

# Seducing Miss Dunaway

# Smashwords Edition

# Copyright 2011 by Kate Rothwell

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# With many thanks to Linda I. and Laura K.

Cover by Dawn
CHAPTER ONE

Buckinghamshire, 1870

The Campbells' dance promised to be an odd affair. The meal held before the big event seemed shockingly informal and noisy to Fell, who was used to London ways. Everyone simply sat to eat—there was no parade to the table and no assignment of seats. Still, he wasn't a rude guest and smiled politely at the very young lady who'd slipped into the seat to his left after the soup course had ended.

She was out of breath and smelled of fresh air, as if she'd run into the dining room from the outdoors. Her display of curls might have been blown by the wind as well. She began to eat her fish with a hearty appetite.

"I'm Miss Mary," the provincial girl told him. He waited for a last name, but she seemed to think he knew it. A talkative sort, she told him she was not even out yet and had only been invited to this grand neighborhood event because her mother and Mrs. Campbell were close.

"You're looking forward to your debut to society?" he asked, amused.

"No, I am not interested in a season."

"No?"

She nodded. "I have been to London, you see, and found what I want to do there."

She presented an odd contrast of flighty—literally, if one looked at her hair—and solemn. He appreciated her round, young body and those dark curls and large eyes, but in general he preferred someone with a little more sophistication and levity. Despite her merry appearance and chatty manner, she was sober as a nun and talked about the deserving poor, and, rather interestingly, the not-as-deserving poor. The girl apparently knew about the plight of fallen women and the unfortunate outcome of their couplings.

"You really ought not talk about such things as those unfortunate babies," he said gently. "It won't do."

She stared at him for a moment. Annoyed by the disdain he saw on her pretty face, he said, "I tell you this for your own sake, you know." Fell knew he sounded like a prig, so he attempted a hearty laugh. "I wish more people had told me what would or wouldn't do before I entered society." A lie, of course. He'd been prepared for his role from the day he was born. Now just out of university, he had no surprises waiting for him.

"But I've already told you. I shan't enter society," she said before she turned to speak to the man on her other side. Fell, of course, conversed with the squire's wife on his other side. After a few minutes of speaking of the weather and crops with his other neighbor, he was glad to turn back to the intriguing, peculiar girl and discuss something less commonplace.

"You are what age, sixteen?"

"Almost seventeen," she said.

"That seems rather young to make such momentous decision. You'd withdraw from society, from life, before you even taste it."

She wrinkled her nose, even sniffed. "No one would complain if I accepted an offer of marriage, and that is just as momentous a step. In fact, everyone is determined I do just that."

He decided he didn't want to argue with her and sought for a way to change the subject. Rather than mentioning the weather, the way he ought, he asked, "Why were you late for the meal?"

The way she pressed her lips tight reminded him of a school teacher. In a low voice, she said, "I was having an argument with a gentleman. He will not accept my no to his proposal." She glanced in the direction of a brooding man of about thirty who stared down the table in their direction. The suitor, no doubt, and older than Campbell's friends, so Fell hadn't met him.

"No need to look so put out by a proposal," he said.

"Even when I've said no at least a half dozen times? What is worse is he's encouraged by my family. He and my mother have decided we will suit."

"He looks to be a respectable, pleasant sort. Why don't you want to marry him?"

"I have something else planned for my life," she told him with exaggerated patience.

"So you said." The trip to London and her determination to make a difference in the world. Quaint. "You are a reformer."

The girl nodded and reached for her wine. Shocking that a girl not even out would be served alcohol, but this gathering was entirely strange. At least, thanks to her, it wasn't dull. She drank thirstily. "I will think of something. I need to go, you understand." Not so sober after all, he thought as he watched her gulp the wine. That must explain her strange penchant to talk about ladies of the night.

His attention was drawn by the musicians he heard tuning up in the next room.

The girl was speaking, and to his horror, he realized she'd just asked him if he'd meet her outside, in a secluded part of the garden, after dinner.

"Good God, no." Fell didn't raise his voice, but he pushed back into his chair with horror.

"Oh, I'm not interested in dalliance." She carefully put down her wineglass. "It just occurred to me that if Mr. Richardson, er, Mr. R saw me with another man, perhaps he would understand I was not suitable."

Fell held tight to his temper. "I beg your pardon, I don't know you."

Come to think of it, he still didn't know her last name. She hadn't asked his, which was an ominous fact. She must know his identity. He lowered his voice. "I am certainly not interested in any sort of trap you might set. Too ridiculous."

Miss Mary looked him up and down. Fell recalled he'd become slightly disheveled when he and his friends played an impromptu game of catch in the upstairs corridor before dinner.

She frowned. "Why on earth would I want to trap you? I told you. I don't wish to be married." She put down her napkin. "A walk might not be enough. You could pretend to kiss me."

She must be more canny than she appeared. Lord Fellington knew he was a good catch. Though he hadn't witnessed the speculative looks from females and their mothers he usually drew, he expected Campbell's family and friends knew about his fortune as well.

"If we go for a walk in the garden," she continued thoughtfully, as if proposing an entirely reasonable plan, "it will be too dark for him to see your face, and you can flee into the woods. He'll have a disgust of me at last and you won't be entrapped."

"But so will your family. So will everyone in the neighborhood."

"I have made up my mind about my life, and they simply refuse to listen. I must act, you understand."

"Why with me?"

"You have kind eyes." She toyed with the fringe on her shawl, then squarely met his gaze. Her dark eyes didn't waver as she stared back, although her cheeks might have grown rosier. "But never mind that," she said briskly. "I've never seen you before and will never see you again, which makes this plan entirely perfect. Heavens. I don't even know your name. Mr. Campbell referred to you as Phil. But. Well. I suspect he had too much to drink."

That's Fell. He calls me Fell, Fellington almost said. But instead he got a wicked notion. He only shook his head and attempted a mysterious smile. "No, no. You shouldn't know my name if we're to be secret lovers."

"Pretend secret lovers." She grinned, revealing a surprisingly lovely smile, then waited as if she thought he must give his name. After an awkward silence passed, she shrugged. "If you insist on anonymity."

"It's part of the game," he said. "We'll meet outside after the first set of dances."

"What we shall do is a game, isn't it," she said. "So many gentlemen lose and gain a great deal of money at play, or so I hear. This is no worse, is it?"

Did she refer to her strange plans for her future or the one she'd hatched using Fell?

He didn't answer. She gave a strong nod and one of her bright smiles. "Very well. I shall gamble on this to work."

During the first set of dances, he watched her but she didn't so much as glance in his direction. She danced prettily enough, though she rarely spoke. She seemed to be paying close attention to her steps. Perhaps she'd never danced in public before.

No one was nearby as they slipped away and walked through the garden to the lake. The dark-haired girl seemed exotic now. Her pale lavender gown glowed in the moonlight. For some reason, she'd stripped off her long gloves. He wondered how much wine she'd had. He suspected he'd had far too much himself.

"Are you the worse for drink?" he asked, ready to escort her back at once.

"No. I am better for it. I drank to bolster my bravery. Something has to be done, and I'd rather not embarrass poor Mr. R. Only myself."

He moved close enough to touch the cool silk skin of her upper arm. He breathed in the scent of her, flowery but not over-sweet, and was suddenly aroused—and annoyed by the arousal. "You're foolish, you know," he told her. "What if I was the sort of man who'd drag you into the bushes and finish the job?"

"Heavens." Her teeth gleamed in the darkness. "I told Sam, um, Mr. R, I was walking to the pergola. Someone would come if I screamed for help. But the Campbells would never have a rapist as a guest."

She was such an innocent, he had to laugh. "I wonder if you'd be safe walking to the village alone. You're determined to go to the worst part of London and become a missionary?"

"I didn't say that." She was indignant. "I have no religious calling... Ah!" Something rustled in the night, and she threw herself at his chest. She put her hands at the back of his neck and whispered, "You don't want to be recognized. We'll turn so your face is out of the moonlight."

She pulled him down to her, putting her mouth next to his. Their faces brushed close. Cheek to cheek. He could feel her wine-scented breath on his skin, but this pose they struck was a sham. She'd said she wanted a kiss—he'd give her one.

Fell cupped her face and held her as he touched her lips with his. A soft brush, then he settled in to explore. Her lips moved under his mouth, no doubt she protested, but he ignored it and kissed her. Warm. Soft. Thoroughly delicious.

He thought himself a worldly man at twenty-one, having bedded a woman, but this kiss felt wonderful. Extraordinary.

She twisted away, gasping. "You needn't be so realistic," she whispered. "And anyway, it was only some sort of animal—" but he'd bent his mouth to hers again and lightly rubbed his mouth over hers, then pressed in. More demanding now.

She didn't pull away this time. Her hands on his nape explored his skin above his collar, tentatively threading into his hair. Fell groaned and ran the tip of his tongue along her lips, needing to taste her. She twisted her head to the side. And......oh, thank you, God. Her mouth opened. The kiss deepened.

To his dismay, just as he'd begun to explore her, she drew back. "Yes, good. I am glad to have tried that," she whispered. "I do understand the appeal."

He managed to speak a single word. "More."

She hesitated and touched her upper lip with two fingers. Her voice quivered. "Only until Mr. R—"

"Yes. Of course." He needed that mouth, and he moved his hands too, down the sweep of her shoulders, over her back to the top of her bustle and up again to her bare shoulders. He felt her breath coming fast. No. Don't touch her breasts. No. he warned himself. But he had to press his body to hers and feel the shape of her suddenly overpoweringly attractive curves. He'd just kiss her mouth. And then her cheeks and temple. And neck and down her throat.

From behind him, something crunched on the gravel just outside the pergola. A footstep, then a man's hoarse voice. "Mary!"

She gasped and shoved Fell away from her, hard, pushing him toward the shadowy back side of the pergola. "Go. Go!" she whispered.

He retreated toward the shadows, feeling like an utter cad. "But if he responds badly, you might require my support," he whispered. He was the one who'd behaved badly.

"Go!" she said.

"I don't wish to abandon—"

She made a noise like a hissing siphon and ran away from him, down the steps to the approaching gentleman.

As she trotted down the stairs, she shouted, "Sam. I wanted you to see what I was about." She spoke dramatically as if on stage in a music hall. "Now do you understand why I cannot say yes to you?"

God. This was farcical.

Fell turned and walked into the shadow of the trees. But he didn't go far in case Richardson got violent.

"Who was that man?" Richardson said. "Was he one of those upper-class asses Campbell invited for the weekend?"

"I will not say. But it is a most unsuitable..." She broke off and gave an unconvincing imitation of a sob.

"Good God, Mary. Is he married?" The other man sounded concerned, not angry.

"Alas, I can't say."

Fell had heard enough. He walked back to the house and asked the first girl he saw to dance. He didn't see Mary again.
CHAPTER TWO

London, twelve years later

The man waiting in her office was a penitent. Miss Dunaway could tell by the grim set of his mouth and the sorrow in his hazel eyes. When she first started, good works had been all the rage for young ladies. That—and her own restlessness—was how she'd succumbed. Members of society would come to her, determined to work with foundlings and glowing with pleasure at the thought of their future good deeds.

But dirtying one's hands with charity seemed passé at the moment. These days the society ladies who sat in her visitor's chair usually had been caught in lies and felt the need to atone for their sins, or prove to their husbands they had some sort of soul.

At her hurried entrance, her gentleman visitor rose to his feet. "Miss Dunaway." His voice was warm—as if they'd met.

He did look familiar, but surely she'd have remembered any encounter with a person like him. So good-looking and—more to the issue—so obviously wealthy.

Very few men came through her door, and she'd never had such a magnificent specimen of upper-crust male breeding in her office. The jacket that fit him perfectly set off his own dark gold-streaked hair, which was slightly ruffled—his only sign of imperfection.

His dark clothing befitted a visit to an establishment such as hers. Small touches showed his wealth—the pristine white collar and cuffs with dull gold links matching the watch fob and the pin in the Windsor knot tie. Every detail flawless but not fussy. Except, no, even a man like this should have known better than to wear gold to a home for the poorest of the poor. He'd be tempting the inmates.

"What may I do for you today?" she asked.

"As I told Mr. Sheridan, I wish to volunteer."

She held back the urge to roll her eyes. He was too well dressed, too everything high and mighty to wish to get his hands dirty. This one would quickly lose interest. It occurred to her that once this man disappeared, vanishing in a cloud of guilt and relief, Sheridan could milk him for money. That would be better, really.

Was he famous? Was that why she knew his thin, handsome face? Blast it all, Sheridan had warned her a rich 'un would be visiting, and she'd forgotten to check the name in the big appointment book at Sherry's desk. She smiled at the gentleman now, wishing she'd spent the extra five seconds to open the blasted thing. She hadn't even had time to take off her apron.

