked. ‘We could have something to eat here and then stroll along the river.’

The river slid past, deep and tranquil. They hadn’t walked very far. Richard had produced a bag of old bread from the curricle. In her childhood a drive out to Richmond or Petersham with a picnic and a walk along the river to feed the ducks had been a high treat. Standing there on the bank, throwing bread to the quacking, squabbling ducks, she could almost forget her worries and how many years it had been since last she did this.

Richard’s deep quiet voice drew her back. ‘Has it occurred to you how similar our plans are?’

She threw a piece of bread to a duck. ‘Standing beside the Thames feeding greedy ducks?’

He laughed. ‘No. Although that’s part of it. Neither of us wants any sort of public life—we both plan to live in the country, at not too great a remove from town.’

A swan moved in, its grace belied by its quickness in lunging for a scrap of bread.

‘A quiet life,’ he continued.

She threw bread to the swan. ‘I’m not planning to run an estate and breed sheep,’ she said.

‘You could learn to help, though,’ he said. ‘And I’d enjoy teaching you.’

Shock hummed through her as she began to see where this was leading.

‘Richard—you … you can’t possibly be suggesting that—you said I could have twice the fortune, and—’

‘Dammit, woman! I’m proposing to you! Not your blasted fortune! I’m asking you to marry me. Share my life.’

Share my life.

Those simple heartfelt words tore at her like a twisting knife. Share his life … and what did she have to share in return? A sordid secret in her past? And the way things were developing, a sordid and far-from-secret scandal here in the present.

‘No,’ she said.

Richard’s heart landed with a thump in his boots. Owing to the extravagant poke of Thea’s bonnet, gauging her expression was impossible, but a glance at her gloved hands showed them clenched together. No doubt the knuckles were stark white.

That was it? No?

He supposed it had the merit of being succinct. None of that nonsense about being honoured by his proposal, and—

So much for being rational. There was a moment’s silence, in which he had an eternity to curse himself for the clumsiness of his address.

‘This is not because of those silly notes? You do not feel that you must offer for me because of that?’

‘Of course not! Lord, every mama in the ton would be sending anonymous letters in that case!’ He dragged in a breath. ‘Thea—I’m offering because I wish to marry you.’

The quacking of the ducks fell into the well of silence that had opened up between them.

‘I am very sorry, Richard, but I cannot possibly marry you.’

He held back all the things he wanted to say. All the far-from-rational things that were burning a hole deep inside him. Somehow, he realised, it had not really occurred to him that she might refuse.

‘Will you tell me why you cannot?’ He flicked a glance at her, but she was staring straight ahead, her face hidden again by the poke of her bonnet. ‘After all, we have always been good friends, you must know that I don’t give a damn about your fortune, and—’

‘Of course I know that!’ She turned to him in obvious surprise, and he saw the pain in her eyes. ‘It’s nothing to do with that. It’s just … just that I cannot … it never occurred to me that you could want to marry me!’

He waited, but she fell silent and looked ahead again.

‘I frightened you this morning, did I not, Thea?’ he asked quietly.

‘No!’ She faced him again, her face absolutely white. ‘The truth is, Richard—’ She stopped. He saw the convulsive movement of her throat before she turned away again. Her voice came again, utterly devoid of expression, ‘Yes. I was frightened. But it was not because of you! Only because I did not realise that it was you.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘I know that sounds foolish and I … I cannot explain, but I do thank you for your offer. No one who knows you could possibly imagine you would offer because of my fortune.’

‘Don’t delude yourself, love.’ The endearment hung between them, alive and shimmering. Love. He had called women that before, of course. One did in bed. It had been a meaningless endearment. But when had he ever really heard himself say it? When had it ever rung like a bell?

She looked up at him, soft lips curved in a trembling smile. ‘They do not know you then, do they?’ she said quietly. ‘I said anyone who knows you, Richard. Would your brother, or Lord Braybrook, make that mistake?’

No. Not even if he lied. They would know. And apparently Thea knew …

‘Are you sure, Thea?’ he asked gently. ‘Ungentlemanly of me to press, I know, but—’

‘Quite sure,’ she whispered, looking straight ahead again. ‘It … it is not possible … if it were … that is …’ Her breath came raggedly, as though she breathed glass. Her voice when it came was utterly steady and expressionless. ‘I have no intention of marrying. Ever.’