"Do take a seat." She sat behind the huge piles of papers on her desk. "This is terribly embarrassing but...I can't recall? Um, your name?"

A flicker of surprise and perhaps hauteur. These men and women of a certain class thought the world of themselves and expected the rest of mankind to consider them the center of existence too.

"I'm Fellington," he said as if his name should be enough to make all clear—and good God. For once, it was enough.

She wanted to run out the door and hide. Send someone else to deal with him.

No wonder he'd looked familiar. Did he know her? She hoped not.

It was so long ago and in another world—she must have changed. He was nothing like the slightly pudgy, rumpled young man who'd sat next to her at dinner and had done such interesting things with her mouth and body less than an hour later. She shivered thinking of it. More than a lifetime ago.

He couldn't possibly remember her. She'd only learned his identity from the long list of names her angry father had aimed at her. She'd finally understood her "Phil" had been Fell. She said nothing to anyone. Ever.

And then there was the other notorious Fellington business. Fellington who fell.

That all happened about a year ago. Two of his friends and his younger brother—all dead in an accident, and so many whispers that the magnificent and reckless young earl had something to do with it. Not murder, she recalled. Something to do with a bet or a race.

No wonder the man appeared haunted.

She cleared her throat. "Ah. Of course. Lord Fellington, may I say I'm so sorry for your loss?"

His expression went flat. He looked bored, of all things. "Yes. Thank you," he said.

Looking at this man whose handsome face was worn with sorrow, she felt a surge of compassion.

Not only the poor and abandoned feel pain, she reminded herself. There is a world of hurting hearts outside the asylum. So when she spoke again, it was with more than a pretense of concern and sympathy. "We are glad you thought of us. What do you think to do here, my lord?"

Wrong question, she could tell by his impatient expression. "I told you, I am at your service."

"Where do your talents lie?"

A trace of a grimace crossed his face. "I do know a bit about managing an estate, but my greatest talents? I can pick fine wines, I can ride and shoot. I play cards. I am, in short, a fribble."

Her sympathy evaporated. Life was too short and brutal for a man like this to indulge in self-loathing.

And then he made it worse by adding with a small smile, "I know how to give a woman pleasure."

Heavens above. She knew firsthand he didn't lie about his ability. But now she wanted to slap him—at the same time she wanted to demand that he show her again. He said he was at her service, after all.

Thank you, no.

Miss Dunaway did not need the suggestion of any sort of sensuality in her life. The dreams and longing were bad enough. During the day, she escaped temptation by staying far too busy, but at night...no. The fragrance of flowers in spring was hard enough—this gentleman, with his fine appearance and appealing body, was far worse.

No more attempts to discover Fellington's preferences. He wished to be of help? Time to toss him directly into the fire. She rose to her feet. "Very well, if you insist. We will start with the dormitories. I'd summon my assistant to show you how to check them but she's on a holiday, so I'm afraid you and I will have to get to work."

He rose as well and looked at her, eyebrows raised, clearly taken aback.

She hid her amusement. "No need to worry. We won't be cleaning. The maid and older children have taken care of any chamber pots in the younger children's ward—no indoor plumbing yet in that part of the building, we're working on that. We shall strip the linen where necessary. You and I must simply check for stolen goods and other forbidden items such as knives. If you're still here after lunch, I would like to paint the larger dining room, and perhaps you can have that job since Perkins is far too busy. I've picked a blue I hope will cover the dreary gray it is now."

For the first time, he smiled. A full, real smile that was far too attractive and showed white teeth and warmed his grey-green eyes. Had his smile been so very appealing all those years ago? She didn't recall seeing it.

Her memory of that night was of wine she shouldn't have drunk and seizing at her chance to escape. And those kisses in the dark. She hadn't thought of them for years, but the memory still could make her catch her breath and create curious quivers of desire.

Lord Fellington followed her out of the room. As they walked, he said, "Mr. Sheridan said you didn't suffer fools gladly."

"Did he?" Had she been rude with Lord Fellington already? Businesslike, she'd hoped, but this man made her nerves dance when she needed them to be still. "I try to be polite —to set a good example for the children. I just don't have time for..." She caught herself for once. "Well, goodness. I don't have time to even check the name of my visitors. The list of chores I recited truly needs to be completed. So shall we?"

She led him to the stairs to the dormitory. "I apologize if I seem abrupt," she said over her shoulder. She moved quickly because his presence behind her made her skin prickle.

"Not at all." He grinned at her.

They stopped on the steps to give room to a group of third formers who clattered down past them, each shouting, "Morning, Miss!"

The children eyed him curiously, but thank goodness none of them tried any cheek. Perhaps his imposing form was enough to depress the snide remarks.

The children passed, and she examined his lean torso.

He slowly rubbed a hand over his belly and the somber waistcoat. She met his eyes and saw he watched her with a look of entertained surprise. The man thought she was admiring his body. She responded tartly, "I forgot to tell you to hide your watch fob. Thank goodness you still have it and your watch."

His smile vanished. "Your, ah, charges might steal it?"

She turned and climbed the stairs. "I hope not, but one should be prepared."

"I'm glad no one's taken it. The watch is rather important to me," he said. "A matter of sentiment. It was my father's." He gave a laugh. "I'd wondered why you wore no jewelry. Now I know."

How odd that he'd even notice such a thing. She glanced over her shoulder. "One must be willing to sacrifice all sorts of things to be a part of life here."

"Must one sacrifice everything?" he asked, meeting her eyes.

Everything. Love, dreams of a family. All of it. She turned forward at once, and increased her speed—almost stumbling up the stairs. "I'm not certain why Sheridan thought you'd serve us best in the day-to-day business of the place," she said.

"He didn't think that. I did."

She stopped in the upper corridor, and when she turned, he was too close to her. So near she could smell him. Such a lovely, clean scent, not a hint of carbolic, and she rather hated him for a moment, or resented the way her body woke in response.

Miss Dunaway backed away and began to babble, "You say you have no talents, but you've been to school and university. I'm sure you'd be perfect at helping him raise money. Or perhaps you'd help us publicize the plight of our children."

"I wanted to be here, doing this, because of you." It wasn't her imagination—he moved toward her, closing the space.

"What?" She blinked at him and felt her face flush. She'd turned bright red, she knew it.

She needed her wits about her, and she was in over her head. It reminded her of her early days here, when a boy pulled a knife on her. This felt as dangerous—although a good deal more interesting.

Was he attempting to be intimate?

Surely if he'd recognized her, he would have said something before. He'd have laughed and reminded her of her silly, childish plan—the plan that worked.

Since he was a gentleman, he might not mention the five minutes of touching and kisses they'd exchanged. He might not even remember them.

More than a decade had passed, and the man had the reputation as something of a dashing man about town. Even trapped in the asylum, she'd known about him. She'd quietly sought out the gossip.

She put her hands behind her back and decided the time had come. "Lord Fellington. What do you mean because of me? I have no idea what you think you know about me."

"Sheridan and I are good friends."

Oh. Could that be some perverse disappointment she felt because his visit had nothing to do with their shared past? Certainly she didn't want him to know the competent Miss Dunaway was the ridiculous, tipsy girl from the Campbells' party. He'd be less likely to donate the money the asylum sorely needed.

She was intrigued that Lord Fellington would admit to having a friend like Sheridan. Sherry wasn't at the very bottom rung of the social ladder, but he could never climb even close to the elite heights this man occupied.

Lord Fellington went on, "Sherry told me the truth about you."

She felt a stab of panic. "What?" she croaked. "I mean, what did he tell you?" She wanted to protest her discretion, then realized there was no reason. Sherry wouldn't have told Fellington she was the idiot girl who'd begged for a kiss at that long-ago party. Sheridan hadn't even heard the story of the kiss. None of her London friends had.

"He told me you wrote most of the papers he publishes as his own. The appeals, the stories. You put most of the words in his mouth."

With dismay, she recognized Lord Fellington's reverent tone and knew why he'd come to her office. This man simply admired her good works. How dreary—another one of those.

"He's wrong," she said. "I supply facts, but I don't come up with most of the ideas he uses to raise funds."

Sheridan was the one who decided to make her the face of the asylum, blast the man. And so here was another one come to worship her as some sort of saint and perhaps find absolution with her blessing. Bah.

Of course Lord Fellington's interest in her had nothing to do with her appeal as a woman.

She plastered a bright smile on her face and reminded herself that she was most definitely not surprised or disappointed. After years of living and breathing the asylum, she was not what any male would consider a real female any longer. She was twenty-nine years old, for heaven's sake. Or would be in a week.

"I was drawn by your strength," Fellington went on, confirming the fact that she was not entirely human to him. "Sheridan says you never give up. Even in your weakest moments, you're stronger than anyone he's met."

Oh, enough. Blast the man. Why should she care if he saw her as some kind of saint, as a marvelous, sparking electrical device, rather than a woman?

"If I have strength, it's not something that'll rub off on people. I'm stubborn, that's all," she snapped. "You don't catch stubbornness as if it was influenza."

She ordered herself to stop. This was a man with money. She rubbed her hands over her face and groaned. "Stubborn and an idiot. I apologize. I am not usually so rude." She often was, but he needn't know it.

"No need to apologize." Fellington's smile was real. Not a frozen grimace of mortification. "That was a rather dreadful thing to say wasn't it?"

She thought he referred to her scolding, until he went on. "It slipped out. I don't mean to portray myself as some sort of clinging vine or to imply that you're..." He waved a hand. "Some sort of martyr or angel."

She opened her mouth but didn't speak.

"Don't look so shocked. Sheridan told me you disliked his practice of using you in appeals for funds, even though he's found it effective."

She nodded. "It is so mawkish. And silly." She made a face. "Last month when he was conducting a tour of potential donors, a woman grabbed my hands. She wept on them and kissed my fingers. I wanted to tell her that less than ten minutes earlier I'd been using those hands to clean the most unimaginable... Well. Never mind."

She felt the heat of another blush again. She would not treat this man as a confidante—although it occurred to her that he did know how to keep a secret. After that night so long ago, she'd never heard a hint of gossip about the loose or slightly lunatic Miss Dunaway. How easy it would have been for him to spread the entertaining story, too.

"Here." She opened the door and led him into the youngest girls' dormitory. The familiar smell of young bodies and urine and carbolic soothed her. She went to the farthest bed, pulled out a trunk and opened it.

"What are we searching for?"

She looked up at him from where she knelt. Such an odd angle from which to examine a man. He looked straight, tall and immensely powerful — totally out of place in this room and her life. She cleared her throat. "I don't wish to treat their possessions with disrespect, but there have been some thefts recently. We still haven't tracked the culprit, though I have my suspicions. At any rate, if they know we regularly check their belongings, thieving seems to slow down. Also I see which children are in need of new clothing." She pulled a small tattered stocking from the trunk and then fished through her apron pocket for her memo book.

He still loomed over her.

"That's what you can do." She thrust the book and a pencil at him without looking up. Looking into his watchful hazel eyes, more green than grey, disturbed her. Their fingers touched, and even that slight contact made her heart beat faster. "You'll make the lists. Start with the fact that the youngest Lucy is in dire need of stockings."

She folded Lucy's belongings carefully away, far more neatly than the girl had left them. She pulled a small mint drop wrapped in brown paper from her pocket and left it on the pile before closing the lid.

"What's that?"

He seemed curious rather than disapproving, so she told him the truth. "Candy. I leave it because I feel guilty, I expect. I'm rather like a sneak myself riffling through their belongings." She glanced up to see if he frowned. It was weakness on her part, giving treats for no particular reason. A matron must be decisive and unbending in her rules and habits. But no, he only grinned back.

Heavens, she wished his smile didn't show the intriguing lines around his eyes or make his whole face glow.

They made their way along the beds. She flipped up a mattress to check underneath. "That looks heavy. May I?" he asked.

"I am used to the exercise," she said. "And I'm not sure you'd recognize the signs of bedbugs or fleas."

He took a step away from the mattress, and she couldn't help smirking. When she looked up again, he was grinning at her as if they were old friends. "I rather get the impression you're trying to give me a disgust of this place. You don't wish to send me on my way, do you?"

"No, of course I don't," she answered and realized she wasn't lying. He was a pleasant man, even if his presence awoke her body and made her yearn for something she'd no business desiring. She felt a twitch of resentment at that unfulfilled sensation.

"Good, because trying to drive me off won't work," he told her gently. "I shan't leave. I have nowhere to go."

"Oh, bah." She flipped open the last trunk so hard the leather hinges squealed in protest. Miss Dunaway quickly flipped and folded her way though Molly's belongings. "I happen to know you own a fine mansion in Mayfair and no doubt some sort of country estate and hunting box and—and all sorts of properties. Nowhere to go, my eye."

She froze and groaned. "Lord Fellington, I beg your pardon. I wish I knew why I feel the need to be rude to you." Liar, you know exactly why.

She forced herself to look up at him. He stood with the book and pencil poised and ready, no sign of resentment. There was even warmth in his face.

"I find it interesting that you know so much about me. And I hope you're willing to express how you truly feel because you are growing comfortable with me."

She flipped the lid of the trunk closed and paused to consider his words. Heavens, she wasn't the least bit comfortable with him. For one thing, she was far too aware of his body and his exotic adult maleness. Even the smell of him reminded her of luxury and the world of temptation she'd so carefully removed from her life—or rather she'd locked herself away from.

"Yes, perhaps that's it. Comfortable," she lied and turned away to haul up Mindy and Lisa's shared mattress. She gave it a brief inspection and carefully controlled her breathing. She'd keep a tight check on herself. She knew how. "I do wish you would tell me what you wanted from me. From us," she hastily amended. "Why are you here? Has it anything to do with the tragedy in your life?"

His teasing manner vanished, and she hoped he wasn't offended. Especially because, for once, she wasn't trying to goad him.

"Yes," he said after a moment's silence. "I suppose that forms the main reason."

She cocked her head. "Please tell me."

"After the accident, I was in a bad way. Foul tempered and full of self pity, I mean. That's how I got to know Sheridan. He wasn't a close friend but he came to see me and refused to take offence at my ill manners."

She nodded and smiled fondly. "He's a stubborn person."

"Like you."

She laughed.

Lord Fellington went on, "He told me stories—anecdotes about the foundling asylum. About the indefatigable Miss Dunaway and how you held the board of directors hostage until they agreed to improve the children's diets. He told of the day you faced down a chimney sweep who'd pretended to be a small lad's uncle in order to get some free labor for his business."

She felt her face turn red and hoped Sherry hadn't repeated some of the words she'd used that day. Working with the foundlings had significantly changed her vocabulary.

"I laughed at those stories. And. It had been so long since I laughed." He closed his eyes for a long moment.

She wanted to touch his hand but didn't dare. She crossed her arms to stop herself. After a moment, he went on. "He convinced me that there had to be a reason I was still alive. I shouldn't have been, you see. It was a fluke I only broke a leg."

He swallowed with visible effort. "That night my brother and the others died. It was stupid. Too much drink and my brother's reckless desire to race in bad weather. Three people I loved had been wiped from existence."

She held so still she barely breathed, trying not to disrupt the halting words.

After a few seconds, he seemed more able to speak. "I was spared. I shouldn't have been, because I was just as great a fool as they'd been. But I came to believe. There had to be a reason. I had to find more. There had to be a reason. Why I lived." He fell silent.

"And you came here," she said at last.

He nodded. She allowed herself to touch his shoulder. "We'll keep you, then."

He drew in another long sigh, and she could hear the rattle of unshed tears in it. But when he spoke, he sounded entirely composed again. "May I escort you to lunch, Miss Dunaway?"
CHAPTER THREE

Miss Dunaway ate her bowl of soup at the end of a long trestle table where they sat in solitary splendor. Fellington felt remarkably lighthearted now that he'd admitted his compulsion to come to the asylum. But there was so much more, and he wondered if he should confess the rest. The moment to tell her had passed hours ago.

When she'd first entered her office—that was the instant he ought to have reminded her that they'd met before. Now it seemed absurd to broach the subject.

By the way, do you remember throwing yourself at me one night long ago? No?

He examined her face. Thinner now but with the same serious dark eyes that gleamed with determination. He had known her almost at once, but then he'd come to the asylum hoping to find the girl he'd kissed.

What a blow to his pride that the woman didn't recognize him. He'd half expected her to start away with a cry of embarrassed horror or perhaps break into hearty laughter when she caught sight of him.

She'd seemed flustered when he'd introduced himself, but many people were uncomfortable because of the title, and others didn't seem to know how to speak to him after the accident—one of the reasons he'd simply stopped trying to interact with his friends.

And then she'd been brusque and slightly ill at ease—exactly the woman Sheridan had described. "Accomplished, unable to accept praise, and bordering on impertinent," Sherry had said of her.

Those visits when Sheridan had coaxed him back to the rest of the world with stories about the audacity of the abandoned and lost children. He'd talked about the asylum's matron, Miss Dunaway, a gentleman's daughter who'd never had a season and had gone from the school room to work in the asylum, to the regret and horror of her family.

And Fellington's ancient memory resurfaced.

As he'd listened to Sherry, he'd wondered if she could really be the Mary from years before. He recollected the hazy memory of her tale of good works and London.

"Did I mention we are always in short supply of funds and help?" Sheridan had finally asked.

Fell should have understood sooner. He was used to people seeing him as a source of handouts. At least Sherry wasn't begging him for a spot to put on a horse for the four o'clock race at Epsom.

He swallowed any resentment he'd felt upon learning all the time Sherry had devoted to him had been in anticipation of a touch. "Sherry, I can make a donation. Naturally I shall. Your stories have entertained me."

Sheridan had surprised him by replying, "I hoped you might do more, my lord. I hoped you might come to the asylum and see it for yourself."

Why not? He was curious to see if this Miss Dunaway was the girl from his past—but there'd been another motive for him to come to this place, too. Even if she wasn't that girl, Sherry's description of her engaged Fell. He'd found himself wondering about her and realized his curiosity—a sensation he'd thought he'd lost—had been aroused.

He pulled in a scent of cabbage soup, chalk dust and sweat. Fell wasn't hungry, but he took one more bite of the soup, which tasted better than he'd expected. But of course Miss Dunaway wouldn't tolerate bad food for her charges.

She seemed to avoid his gaze, so he could watch her at his leisure. He enjoyed what he saw. The way she raised her eyebrows at a cursing girl at the next table brought back the other meal they'd shared twelve years earlier. That school teacher look of hers. This was most definitely the female he'd met at Campbell's place. She knew how to wield power now—under that simple stare, the girl stopped cursing at once.

In some ways, she hadn't changed. Odd that all these years later, she still acted more like a unpolished school-girl than a sophisticated woman. That remark he'd made in her office about pleasing women had made her face so red he'd felt as if he'd teased a nun. He'd have to stop any suggestive banter—the poor thing seemed unable to cope with it. But he'd be damned if he'd stop trying to get her to talk and laugh. Especially laugh.

She ate her soup daintily, and he gazed around the room at the children who lowered their heads to their plates but still managed to stare back with open curiosity. As he watched them gobble their soup and bread, Miss Dunaway went over facts he'd already learned from Sherry or by reading papers about the asylum. The establishment contained twenty-four beds for children who lived here until they were sixteen or were placed in an apprenticeship.

"Of course, twenty-four beds means we've got at least forty children. One can't say no to a hungry child. There is some doubling up, as you might have noticed."

As they ate and talked, several children came to the table to greet her. When they approached, her back straightened and a stern look came to her face.

Miss Dunaway nodded regally to their latest visitor, a skinny girl of about nine, and relaxed only after the girl turned away.

"You look like a headmistress when you talk to them," Fell said quietly. "Rather frightening."

"It was a hard lesson to learn, but I can't be too easy or friendly with them." She put down her spoon and stared into the bowl. "They often take affection as a sign of weakness. I must be consistent. I know it's hard to imagine, but it goes against my nature to be stern."

"You're right. It is hard to imagine. Starchiness seems to come naturally to you."

He expected her to be insulted; instead she laughed and looked delighted. "I have trouble being stern with children, I should say. I have trouble being friendly with adults." She pressed her lips together tight.

"Do you suppose you'll feel that way about your own children?"

She went very still and her eyes narrowed. Such expressive dark brown eyes, he thought. He hadn't looked into them often enough that night at Campbell's dance.

Her voice was low when she spoke. "You and I both know I'm not likely to have any children other than the dozens under this roof." She pushed back her shoulders, then smiled. "And they're plenty, thank you."

Before he could apologize for unintentionally offending her or causing her pain, one of the older lads marched over to the table. "Miss," he said.

"Good afternoon, Jacob." She sounded wary and cast a quick, pleading look at Fellington. Interesting.

"I got my list. This a trustee?" The boy jerked a thumb at Fellington.

"Jacob. Oh, dear." She shook her head. "He isn't the gentleman you should address, but you need the practice. Will you try that again, please?" She waved a hand. "Start from a few feet away."

The boy grinned, touched his forelock, backed up three steps and came up to their table again. "Good afternoon, Miss. Do you have five minutes to spare?"

She gave a single nod. "Perfect. And next?"

"Might I be introduced to the gentleman?" The dark brows knit in a belligerent frown. "That's what I'd say, ain't it?"

"It'll do." She turned to him. "Lord Fellington, may I present one of our wards, Jacob Black."

"Lord? He's that grand?" The boy's eyes lit up. "Ain't that something."

Her mouth twitched, but she went on as if she hadn't heard. "Jacob is going to have to leave us in a few months. We've found him a position—"

"In a stable," the boy said without moving his gaze from Fell's face. "Only sleep here for the mo'. But I got a lot to say about this place. A list of things to say, but not about Miss here. She's a pippin' enough."

"That's very kind of you." Miss Dunaway's mouth twitched again. She apparently fought back many smiles. "But we're just—"

"If this gent's a governor. Well then." The boy spread his big hands.

"Excuse me, you mustn't interrupt, Jake," she said without heat. "At any rate, there's no reason to push. I promise you, he's not a governor."

"Oh." The expressive face fell.

On impulse, Fell hauled the small notebook out. "Why don't you give us both your list and we'll see what we can do about making sure the board sees it."

Miss Dunaway gave him a startled smile, brows raised high. He nodded gravely and turned to Jacob. "Go on, Mr. Black."

From the corner of his eye, he saw that her smile grew warmer.

The boy cleared his throat, apparently nervous now that he'd gotten the attention he'd aimed for. "I think maybe a sweet once a week at least. The kids ought to get that."

The rest of his list was nearly as simple. Demands like more hours of leisure for older children, better shoes, shorter Sunday services and heavier blankets in the winter.

"Yes, we're going to get those before autumn," Miss Dunaway told him. "If I have to go out and shear the blessed sheep myself. But now I'm interrupting you, Jacob, and I apologize. Do go on."

"That's it, I reckon."

Fell asked, "Do you have the children speak to the board?"

Miss Dunaway sniffed. He wondered if she disapproved of such a notion.

Jacob said, "Tisn't our place, is it? We're to be thankful for charity, now, aren't we?"

"If I was in charge," he said, watching her, "I'd make sure that the children could give suggestions. Anonymously, of course."

Her smile dazzled him. What would happen if he stood up and pulled her into a hug? Or grabbed her hands and kissed them like that maudlin visitor? She touched his arm. "And I should love it if you could be one of the gentlemen on our board. I think we have an opening."

He swallowed his triumph. He had a chance at gaining her approval.

After months of caring for very little, he had plans. For her. He understood what he wanted, and he'd be sure to act carefully, if he could. On the other hand, he knew she didn't mind reckless behavior.

* * *

Miss Dunaway was going to make an opening for this man if she had to bribe someone to resign. Never mind the fact that he made her nervous and too self-conscious. He was perfect for the asylum, and something about the place seemed to help him. The grim set of his face had relaxed, he had a light-hearted manner that appealed to her—a light she rarely saw except in a few of the children.

That was the part of herself that she'd buried soon after her seventeenth birthday—with his help.

After lunch, she carried her plate and mug into the kitchen and introduced him to the cook, Mrs. Gibbons, and the children assigned to help her.

Mrs. Gibbons performed a perfunctory curtsey, then turned to Miss Dunaway. "The boys say outside pump is broke again, Miss. I need it as soon as may be."

"I'll find Mr. Perkins immediately."

"Send one of the boys," Mrs. Gibbons said.

"No, I'll speak to him." She led Lord Fellington from the kitchen through the back corridor toward Perkins's territory. Once they were alone, she admitted, "Our odd-jobs man has become inconsistent about answering my summons of late. I've been meaning to track him down in his lair."

She didn't mention that she was just as glad to do it with a gentleman present. The spiders, the dust and the gloomy Mr. Perkins depressed her spirits.

"You spend your days listening to complaints, don't you, Miss Dunaway?"

She grinned. "And nights too."

Peering through the doorway of the back room, she saw that the handyman wasn't in his cavernous workshop. "Perkins has given me the slip again. We'll go look at the pump outside and see if it can be repaired. I'm good at that sort of thing. That means another walk through the rabbit warren. At least we won't be disturbed. The children aren't allowed here."

In the dimly lit, narrow hallway, they walked side by side. Almost too close, but she wouldn't speed away from him again. He asked, "Are you happy working here?"