Had she loved the fellow so deeply? She had only been sixteen when they were betrothed; seventeen when Lallerton died, and he had always assumed the match had been arranged by Aberfield and Chasewater, but … perhaps it was time to resurrect his rational proposal.

‘Thea,’ he said carefully, ‘I quite understand how you must feel, but surely after seven years—’ He felt her stiffen beside him and altered tack slightly. ‘Have you considered that one may marry for friendship, as well as love? We have always been good friends. And this would solve your problem—I may not be a brilliant catch like Dunhaven in your father’s estimation, but I’m perfectly eligible.’ Only half-joking, he added, ‘You wouldn’t have to bother with toads like that any more, at least!’

Thea swallowed hard. She knew he would protect her. And it was tempting, so tempting … No! She didn’t dare. To marry Richard, she would have to tell him the truth. ‘I cannot, Richard,’ she whispered. ‘Please, will you take me back now?’

‘Of course.’

They walked back along the path in silence. In the silence of her mind she railed at fate that had brought her here to this moment and mocked her with his proposal.

As they arrived back at the inn, he said quietly, ‘Thea, just because you have refused my offer of marriage does not mean that we cannot continue friends, does it?’

She flinched, and, to her horror, tears sprang to her eyes. Forcing them back, she stared fixedly ahead, not trusting her voice. It would shake like her gloved hands, locked in front of her.

‘Thea?’

‘Friends—of course, Richard.’ Her voice did wobble. Despicably. Friends told each other the truth. Trusted each other. She hated that she was deceiving him so deeply.

You could tell him the truth.

No. She could not. Not to save her life could she tell him that. It would be worse than death to see the pitying contempt in his eyes. And what if he didn’t believe her? No one else ever had, save David. And perhaps David had believed her partly because he had disliked Nigel so much.

She shut her eyes. It would be better if David had not believed her either. If he had not, he would not be in such danger now. It would also be better if she did not have to see Richard again. Especially now. Now when she wasn’t even sure that she knew the whole truth. Did they tell you that the child was dead?

With Minchin up behind them during the drive back, any further private conversation was impossible. Thea did not know whether to be glad or sorry. Richard was very quiet, speaking only to point out landmarks, or comment on the state of the roads.

Only when they reached Grosvenor Square and he escorted her up the front steps of Arnsworth House did he refer again to what lay between them.

‘Lallerton was a very lucky man for you to have loved him so deeply.’

Not the slightest hint of bitterness. No anger. Just the kindest understanding of the lie that she and her family had cultivated to screen the truth. So easy simply to nod. To accept what he had said and agree. It stuck in her throat. Even if she dared not tell Richard the truth, she would not lie to him. Not in any way.

She turned to face him fully. ‘I did not love Nigel Lallerton. Ever. Not then. Not now.’

And she opened the front door and fled into the house.

Richard stared after her, stunned. She hadn’t loved Lallerton? Then why in Hades had she remained in seclusion for seven years? Why had she set herself so flatly against marriage?

There was something odd here. She had said simply that she hadn’t loved Lallerton. But her tone of voice had said a great deal more …

Her perfect day was over. Thea sat with a smile of polite interest plastered to her face as she listened to the violinist Lady Fairchild had engaged for the evening. She should be enjoying this, but as the violin sang and soared, her thoughts spun wildly between doubt and searing conviction. Richard had not attended and Lord Dunhaven’s presence beside her served only to increase her distraction.

Could they have lied about her child’s death? Yes. Easily. And why, oh, why had she been fool enough to tell Richard that she hadn’t loved Lallerton?

Had Lord Dunhaven moved his chair slightly? He was too close, especially in the overheated room. Her temples began to throb.

His lordship leaned closer, murmuring something about how much he enjoyed Mozart.

‘Haydn,’ she told him, and had the dubious pleasure of seeing him turn a dull brick-red. Dunhaven hated being contradicted—especially when he was wrong.

Would they have lied?

Over something like that? With the honour of the family involved? With David at risk? Oh, yes. They would have lied. In a moment.

The accusation of that morning’s note hung before her in letters of fire: Did they tell you that the child was dead? Were you relieved …?

The sonata ended and the audience applauded with well-bred enthusiasm.

Yes. She had been relieved. For a moment. A day. And then the grief had come. The grief she had not been allowed to show. And the guilt.

But what if her child had survived? How could she find out?

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