"Oh, yes. I love my life."

"No regrets about what we did that night twelve years ago?" His voice was quiet in the dark windowless corridor.

She stopped walking.

Stopped breathing.

"Lord Fellington." Her throat closed. She couldn't speak, and her body felt hot with something unfamiliar. Embarrassment? Awareness?

"Mary." He said her name as a statement, confirming it all. The whole world seemed to shift. She hadn't heard her first name in years. No one called her that —she had stopped thinking of herself with that name.

She discovered she couldn't think of what to say. She forced herself to face him.

He searched her eyes. "You remember." He sounded pleased. Almost triumphant.

"Oh. I mean. Yes. Of course I do. I-I thought you'd forgotten."

He shook his head. "Not a second of it."

Her heart stuttered. Even in the gloom of the corridor, she could see his face, the intensity of his stare. And he was looking at her mouth.

She wet her lips. "Really?" she croaked.

He grinned, and the growing tension of the moment shifted. "We were interrupted by Mr., um, Buckland."

She laughed unsteadily. "Mr. Richardson. And his interruption was the point of the kisses."

"I lost track of your goal at about the second kiss."

She searched his face and saw that he was not mocking her. "No, surely you don't remember it that clearly?"

"You were wearing a lavender gown, and you had dark curls all bunched on the back of your head. You tasted like wine and inexperience. I craved more of those kisses a long time after you were done with me, Mary Dunaway."

"Oh." She forgot how to breathe altogether. He stepped closer to her. The unpolished wood floor creaked. She became aware of the back corridor, airless and dark. And so full of him. What would come next? If he kissed her, she might embarrass herself by lunging at him, swallowing him whole.

He'd used her whole name. He'd remembered her. It was as if he'd turned a key in an old door and flung it open.

For a moment, she considered closing the last few inches between them and ending this unbearable tension. But instead she shifted sideways, just far enough away from him to give the message she knew what he was doing. But not so far she would put him off entirely. She simply had to think again.

Didn't she?

"We didn't dance that night. We barely held a conversation," she said.

"To be honest, I don't remember very much," he said. "I recall I was afraid of being caught in a trap."

"Ah, yes. That's right." She drew in a deep breath. "You were in no danger. My father knew at once why I'd kissed you. He wanted to find you and tell you how much he disapproved of your behavior, but he no longer had any intention of pushing me into marriage. He told me that if I could behave like such a heedless ninny, then I didn't deserve a husband."

"They let you come to London."

She shrugged. "My poor parents. They had no notion what to do with me. I wouldn't have run away, but I told them I'd take any step short of that. They sent me with a maid and a footman. Both of whom quit after the first month."

He reached for her hand—an intimate brush of skin since neither of them wore gloves. He held her hand in his, palm up, and skimmed his fingers over her hand, her palm and then the pads of her fingers.

"Calloused," he said. "As I'd suspected."

She wanted to pull away, but he tightened his grip on her. "No, no, you earned those calluses."

He lifted her hand and pressed a warm, firm kiss in her palm.

Her belly lurched, and she gasped. She backed against the wall so her jelly legs wouldn't give way. She'd slide to the floor. "What are you doing?" An idiotic question.

"Seducing you," he said. "You started it, you know. You kissed me."

"What do you mean?"

"All those years ago. You started us on a path. It has simply taken some time to return to it."

He let go of her and placed both of his hands on the wall on either side of her head. Pinning her into the small space created by his body and arms.

But there was nothing of an attack as he moved to her mouth, a light brush of his lips over hers. Her whole body shook.

Yes!

He kissed her slowly, reverently. She could learn to appreciate this form of worship.

Another deeper kiss—and appetite took over. They were both gasping audibly as he pulled away.

"The first time we did that was in a lovely moonlit summer house," he said.

"Pergola," she whispered.

"I remember that after we touched, I wanted you. It took months for that desire to fade away."

"I wanted you, too." My desire never faded away, she wanted to say.

And then his mouth was on hers. The kisses started tender and careful again, but soon grew deeper, bolder, more demanding.

He gave a croon of approval, and that tiny sound created a ripple in her that she felt to her toes. "Mary," he whispered, and his warm skillful mouth was on hers again, so hungry.

He pressed his body against hers. Now she truly was pinned against the wall, and she felt engulfed by the unfamiliar male heat, scent and solid heaviness.

The taste of him in her mouth, his breath on her skin. She moved restlessly under him, just wanting more of his weight and warmth against her. Her breasts felt tender, and her nipples tingled. She wished he'd kiss her more.

He ran his hands down her sides, and she felt him shudder. His breath was warm on her ear as he whispered, "You're not wearing stays. God help me, there's nothing but you under this gown."

"Whom did you expect?"And in her lust-addled brain a question rose. It seemed important. She pulled back from his mouth to ask. "Did you come here knowing my identity? The girl from that night, I mean?"

"I strongly suspected." He cupped her face again, kissed her forehead, cheek, and stopped just short of kissing her mouth.

"Did you come here thinking of this?" She put her fingers on her mouth, unable to say the word. Kiss.

"When I saw you, I began thinking of touching you."

"But the rest of it. What you said about Sheridan. And your loss."

He pressed his mouth to her cheek. "All true."

She hardly cared if he was telling the truth or not. Mary wanted him too much. She explored his face with her hands, the unfamiliar rough texture of a man's beard, the starch of his collar. Her fingers discovered his pulse at his throat, beating quickly for her. He pushed back a tendril of hair that had gotten loose from her bun and kissed her, another long slow taste, and now he pushed his body against hers. She thought she recognized the rhythm, and just the realization that he imitated coupling made her giddy. And she could feel his hard length against her belly even through all their clothing.

She ran her hands over his back and tentatively down. He sucked in his breath when she pressed her hands against the shifting hard shape of his bottom. Oh, she liked the way that felt and grew bolder and moved against him too. He whispered, "If we keep this up, I will go too far. I have already, I know."

What a good idea.

For the first time in her adult life, she became utterly greedy. No, she'd been greedy before, but for the asylum's needs, never her own. This was pure selfishness. She licked his jaw, pushed herself against the fascinating shape of his erection, and felt her body swell and grow heavy where they touched. "You said you know how to please a woman. I want you," she said. "I want to know what it's like to have a man inside me."

He stilled. "Miss Dunaway. Are you saying what I think you mean?" He backed away, leaving her body wanting his exhilarating weight again.

She gave a giddy laugh and wondered why she didn't feel more embarrassed. "Well. I do have a reputation for bluntness."

He smiled back at her. "Well deserved. Very well. I will allow you to use my person again as much or as little as you wish. If you decide to push me away, I won't protest."

"I was protecting you from entrapment all those years ago. No one could trap either one of us now." This would be freedom, she thought. A rare, temporary gift of freedom.

"You were protecting me?" He gave the ghost of a smile and pulled her into his arms again. "I would protect you if you'd let me. What do you want? I wish to help you get it."

"You. I want you." She pulled at his hand and kissed it the way he'd kissed hers. But then she tasted his fingers, sucking on each one in turn, loving the way he groaned and closed his eyes. And she knew what she had to do.

She took his hand from her mouth and, grasping it firmly, pulled him up the back stairs to her quarters.
CHAPTER FOUR

Everything about this moment was beyond Fellington's experience—and he'd had many experiences during his thirty-two years. The room with the narrow bed and no décor other than some children's drawings tacked to the wall. The woman in front of him with bright, heavy eyes and pink lips swollen with kisses. Fell was aroused to the point of pain. He tugged her close and groaned as need shot through him. He wanted to back her against a wall again. Now. He would hoist her up and thrust into her, hard.

The woman in his arms was Miss Dunaway, he reminded himself, a respectable spinster, famous for her good works. It wasn't enough to stop him, only slow him down.

"They'll come looking for you. The children, the others," he whispered as he pulled the pins from her hair. Very few. Of course she wouldn't have an elaborate style. The dark curls had become waves. Her hair, like her personality, had developed some restraint in the passing years—some.

But he knew she'd be wild and strong when they made love. He cleared his throat. "We don't have time."

"Forty-five minutes," she told him. "We have that much. I'm stealing it."

"Are you sure we should do this?" He had to know what she was thinking. She was filled to the brim with lust, but later she might think of this as a sordid interlude, and regret it.

She shook her head. Damn. She must have come to her senses. But then with joy he realized she was only shaking out her hair so that it hung down her back, past her shoulder blades.

"For the longest time—years—I didn't allow myself any extravagances. Not so much as a vase of roses in springtime. I felt it was a betrayal of the need I found here. But I was wrong." As she spoke, she untied and pulled off her apron and carefully folded it so that all the objects wouldn't fall out of the huge pockets. "I want more. I want to try joy right here, so I'll remember it."

She reached for her collar and unbuttoned it. "I need you in my bed. When I lie here alone, I can think of you. A-a luxury." Her eyes shone with a fever of lust. "I'll remember my secret moment with you. I promise I won't regret any of it."

"This will be more than a single moment," he warned, but she had already undone the side buttons of her gown and was drawing the blue calico over her head.

Her camisole and drawers were plain white cotton, and such thin fabric that he could see the shadow of her aureoles and the way her hardened nipples jutted. He couldn't wait another moment. He went to her to stroke her breasts and kiss them through the thin cotton as he fumbled with her camisole's tiny buttons.

She laughed deep in her throat and reached for him, pulling ineffectually at his jacket.

They stopped undressing to kiss then broke apart to work on buttons. When her camisole pooled at her feet, the sight made him forget to breathe.

He gave up on his shirt to go to her again. He had to taste her breasts and run his tongue down her belly. He went to his knees in front of her and tugged at the tape of her drawers and shoved them down. Yes. At last she was naked. He felt as if he'd waited years for this moment. Even the scent of harsh, cheap cleaner tasted exotic and aroused him, and he wanted to draw in more.

She dropped down to her knees too so he couldn't kiss her between the legs, not yet. So he contented himself with tasting her mouth again and using his hands and fingers to explore her body, palming her perfect behind and squeezing her hips. He slid a hand between their bodies.

"Too many clothes." She gasped as he slid a finger into her already swollen slick heat. Unbelievably tight. She bent her head to watch his hand. The pale skin at the part in her hair , her taut virginal sheathe —both revealed her vulnerability. He felt a pang of hunger and conscience. Lust won.

Her body clenched around his finger, and she groaned, hugged his arm, squeezing it against her torso as he felt her slick arousal. Such an erotic sight, his shirt-sleeved arm against her naked body, but he wanted to feel his skin to hers, so he carefully disengaged his hand and pulled away. She rose to her feet and watched him as he undressed, not helping, not even when he nearly overbalanced in his eagerness to rid himself of his shoes.

When he was finally naked, she looked him up and down. Her eyes were huge.

He wanted to seize her, plunge into her, but he swallowed, holding back the instinct, and padded barefoot to her little bed. He pulled down the coverlet and stretched out on his back. "There's room for you if you lie on top of me."

She gave a small cry, "Ah!" as she carefully lay on him, her legs spread wide to rest on either side of his. The skin to hot skin was perfect. He wanted to explore every inch of her.

His touch made her squirm and gasp. He loved the way she writhed on him. She seemed so close to finding her release as she moved against him. Her body trembled as he slid two fingers into her again. God but he needed to feel that wet heat on his cock. "Would you like more?" he rasped.

"All of it."

He put his hands on her slender waist and pulled her up. Once she kneeled above him, she looked down to watch as he gripped his cock and lowered her onto it. He let his hands drop away and lay without moving, rather than give into the urge to put his hands on her hips to haul her down onto him. She'd find her way.

At first she only allowed the head into her body, and he clenched his lower lip in his teeth to stop himself thrusting up into her.

"Please," he growled.

"It can be done like this?" she whispered.

Hell, yes. He nodded. "You decide. How fast. How far."

Inch by devastating inch, she lowered herself, grimacing a little as he stretched her. Perhaps filling her too much.

Damn. If she changed her mind...But she didn't.

At last he was all the way inside her, enveloped by her heat. He forced himself to lie still as she collapsed down onto him. As much as he loved the warmth and scent and the sensation of being surrounded by her, he wanted more. Needed it.

He slid his hand between them again and teased her. Her body clenched impossibly tight and she began to writhe again. Only now with him deep inside her, the motions rocked him, pulled him in an almost unbearably pleasurable grip. He let himself arch up. And again. A little harder now, thrusting into her so hard the air was pushed from her lungs with small gasps.

Yes. Oh, God yes. He pushed, and she responded, frantically moving on top of him.

She raised herself again and twisted and shoved and slammed down on his body. Over and over. And then her mouth fell open and a cry of surprise began. He reached for her shoulders and yanked her down to him so he could kiss her and swallow her cry. Even as she shivered and squeezed his cock inside her body, he grabbed her hips, twisted and rolled so he lay on top of her, between her legs, on the narrow bed. She panted and looked up at him, mouth half open, eyes still blurred by her release.

He wanted to hold back, but his body was too hungry, so he thrust deep again and again, until he felt the rush from his balls and he pulled out. His seed spilled on her belly as he rocked against her smooth skin.

He held most of his weight on his elbows but knew he lay heavily on her. Her arms and legs twined around him so he couldn't move.

They lay and breathed together for a long minute. She stroked his spine.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He chuckled. "No, I think I must say thank you. And I should move." He began to push himself up.

"No. No, please, not yet." Her arms tightened.

He slid down her body so he might reach her mouth for a long kiss. He touched her hair and caught her scent on his fingers. The hunger woke again. Already.

She must have felt the throb of his reawakening interest, for she made a small questioning sound in her throat.

He pulled away, sat up to study her slender body.

She stared just as unabashed, examining his cock with undisguised interest. She scooted closer, lay her head on his thigh. He enjoyed the heavy warmth of her head and watched as she touched him with tentative fingers, sliding the foreskin, causing him to swell again. "Such an remarkable thing," she murmured.

He'd known she was a virgin, but her fascination confirmed her inexperience. Very well, society was on his side—although he suspected that wasn't important to her. He felt cold with anticipation.

This would be an odd courtship, and he must proceed carefully. "My given name is Daniel."

She sat up, pulling a corner of the bed linen to her chest.

"I knew that," she said and a second later blushed.

A very good sign. Although it was a pity she'd gone from curious explorer to shy female again, all tucked into the top of the bed.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed to give her room. "You might call me Daniel. Or Fell."

"Or Phillip. That's what I called you in my mind."

He grinned and tugged at her sheet. "Why are you hiding from me?"

She let the cover drop, and he gazed at her soft, white skin and elegant curves.

"We have only a few minutes more," she reminded him. "I don't want to... Well, to be honest, I do." She slid forward so she sat at the edge of the bed next to him but not touching.

"You are almost always honest, aren't you." He rocked his thigh against the side of hers.

"I try to be. Setting a good example." She wrinkled her nose. "Although this afternoon is definitely an exception to that. If any of my girls should discover." For the first time, she looked troubled.

"What would you do if they discovered us?"

"Oh, no." She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around her legs, huddled away from him. Damn. Wrong question.

She looked so alone yet strong and brave—he thought his heart would break. "Would you marry me?" he asked softly. Blast, that had come out entirely wrong.

"I doubt that the situation would call for such an extreme measure, my lord."

"Fell. Or Daniel. Or Phillip. But I did not mean would you marry me if we were discovered. I mean no matter what. Would you marry me?"

Her mouth fell open. She released her legs. "What? What?"

"It is a proposal. I expect the worst one ever produced but sincere nonetheless."

"You are a crazy man," she said.

"Perhaps. But consider this. I am a very wealthy crazy man. Just think of what you could do for your foundlings with all that money."

Her scowl chilled him. "My lord. I have no interest in selling myself for—"

"It was a poor attempt at humor. I am usually considered rather eloquent," he complained. "I can talk the leg off a donkey, one of my enemies once said." That had been years ago, before the accident. "But you, Miss Mary Dunaway, make me a total fool. You must marry me."

She made a sound that might have been a sob or laughter. "God in heaven. The time. I must dress. You can stay here and collect what wits you might have remaining. I am needed. I, ah, need..."

She was too pale—he wondered what created such havoc in her. Was it fear of discovery or of his blurted proposal? She rocketed from the bed and scrambled into her clothes. He'd never seen anyone, male or female, dress so quickly. Cinderella fleeing the ball couldn't have been as panic struck. He suspected she wanted to get away from him. Yet surely moving so rapidly was habit for her. She could don her clothes, unfurl her huge apron and shove it on so quickly because of years of practice. Even her hair looked fairly neat as she rushed from the room.

The woman needed a touch more vanity he decided. More roses.

After she left, he looked down at the little bed and saw the smear of blood on the sheet. He wondered if the evidence of her lost virginity would make her chest ache as it did his. He pulled the covers up, then decided to go the extra step, and awkwardly leaning and tugging, he made the bed. Considering he'd never done such a thing in his life until that morning, he did a fairly good job. Would he be making more beds? Fixing pumps? Or would she allow him to pay others to perform such services? Except, no, he suddenly realized he didn't want someone else to do all that work for her.

Silly that he'd already developed the need to hang about a dreary building that smelled of cooked cabbage and young bodies. Ah but he'd ensure that it wouldn't remain dreary for long. The asylum and she would bring him back to life, and he'd return the favor the best he could.

He dressed. Then pulled out his watch and fob and laid it on her pillow. He found a piece of paper and wrote, You worried that someone here might steal this. No need. I give this part freely. You may take the rest anytime you please. D.F. and put it under the watch.

He ripped Jacob Black's list from the notebook, folded the sheets and pocketed them. He left the book on the small table in the room. Time to go. The urge to go find her, kiss her good-bye and beg her to consider her proposal almost made him seek her out. But that wouldn't be wise. He'd moved more quickly than he'd planned—but never mind. He wouldn't erase that time in her bedroom even if he could. Fell grinned to himself as he slipped out the front door.

* * *

No one questioned Mary about the wealthy, obviously important visitor who'd come and gone with no word of goodbye. No one seemed to notice that she'd vanished for almost an hour.

She'd been on time to teach the middle form, and not a single child looked up at her with accusing eyes to declare her a trollop. The class fell apart when Millie was discovered to have a snail in her pocket. Once Millie was told not to bring such things into the building without permission, Mary allowed the class to put down their slates. The children worked together to build a small home for the creature as she discussed the natural living quarters of snails. A nature lesson, she told her disapproving matron self.

Millie received a mixed message as usual, but Mary couldn't help it. Though she had no interest in finding stray bugs and creatures smuggled into the building, she felt like celebrating when any child showed curiosity or enthusiasm for anything other than personal gain. So many came to her distrustful and sullen. Millie was coming out of her shell at last—unlike the poor snail.

As the children filed out of the classroom, she rushed up to see if he waited for her. Of course not. She tried to smile at the thought.

Hurrying back to work, she had barely time to consider the matter, but eventually Mary had to climb back upstairs to that lonely room that had been home for years—and the existence she'd never truly minded until he'd come along.

She gazed at the bed that he must have made—none of her foundlings would leave the covers crooked— and wished she could manage some self-righteous anger instead of this quiet misery. But no, she couldn't even blame him for seducing her—the shoe was so obviously on the other foot. He'd told her she might regret making love with him, and he was right.

Their half hour together—no, that entire day together—had left its toll. She felt the cheerlessness of her room and bed. Allowing him into her arms and body meant her greediness hadn't dissipated, only increased. And that idiot proposal had been a tasteless jest on his part. He must not have been serious, because he hadn't even come to say good-bye to her. It had been easy enough to track her down after she'd fled her room. She made sure everyone in the building knew where to find her.

As she sat on the bed to remove her shoes, she caught a whiff of his scent and groaned. How on earth could she face the rest of her life without passion?

A small scratch came at the door. "Miss?"

It was Jenny, out of bed at ten o'clock at night. Worry trumped Mary's self-pity as she jumped up and flung open the door, where the girl stood, tearstained and forlorn.

"Jenny, love. What is the matter?" She reached for Jenny, but the girl took a step back. She clutched something tight in her hands. "Miss. Mrs. Gibbons had sent me up with note. Before. From Mr. Perkins. But you weren't here."

Mary recalled the grubby folded paper, a list of supplies Perkins needed. "You gave me the note, Jenny, after dinner."

Jenny nodded and hiccupped. "But that was later. See, before that I was here, Miss. And I'm so sorry. I took it."

She squatted next Jenny and rested a hand on her shoulder. "What did you take, dear?"

The girl opened her hands and held out a crumpled piece of paper. And a gold watch. "I grabbed it and...and..." She burst into tears again.

"Oh, dear." Mary took the watch. Her heart sank. They'd been discovered after all. "Did you take this from a person?" she asked gently.

Jenny whimpered and rubbed at her tear-streaked face. "No. Your bed. It was on your bed."

Mary rose to her feet, gazing at the scrap of paper and the watch. After a long silence, she came back to herself and realized that poor Jenny trembled, obviously terrified about whatever terrible punishment the silent, frowning matron contemplated.

After hastily reassuring the girl that she wouldn't be beaten or tossed out on the street, she led Jenny back to bed. As they walked through the darkened halls, she half listening to herself deliver a muddled lecture about touching items that didn't belong to her at the same time she praised Jenny for her bravery in returning it.

Back in her room, Mary's heart pounded as she slowly sat on the edge of the bed and stared down at the watch and note. It wasn't over. He hadn't fled forever. She undressed and lay down on her bed. Even after she blew out the lamp, she stared into the dark, clutching the gold watch.

The next day was raining and cold. A typical late summer day in London, and everyone seemed to be coming down with ague.

Jenny came to her office to talk and cry. In the face of the girl's obvious remorse, Mary only slightly touched on the lesson that stealing was a sin.

After Jenny left sucking on a peppermint, Mary wrote her usual letters. Today she wrote to the governors demanding money for extra shoes for the older children. She wrote to the coal merchant pleading for more time on the last bill because the price had been higher than he'd estimated. She paid some bills, shuffled others to the bottom of the pile, and sent out the oldest healthy foundling she could find to the chemists for the ingredients of mustard plaster. A letter from a potential donor had to be answered with the right amount of tact and pleading.

She reread her mother's letter about how the fields near their house had produced a good harvest and that Mr. Richardson's wife had presented him with a third child.

Mary tapped the paper as she thought of how she must respond. All correspondence with the world outside her walls seemed fraught with possible faux pas. At last she scribbled sentences filled with unfeigned delight for Mr. and Mrs. Richardson. She wished she could tell her mother that Sam Richardson wasn't the only eligible bachelor she'd turned down. She imagined writing back, Only yesterday I called Lord Fellington a fool when he asked me to marry him. That was when we were both naked in my bed after making passionate, life-altering love.

Instead she wrote about Millie's snail and the lopsided cakes the girls had made during cooking lessons. Mary always disguised the worst of the asylum from her parents, and when they came to London for a rare visit, the family usually met on neutral ground. Her mother and father found the place too depressing, and she hated seeing the sorrow in their eyes, hated how defensive she felt for her children and her life.

The rain slowed, and she left her office to find Perkins to talk about the pump one more time. As she walked, she felt the unfamiliar soreness in her thigh muscles and between them, as well as an ache deep inside her. A strange combination of painful muscles and longing. She thrust her hand deep in her dress pocket and fingered the watch. Her fingers had already memorized the smooth and filigreed parts of it, the notches and bumps on the warm gold.

Just inside the front door, Perkins stood with a huge vase of flowers. Roses.

She stopped. Stared.

"For you, Miss." He sounded disapproving. "They come with no message."

He thrust the vase out, and she took it into her arms. For a moment, she considered hiding it in her office, keeping them safe, but instead she carried it to the front hall. It wouldn't surprise her if the vase would be broken and the roses scattered before the day was over—an accident, no doubt. Never mind, she wanted to share with the children. She ordered Perkins to set up a table and left the flowers surrounded by some girls who reverently sniffed the petals.

The rainy day didn't seem to matter after all.

The note came while she taught, a simple note on thick cream paper, expensive paper—an invitation to tea at his London address. The footman who'd delivered it waited in the hall. He eyed the children who stared back. Mary saw Peter inch closer and knew the footman's brass buttons were imperiled. "Boys! Go!" she barked in her best matron's voice. Everyone, including the footman, flinched. At least he didn't flee the scene.

The footman informed her that the carriage waited outside and that he and the groom would wait for as long as necessary if she wished to prepare herself.

Fellington knew how busy she was. What was he thinking? She was planning to inform the man truthfully that she was too busy, when Mrs. Gibbons appeared, obviously alerted to the footman's presence by excited children. "Go!" she barked, just as authoritative as Mary had been a few minutes earlier. "We'll take care of the infant's class, and you know it's too wet to paint. If it's that gent who was by yesterday, Mr. Sheridan would approve. He'd want you to."

Mary didn't bother to point out that Sheridan, though a governor, wasn't in charge of the asylum. When he visited, Sherry tipped Mrs. Gibbons, and that was more than enough to convince her he was the most important man ever to enter the place.

The footman cleared his throat. "His lordship said no hurry at all. And if you told me not possible today, I was to come back tomorrow. Or he'd call himself. You are to choose."

"You won't get rid of this one easily," Mrs. Gibbons interpreted with relish. "Best go have it out then, Miss. Don't forget we need a new oven."

As Mary stepped into the carriage, she entered another world, one she'd visited only a few times because of Sherry's insistence she accompany him to donors' parties. Leather seats and polished wood and gold trim and a crystal vase of flowers at each window. That was merely the inside of the carriage.

Perhaps if Fellington had met her at the front entrance, she would have been distracted by the sight of him. Instead she was led through a vast front hall, past marble statues and up a wide staircase with a polished banister. So much mahogany, so many pieces of art.

A rich chandelier hung overhead, and she wondered if the regal butler leading the way required any help to polish it and which of her girls would fit in such a palace of a home.

She thought about all the damage the foundlings could do in a place like this. She eyed a huge landscape painting and tried to estimate how many pairs of stockings the price of it might buy. Hundreds. Thousands.

By the time she'd been ushered into a drawing room, she was dispirited. She felt resentment that the reality of his wealth would punch her dreams down like rising dough pushed back into place in one of the asylum's battered wooden bowls.

She didn't belong here and what was more, didn't want to. The other times she'd entered a home like this, she'd had to fight her scorn—now she only felt sad. She reached into her pocket and brushed her fingers over the watch for comfort.
CHAPTER FIVE

As soon as Fell met her at the door of the drawing room, he knew he'd made a mistake. She looked pale, and her smile was fixed.

He considered going to her and pulling her into an embrace, but there was something about her posture, the way she held her chin, that restrained him. He showed her to a chair and waited while she carefully sat.

After a moment of silence he asked, "Did you like the flowers?"

She nodded. "They were lovely."

More silence. She fiddled with something in her pocket.

Fell cleared his throat. "I would have come to call on you in person, but I had some business to attend to this morning."

"Of course." She looked about the room —at everything but him.

"And I wished you to visit my home so you could see," he began when Mason, the butler, entered, followed by the footmen with trays. Fell watched her eyes widen and wished he hadn't arranged such an elaborate tea. He'd been nervous and wanted to order food she'd like.

They sat in silence as the servants unloaded the sandwiches, cakes and biscuits and poured the tea. "No need to stay," Fell ordered.

Mason led the others away.

Fell couldn't stand another second of silence. He blurted, "Did you have a chance to think about my proposal?"

She grew even more pale. "I have thought of nothing else. You—you were serious, then?"

He got up from his chair and walked to hers. "Never more so," he said as he sank to his knee. "Shall I try again? In a more traditional manner?"

She stared at him. "But why?"

He wanted to say that he loved her, that she was more passionately alive than anyone he knew. But of course she'd argue that they barely knew each other. "Because I think we could help each other," he said instead.

She nodded slowly and looked around the room. "It's just..." She stopped and folded her hands in her lap. He still knelt by her chair, and now he reached for her hand. As he touched her calloused palm, he was hit by a wave of undiluted passion. Nothing else mattered. Surely she felt it too, for her fingers spasmodically squeezed his hand. Yet still she didn't speak.

"What is it?" he asked, impatient now.

"I can't give up the asylum," she said.

"No, of course not."

"And I can't..." She stopped and pressed her lips tight. They quivered despite her effort.

The woman was on the edge of tears. He forgot his impatience and stood to pull her into his arms. With a soft exhalation, she went to him, clutching him tight, as passionate as she'd been when they'd made love the day before. If she'd cling to him like this, he was nearly there. He was filled with fierce joy at his success. "Go on," he said. "Tell me what is wrong."

"You wanted me to see your world? I have, and I can't live in it," she whispered. "It's too much. The contrast makes my head spin. I can't live in such splendor."

He'd been rubbing her back, noting she wore corsets today, but her words froze him. "I don't understand. This isn't Buckingham Palace."

"It might as well be. Can one move from my world to this so easily? You did yesterday."

He tamped down his gleeful triumph to consider the question. "Is it simply this house?"

"It's everything."

"I'm used to this place; that's the only difference. I didn't see anything new when I came home yesterday afternoon. Except," he added, "I imagined you here, with me." She would bring new life and laughter to a house of sorrow that had been shut tight for more than a year —even though he'd been in residence most of that time.

"Oh." She pushed her face into his shoulder as if she would bury herself inside him. She lapsed into silence again.

She was still seriously upset, he realized. And the answer came to him suddenly.

Such a simple solution. "I know what to do, Mary Dunaway."

"No, no. Give me a moment, and I shall recover from these megrims. This is a great help," she added, clutching him tighter.

"I think I understand you, and there is no need for you to feel torn in half. I'll let this house, perhaps to some American with too much money, and we'll take another one, less, ah, ostentatious where you'll feel comfortable. We'll meet in the middle—or closer to your side of life, if we must. I think I will draw a line, my dear. I'd rather not try to crowd into your quarters at the asylum."

She stepped away from his arms and looked at him. He prayed he'd always remember that glow of hopeful astonishment on her face. She whispered, "You'd do that? For me?"

He nodded.

She tilted her head to the side and narrowed her eyes. The matron staring down a student she suspects might be lying. "This is your family's home. Generations of Fellingtons have lived here, haven't they?"

He grinned down at her like a happy idiot when he realized he'd was on the verge of winning all. "True enough. And they weren't a particularly pleasant lot." He grew more sober, remembering the last year. "This house contains ghosts, and I'd prefer not to be haunted any longer. And so? Will you finally accept me? You called me a lunatic, but you'd be insane to say no to a wealthy catch like me." He pulled out the papers in his waistcoat, and he waved them at her.

She caught his wrist. "What's that?"

"Jacob Black's list. We'll go over it, and we'll make sure you get those blankets and—"

She thumped her fist on his chest. "Would you stop making yourself sound like a commodity?"

"You are the one who mentioned my wealth. I only want to assure you it is at your disposal."

"Yes, I understand. Thank you." She sighed, then twisted her face into a thoughtful scowl. "It makes me feel cold when you do that. As if you're only important because of what you'd buy for my foundlings. I'd accept you if you didn't have a groat to your name. "

"Oh?" He wasn't sure he believed her. "Why do you want me?"

Her expression held an appealing mix of knowing smirk and embarrassed grin. "Those kisses. I'd marry you for your kisses. And the way you make me want to laugh for no good reason. I've lived without that for so long. Could you promise to always touch me so...so beautifully?"

With a groan, he crushed her mouth with his. They exchanged the longest, deepest, sweetest kiss he'd ever tasted in his life. And that was followed by another, even sweeter. She gave a small whimper of protest as he pulled away.

All right, maybe he did believe her. He drew her against him again.

"I haven't gotten you a ring," he said into her hair.

"Of course not. Twenty-four hours ago, you didn't know me."

He wondered if he should tell her that, due to Sheridan's stories, he'd known her considerably longer than twenty-four hours.

Her forehead wrinkled with concern again. "Ah, we are impulsive fools, especially you, my lord. You have no notion of how stubborn and single-minded I—"

"Yes, I understood that after that evening at the Campbells', silly girl. And Sherry's stories made clear you hadn't changed." He'd fallen in love with her listening to Sherry's words but didn't think she'd believe that. "I shall get you a ring by tomorrow."

"I don't want one." She reached into a pocket in her jacket, and a moment later, his heavy gold watch dangled from her fingers. "I've got this, and I accept your promise of blankets."

"And my promise of kisses and laughter," he reminded her.

"Oh, yes, please. I discover I am in sore need of both." Her eyes gleamed with delight—a woman so easily amused. He would enjoy easing her into a life of occasional pleasure.

"I am delighted to be the man to indulge you in every way possible," he said.

"Blankets and roses and kisses," she murmured before pulling his head down to hers again.

THE END

* * * *

Excerpt from Someone To Cherish (previously titled The Ratcatcher):

Copyright © 2011 Kate Rothwell

originally published 2008 as a free story, The Rat Catcher

ISBN 978-0-578-00424-2

1884, New York City
CHAPTER ONE

A man with elaborately curled mustaches sat down close to Callie. "What's the matter, sweetheart? Can I be of assistance?" The man yanked on the edge of his bowler hat and winked at her.

She rose from the park bench at once. "No, thank you, sir," Callie murmured and tugged at the leash to wake Mauschen.

She strode off, pulling along the reluctant little dog. She supposed the men in the park who spoke to her were probably kind, but she did not like the familiarity they employed. "Sweetheart," indeed.

Callie had fled Mrs. Lucien's house to indulge in misery somewhere other than her own room. She didn't need company as she contemplated her potentially bleak future.

In the middle of the path, Mauschen sat in protest. "Fine, I'll slow down," Callie told the ragged little dog. She reached up and yanked out the hatpin to adjust her straw bonnet that had tilted slightly during her quick-march.

She had spent such little time in the city—she and her grandmother had only visited a few times. And since Grandmama's death, Callie had had little leisure time. Perhaps she should stop moping and enjoy the stroll through Washington Square.

She watched the throngs of students, professors, artists, organ grinders, businessmen and vagrants strolling or rushing through the park about theirbusiness. A boy on roller skates zoomed past. Marvelous how fast they could go. She smiled after the boy.

A man's gloved hand wrapped around her arm. "Why, hello. I've been watching you for the past few minutes."

Callie considered using the hatpin she still held until the man spoke again, "Miss Scott, isn't it?"

The tall thin man with a top hat and a dark waxed moustache let go. He doffed his hat and bowed. "I never forget a pretty face and yours is exceptionally pretty. I knew your father, my dear. Very good friend of mine."

"Oh." She smiled, unsure of what politeness dictated. "How do you do,sir?"

"Allow me to say how sorry I am for your loss." He stuck out a hand encased in a dazzling white glove.

She thrust her hatpin in place and shook his hand, feeling slightly guilty for accepting his sympathy. She'd barely known her father. "Thank you."

The man's thin, very red lips stretched into a smile. Callie reminded herself she must not judge him by his appearance or by the strong scent of his violet hair oil. "Thaddeus Panz," he reminded her. "We met at a party held by your father."

Now she recalled. Good gracious, he meant the party. "Of course," she murmured. The last time she'd stayed with her father. Her grandmother had come in during the party and told off Callie's father. Her grandmother had never been so red-faced and shrill.

Mr. Panz might have been reading her thoughts. "How is your grandmother?" He chuckled. "She is quite a character."

An odd description. Her Grandmama had rarely shown strong emotion but when she did, the results had been memorable.

"She passed on a month before my father's death." Callie pressed her lips tight.

This time when he expressed his sorrow she didn't feel like a fraud accepting his sympathy.

A nanny pushing a perambulator walked past them on the path and Mauschen, who was afraid of carriages, shivered and whimpered. Callie leaned down to stroke the dog.

"How are you coping?" Mr. Panz asked. "I hope you are well? Not worrying about making a living?"

"I am doing well," she lied. "I have a position. I work as a companion."

"For whom, if you don't mind my asking?"

"A lady named Mrs. Lucien."

He wrinkled his nose. "That would-be renowned hostess? The old biddy who lives off the north side of Washington Square?"

She nodded hesitantly. An apt description but she wasn't sure she should agree with it.

He laughed, a startlingly high whooping noise. "You are joking. She would hire you? Scott's daughter?"

A few days earlier, Callie would have been insulted. Now she understood. This very morning, Mrs. Lucien had revealed the reason she loathed Callie's family.

"Yes..." She bit her lip and stopped the attempt to put the best face on it. "She was kind enough to hire me though she is not very pleased with me."

He nodded solemnly. "Of course not. She resented your parents. She's just the sort to blow on the coals. Likes to keep a grudge alive."

She resisted the urge to ask if he knew the horrid story of the dog.

"You must have been quite young when your mother died—do you remember her?"

"Barely," Callie admitted. "I went to live with grandmother when I turned three."

"Molly called ladies like Mrs. Lucien 'over-dressed fire-breathing toads'." He snickered. "Quite a spirited creature, your mother. Wonderful girl."

And if Mrs. Lucien had heard gossip about that insult, it provided another reason for her to dislike the Scott family.

Mr. Panz reached for Callie's hand and before she could protest, had tucked it into the crook of his arm. He patted her hand genially. "Come along, Miss Scott. A girl like you shouldn't be working for a gorgon like her at any rate. Walk with me to my establishment and we will talk about what I can do to help you."

No doubt he was trying to be friendly, but he sounded very much like the man who'd just called her sweetheart. "Help me? I'm not sure, that is to say..." Not wishing to appear rude, she allowed her words to die away.

Mr. Panz gave her a kindly smile. "Don't look so worried, my dear. Recollect, I knew your father."

Not a fact that she found particularly reassuring.

"My dear girl, do I see doubt in those pretty eyes?" He pulled at her arm and she was reminded of her own tugs on Mauschen's leash. "You shall work for me. I will find you a job."

"A job." Wonderful—though she felt she must be honest. "You are very generous, sir. I ought to tell you that before Mrs. Lucien hired me I looked for work and discovered I lack the skills or experience necessary for most employment."

He laughed again. Whinnied, more like. "Why, I'm certain we'll find the perfect position." He moved closer—so near she could smell his perspiration under the strong cologne.

"Excuse me, but my dog. Such a slow walker, you know." Using Mauschen as an excuse, she managed to extricate her hand from his grip. She gathered up the ugly, nearly naked creature, the only item she'd been allowed to keep from her father's possessions.

Mr. Panz watched and asked, "One of your father's attempts at a new breed?"

She scratched behind one of Mauschen's large bat-like ear. "Yes. She is the last."

"I suppose the world wasn't ready for Le Petits Singes, eh?" He rubbed his gloved hands together. "Ha! That reminds me. You know French, don't you?"

She nodded.

"Perfect. I am in need of a translator. Would that suit you?"

"Yes, indeed, sir." Translating had to be an entirely unimpeachable job for a young lady. Her heart lightened. After months of bad luck, perhaps her life had taken a turn for the better.

Mr. Panz led her away from the square to a less fashionable row, not far from Broadway. He stopped in front of a towering marble and brownstone palace of a house, a new gothic structure.

"Here we are," he announced brightly as he led her up the steps.

Callie put Mauschen down and, indecisive again, cast a furtive glance at the great brute of a butler who opened the door and stood eyeing her.

Certainly the shivering pathetic dog at her feet offered no protection—should she require it. The butler was capable of squashing Mauschen between two fingers.

Nonsense. Butlers didn't kill pets. Still, she rather regretted saying yes to Mr. Panz. Her feet hurt and she wished she could simply return to Mrs. Lucien's house. After all, she hadn't lost her job.

Yet.

In Mr. Panz's large office, she shifted her eyes from the gaze of her smiling host to study the picture of Leda and the swan that hung on the wall. He indicated a lady's chair for her, and took a seat behind the elaborately carved mahogany desk, which was strewn with papers and books. The tension in her stomach eased. Mr. Panz was a businessman and would conduct this interview in a business-like fashion.

"Well now. Let us get to the point. How much do you wish to be paid?"

She would have to find a boarding house if she left Mrs. Lucien's. "Perhaps five dollars a week?"

He again examined her top to bottom, side to side, just as her grandmother had once instructed her to examine a work of art. His thin smile spread wider.

Uncomfortable, she looked up at the painting of the swan, which had the same sort of beady stare as Mr. Panz.

"A nice girl like you could make very good money keeping gentlemen company in our club." Something in his gentle voice alarmed her.

She liked people, but she wasn't sure she wanted a job that forced her into constant contact with the opposite sex. Even though she would be protected—she hoped, by her father's friend—Callie could almost hear Grandmama's disapproval. Such a situation would be entirely inappropriate for any modest young lady.

Callie straightened her shoulders and tried to smile. "You said something

about translation, sir. Did I mention I speak some German as well? I'd rather—"

"Of course, of course." Mr. Panz winked and nodded, as if indulging a little girl's silly fears. "We're getting more material from France these days. More than I can handle. I've got some special books you could take a look at, translate for me. German ones, as well." He cleared his throat. "And maybe after you've read through a few of those, you'll want to reconsider my offer."

"Offer, sir?"

He chuckled. "Entertaining gentlemen."

Oh, dear. "Mr. Panz, thank you, but I think I shouldn't—"

"I'd pay four dollars a day. Starting at once. Perhaps you would soon be ready for more... interesting work. You will earn even more then."

Such a tremendous sum. In her surprise, Callie involuntarily yanked at the leash and Mauschen protested with a grunt.

Alarm bells clanged through Callie, though she was not sure why more than enough money should disturb her. "I do hope that I will be able to stay with Mrs. Lucien. And I—"

"See here, why don't we do a little trial?" Mr. Panz interrupted. "I have a copy of Le Monde. You can begin with that. And then I think you should look at one of our special volumes. I would be glad to recompense you for your time today, even if you choose not to work for me. Let us say a dollar for a couple of hours' work?" He toyed with one of his large diamond and gold cuff studs as he waited for her reply.

Even her grandmother would not have quibbled at his offer. And she had planned to stay away from Mrs. Lucien's until close to the dinner hour. "Yes, please, I suppose that I can try, sir."

"Good." He went to his messy desk, gathered a stack of papers that looked like a list of addresses, carelessly bundled them and thrust them into a drawer.

Mr. Panz reached for a bottle of ink and pen, scribbled some words on a blank sheet, frowned again, scribbled some more and then looked down at the list with happy smile. He waved the paper to dry it then folded the piece of foolscap and handed it to her. "You'll likely find these words if you decide to work for me. We can discuss them after you've translated for a while, perhaps?" His dark eyes shone. "We should toast our happy meeting."

He moved to a mahogany sideboard. A carved cherub held up each corner and an ostentatious display of decanters and crystal glasses gleamed across its surface.

"Wine? This early in the day, sir?"

Mr. Panz laughed and handed her a full glass. "It is a pleasant light vintage. Perfect for the ladies. And my dear Miss Scott, you sound as if you've had a rough time of it."

He settled in an armchair near her and poured himself a glass as well.

After her walk through the park, she felt hot and thirsty. She held her breath against the strong scent and sipped. He was correct. The flavor was not nearly as strong as she recalled most wines. It tasted sweet, rather like one of her grandmother's tonics.

She managed a real smile for him. "I do not wish to be in your way while I work. Perhaps I could take the newspaper and book with me?"

He did not answer right away; instead he refilled the goblet she'd set on the small table next to her chair. "I recall your father had an excellent library. Come see our collection of volumes."

"But—"

"You can do your work in our library." He rose to his feet, decisive again."Don't forget your list and your glass. I shall give you a tour."

She resisted the urge to say goodbye and no thank you and run back to her employer's house. But then she remembered how even before her outburst today Mrs. Lucien hissed whenever she caught sight of Mauschen, and glared nearly every time Callie opened her mouth to speak.

She would not be surprised to find a note of dismissal and her portmanteau and hatbox sitting at the kitchen door when she returned to Mrs. Lucien's house. She only wondered why the woman had hired her in the first place.

Mr. Panz waited at the office door so Callie stood and allowed him to escort her toward the back of the house. They passed a large and alarming statue of a nude, grinning Venus. Distant female laughter drifted down the mahogany stairs which were covered in plush, deep burgundy carpet. Callie walked faster.

At the end of the leash, Mauschen skittered over the polished bare wood floors between the plush Turkish carpets.

Mr. Panz opened the double doors to the library stood back and motioned for Callie to enter.

"Thank you, sir." She smiled in relief. The room at the back of the house was exactly what a library should be: large, attractive oak paneled and with a huge frosted skylight. Several armchairs were set among the stacks, and a large desk stood near the back, where French doors opened onto a small overgrown garden.

"It's wonderful." She moved toward the far wall of books, hand outstretched.

Mr. Panz stepped in front of her. "No, no my eager young friend. We'll save those special books on the back shelves for later. Certainly after you decide to work for us. Although the book I'll give you is slightly... heated. The French have such a way with imagery."

"Oh?"

He gave her a wide closed-mouth smile. "That part of our library is like a very hot bath. One must dip in a toe before plunging in up to the neck. Otherwise it can be a shock to the system, especially to a female."

She frowned at the odd analogy, but she was too well bred to ask impertinent questions and perhaps might soon be too poor, as well. This was her father's friend, she reminded herself. Never mind the fact that grandmother had frequently hinted that respectability and Eustace Scott were not synonymous. And the truth was Callie had barely known her late Papa.

When she and Grandmother made their yearly visit to the city, he seemed to spend all his waking hours avoiding Callie. When she'd sought him out in his library one night to ask him why she never saw him, he'd said, "It's not you I stay away from, girl. Not you. But go on back to bed now or she'll be after me again. Horrible."

She'd had some sympathy for her father. Yet it did seem funny that her father, a grown man, was frightened of Grandmother. The old lady had been fierce when upset, but hardly horrible.

Mr. Panz showed Callie a large dusty closet with a window, a chair and a desk equipped with paper, pen and ink. "Here is your office. I apologize for its condition."

"It is perfect, sir. May I keep the dog with me?"

He studied the panting white lump, which had already settled onto the carpet to sleep. "Probably best if you tie it up in the garden. It won't bother anyone there."

"Yes, sir," she said, though she doubted that Mauschen would bother anyone, unless they had food. "Would this be where I would work if I take the job?"

He gave a hearty laugh and ignored her question. "I have some work of my own to attend to. But I will come back and check on you soon, Callie. Might I call you Callie?"

She nodded, though she did not like his informality.

"You settle into work and enjoy some more wine." He took the nearly empty glass from her, and ignoring her protest, filled it. "No, do not be such a silly girl. Of course you'll have some more wine as you work. I shall be back in an hour or so to talk. We might discuss those words on your list."

He sauntered off, whistling. As soon as he left her, she took Mauschen outside, tied the dog up in a shady spot near a fountain for water. The day was already growing hot.

Back in the tiny room of the library, she wedged open the window and began with articles someone had circled in Le Monde. Very dull stuff, but she was pleased at how much she understood.

A short hand-written letter had fallen out of the newspaper. She picked it up and began translating it. It had no salutation, yet otherwise seemed like a perfectly normal business missive: "The items shipped on Thursday via the usual courier." But then the writer changed the subject. "I have been contacted by R, who I understand is your coordinator. He is bent on gathering other New York addresses. You must understand that I am not willing to allow my patrons to be intimidated."

What an odd letter. She smoothed the paper nervously. Surely Mr. Panz was not involved in anything illegal or even her father would not have counted him as a friend.

She thrust the newspaper and letter aside for she had grown quite thirsty. No, she did not want to venture out to the main part of the house in search of something else to drink, so she sipped more wine and commenced work on Mr. Panz's special book.

Or rather, she opened the book, read, and soon realized that she did not know many words. This was difficult to understand.

Good heavens. The words she did know were... used so oddly. She stared and reddened. The pen in her fingers rarely dipped into the inkwell on the desk.

The characters frequently spoke of love in this story. But. Oh, gracious. The things that they described here. Oh, my. Callie blinked and flipped ahead a few pages.

She spotted the word Licencieux... licentious—the word she'd overheard her grandmother use about Callie's father when she thought Callie wasn't listening.

Her mouth went dry and she reached for her glass—and perhaps the wine would drive off her instinct to flee the place. She sipped and reminded herself how she might soon desperately need Mr. Panz's money.

The room grew far too warm.

She wondered where Mr. Panz had gotten to, though she did not mind his absence. Grandmama had occasionally vaguely hinted at gentlemen's dark impulses. Long ago Callie had stopped taking the old lady's warnings seriously.

When Callie thought of the men in the park and Mr. Panz, however, Grandmama's indistinct cautions seemed less silly. And that party at Papa's house...

No more woolgathering. She turned her attention back to the book.

The woman had offered up something to the man. In a tremulous voice, Therese begged Michel to partake of her rich bounty. She parted her pretty legs.

Callie blinked, hoping she was reading this wrong. Surely no woman would spread her lower limbs as she talked to a man...

She frowned and skimmed the next page. Oh dear, now this was peculiar. The staff of love stood out, proud and vigorous, ready to be worshipped.

She stopped and read ahead. This couldn't possibly refer to the male attributes that she and her friend Izzy had discussed in whispers. No.

She understood that Michel and Therese were extremely naughty, but this? The flowery language... Surely that description of a decorative ivory staff was some sort of symbol that Therese planned to worship? Rather like a maypole. One hoped.

She most definitely did not want to ask Mr. Panz about this book.

Yet what if she required his employment? This silly squeamishness must cease; she would brace herself and face the peculiar prose. She sipped the last of her wine.

When the glass was empty, she still could not face the book and rose from her seat. Just a short break. Callie opened the door and looked out over the spacious library.

Such a lovely room. The wine washed through her, soothing her. She forgot about her troubles, and Mrs. Lucien's angry fit. She even forgot the Therese's peculiar conversations with her dear friend Michel.

Breathing in the lovely scent of leather bindings and paper, she looked over the shelves and spotted an edition of Tennyson's poetry. Her heart lifted.

As she made her way to the book of poetry, the urge to hum or even sing came over her. She began to hum one of her grandmother's favorite hymns.

CHAPTER TWO

Cutter hated this sort of assignment, pulling a brothel. The noise and mayhem of twenty uniformed coppers blowing whistles and shoving suspects around suited others, but he'd rather operate quietly. Maybe that's why the captain had wanted Cutter in charge. He needed someone quiet to scoop up all paperwork, including the most important, a list of customers.

The captain hadn't confided more than that. Cutter, who knew his world, guessed that some of Panz's customers were well-heeled men who'd received threats of exposure. They must have taken the unusual move of approaching the detective bureau, and likely paid through the nose for the coppers' discreet help.

He mounted the stairs to the house. A half hour to look around and then they'd swoop down and mop up the place.

This wasn't his first visit here. He'd posed as a visitor, a potential "patron", only the week before. Easy enough now to push open the gleaming red-painted front door and stroll past the bored well-dressed lout acting as guard. The tough, whose nose looked as if it had been broken more often than Cutter's, squinted at him but didn't speak.

Cutter winked. "I'm meeting a friend. Mr. Louis."

The man nodded. Good thing they didn't often change the patron's code.

In the hall Cutter walked past the closed doors and staircase with the air of a man who belonged here. No one stopped him.

Cutter knew that the library lay at the back of the house. It would be good to get some solid evidence about the pornography. Something to hold over Panz's head for bargaining. He'd have a chance to look the place over before it swarmed with coppers.

The library was empty except for one pretty brown-haired young woman who was quietly singing.

He stopped and watched her. Buttoned up tight in a prim sort of outfit, she didn't look like a whore — though who knew what sorts of tastes Panz catered to. She danced a few steps around the middle of the large room. The girl had a graceful way of moving, must have been taught, though it certainly looked natural. More than that, there weren't the seductive thrusts and jiggles he'd expect in a place like this. No tossing up the skirts and kicking out the legs. All alone, she moved for her own pleasure and like she hadn't a care in the world.

That wouldn't last, would it? And just what harm was the girl doing? He squelched the rebellious thought and pulled out his watch. Less than twenty minutes before whistles blew and the fun began.

He'd just have a word with this one. Maybe get some information from her and coax her to cooperate.

She danced across the library and opened the door to the rear garden.

Bad news. She might see or hear the boys who'd be gathering out there soon. He followed her, ready to take action should she raise an alarm.

She didn't go far, only stopped on the other side of the little fountain near the door. He nearly jumped out of his skin—she talked to someone. Who else was out there? The garden was never used during daylight hours; he recalled that from his visit.

He moved forward, but saw nothing but trees and overgrown bushes.

Perhaps she was talking to herself. When she bent down, he almost laughed aloud. She obviously kept some sort of small animal out there.

He paused at the door, listening for the high sing-song voice females used with animals, but she spoke in a conversational tone, in an accent that sure as hell wasn't from the streets.

"Yes, I understand this water is repulsive, you wretch, but there is no need to give me such a pitiful look. You'll survive. Perhaps you would care for some of my wine instead?"

Enough slinking. One of his jobs was to unlock the back gate so he strolled out. He'd get her out of the way and pick the garden lock. Not a skill most cops possessed, but it proved mighty handy now and then.

She didn't seem to notice him so he cleared his throat. "'Scuse me?"

* * * * *

A soft, respectful voice behind Callie made her start.

Tottering a bit, she at once straightened and whirled to face him, standing in front of Mauschen so the man wouldn't see the dog.

She expected another man like Panz and the gentlemen in the park, but this one was younger, close to her own age of twenty. And he seemed less... smirking.

The man wore a reddish-brown suit that was probably not made for him but did not fit badly. Hard to do, she fancied, with such a broad-shouldered substantial body.

"Hello," she said, brightly. "May I help you?"

He frowned and blinked as if surprised. "What? You? Out here?"

She squelched the guilt at his censorious tone. Certainly she shouldn't be wandering when she'd been given a task. "Actually I'm taking a short rest. I'm working in the library just now."

"Ah."

"But I'm certain you may use the garden if you wish, sir. I'll just be..." She waved a hand in the direction of the office. With one more furtive look behind the fountain, where Mauschen had fallen back to sleep in the tall grass, she walked quickly into the library. She only bumped into one bookshelf in her hurry.

Within a few moments, Callie heard footsteps and looked up from the book she was vainly trying to translate. The tall man appeared in the doorway of her tiny office.

Remarkably pale blue eyes stared at her. For a moment, she thought they could be rather shifty after all, but then he smiled. A calm, kindly smile.

This man never would do the things Michel in that book would do. Or would he?

Callie turned scarlet and groaned when she realized she had been scrutinizing the man up and down the way Mr. Panz had looked at her.

She looked away though she still experienced a sort of greed to look at him—such a peculiar response. Could she be also someone who had such unnatural... désir as Therese? Licentiousness.

"Pardon me," she said, faintly. "I am feeling rather odd."

He stepped closer at once.

"No, I'm not ill. I'm just..."

Her voice died away as her gaze shifted to his mouth. There was quite a lot about mouths in this book. What a lovely mouth he had. Firm lips, no moustache. She wouldn't want to kiss a man with a hairy upper lip.

"You all right?"

His words came out slowly in a rough, working class voice. Not a gentleman. But then the gentlemen she had met lately had not been particularly genteel. Not Mr. Panz, not the lawyers who told her there was no money left.

"Funny you should ask," she said. "My head is spinning slightly from the wine, I suppose. Not a bad sensation, mind you. And I'm probably not working quickly enough. There are many peculiar words. This sort of work is not... not to my taste." A drop of perspiration trickled between her breasts and she restrained herself from pressing her hand against her front to blot it on her chemise.

"That so?" He gazed into her face as if she was fascinating.

She felt the urge to explain. "Absolutely. Yet I can't see what else I will be able to do should I require a job." She gave a small nervous laugh.

His nose was slightly larger and more crooked than might be considered beautiful, but it was an honest nose. Nothing effete, nothing too pretty. Blunt features, but on a large man those features fit perfectly. His was an open, pleasant face, with a good squarish sort of chin and with a shadow of a reddish beard.

Oh, my.

"What sort of job you do for Panz?" His voice had that intimate quality, but the soft tone didn't offend her. No, it only made her toes curl and her insides go peculiarly heavy.

"I don't actually work here. I am still a companion, you see."

He laughed. "Sure a nice name for it."

"Yes, especially when you consider it isn't a very companionable position." She heaved a large sigh that left her dizzy. "My employer barely speaks to me."

His brows drew together. "Eh? He angry at you?"

Callie recalled the fury in Mrs. Lucien's bulging gooseberry eyes as the lady recited the story. "She's angry at my whole family actually. Years ago, she held a huge party."

"Who's she?"

"My employer, Mrs. Lu—um, Mrs. L."

His frown deepened. "The party?"

"Oh. Yes, she told me this morning. My father was all the fashion so she invited him. He played a terrible prank on Mrs. L."

She noticed an ink stain on her cuff and, putting her hands behind her back, gave a nervous smile. "Oh, goodness. I don't mean to talk so much."

But the man gave a tiny shake of the head as if contradicting her and he actually wanted to listen to her meaningless chatter. Had anyone ever appeared so interested in her words before? He gave a small encouraging sound.

"He, my father, I mean, arrived at the party with one of his little dogs. A female, and..." Callie chewed on her lower lip. Mrs. Lucien's angry face had turned a frightening puce as she'd narrated this part of the story. "Um, from what my employer said, I gather that it was a female that wanted a husband. My father must have brought other dogs and hidden them around the house. A great pack of them hurtling in from the kitchen. Boy dogs.

"The room was very crowded and my father continuously called the dog's name—Delilah, which happens to be Mrs. L's first name, too. Apparently it was mayhem."

The man gave a startled guffaw.

Callie winced, remembering how her own response of laughter had created such difficulties that morning. Mrs. Lucien had finished the story then witnessed Callie's badly suppressed amusement. The lady had gone off into a frenzy of bad temper. Callie had soon fled the house, fearful that Mrs. Lucien might die of apoplectic rage.

"It ruined the party but... Poor woman. This happened years ago and she still is angry. Silly." Callie was surprised to find herself grinning again. Such fury for a moment in ancient history. Silly Mrs. Lucien. Silly Callie. Silly world that would keep spinning.

The man didn't spin. He stood close to her and she could see his chest rise and fall. She had never observed another person's breathing. How interesting.

His chest swelled slightly and he spoke. "Funny story. What about Panz?"

She raised her head to look into his face again. Distracted, she said, "Hmm? What about him?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh. I'm only doing a bit of work for Mr. Panz, so he can see if I'm capable. I'm translating. From French."

"You speak French?"

She giggled. Callie did not giggle. Her governess and grandmother had abhorred such gauche behavior, but the bubbling laughter in her throat was a pleasant sensation. She giggled again at the thought that anyone should despise giggling. Then she recalled his question. "Well, it would be pretty silly if I didn't speak French, wouldn't it."

He didn't grow offended. Instead his smile widened and oh, that made the nice firm mouth even more interesting. And look! Not exactly dimples, but lovely brackets at the corners of his mouth. She drew closer to him. He didn't back away.

"Got anything interesting?" he asked, waving a hand at her desk.

She frowned and rubbed her forehead, but that didn't help the dizziness. "It's very funny stuff I've just started reading. I don't know half the words."

"Yeah?" He sounded as if he didn't believe her.

"I do know French," she protested. "I used to translate stories to entertain myself and my grandmother and I grew quite proficient, though I do say so myself. But those books were much clearer." She drew in a deep breath. "And reading this also is rather... odd. Maypoles and so on. I believe much of it is metaphorical."

Dear Lord, she hoped so.

She wished Izzy were there. Her friend had lived in New York City long enough to acquire a sophistication Callie could only envy. Polished, worldly Izzy would somehow help her cease this strange babbling by deftly bringing up the subject of the weather. Or something.

"Lovely weather we're having," she began but he'd stopped paying attention. He picked up the open book on her desk gingerly. His fingers were long, powerful looking. Lovely hands. She'd never noticed that a man's hands could be so—

He was pushing the book at her. "Go on. What's it say?"

"In English?"

"Yeah."

She dragged her attention from his hands, opened the book, cleared her throat and started translating. "Teresa moved like a fairy, with her gown showing charming attributes."

The author seemed to enjoy describing a woman's bosom, but Callie refused to divulge that. She knew from her quick look through the book that any minute Therese's thin gown would slide from her "like a scrap of ethereal cloud". The girl apparently had trouble keeping her clothes on.

Callie pushed her forefinger into the tight collar of her sensible blouse and tried to discreetly loosen it. The room was indeed very warm and her skin prickled oddly.

"Ah, c'est un homme bien bâti!" Yes, he was a well-built man, wasn't he?

Best not to translate that bit. She flipped ahead a few pages, and tried again.

"'Oh, sir,' screamed Therese, 'you are as a god to me. My—'" Callie's voice quavered a bit, "'—my body is aflame.'"

Stupid book.

She leafed forward to another random page and absently translated, "He erupted like a volcano, spewing hot lava." Callie snapped the volume shut and laid it firmly on the desk. "Very badly written."

He grinned and scowled at her at the same time, an interesting expression and positively endearing. She forgot the book and stared at him instead. His large, broad hand shoved through his hair. She wished she could run her fingers through his hair to discover if it was as soft as it appeared.

He tilted his head and raised his brows. She knew very little about men, but was certain this was a signal that he could see her admiration, and perhaps felt some of his own. Oh, now that only added to the odd warmth in her belly, caused by the wine.

Do not drink so much wine ever again. But even as the thought entered her mind, her mouth was saying, "I like your face, sir and I've never seen a mouth as pleasant as yours."

To her delight, he laughed, a lovely deep rolling laughter. "Hey? 'Pleasant mouth'? New to me."

She blushed. "I know it's dreadfully silly. In my last life, I'd never say such odd things."

His eyes crinkled with amusement. "Last life? Been born more'n once?"

"Reincarnation? No, I mean metaphorically. Ha, rather like this French rubbish. Before I came to the city, when I was to be a lady. But now, with everyone gone... That part of my life is gone. But there might be... might be..."

She hoped he wouldn't notice that her thinking was so peculiar. She wished she didn't notice. At least she didn't say the word "compensations," aloud.

She didn't want to think anymore so instead she moved closer and inhaled the slight scent of something she thought might be toffees, and under that, an enticing scent that had to be the man himself.

The inches between them closed. She felt faint with the combination of excitement, fear and wine as his mouth brushed hers.

Something more intoxicating than the wine lurched through her, right down to her tingling toes. She had to touch him and lightly brushed his face with her fingertips. Warm and wonderfully exotic.

He growled; his mouth shifted beneath hers. When his mouth opened slightly and his tongue touched her lips she jumped, startled.

She forgot her impulse to experiment with impropriety. Breaking, she put her hand to her bosom and pulled in a few deep breaths. "Oh, good heavens," she said, when she could speak again. "I am so sorry. I can't imagine what on earth I was thinking—no, obviously I wasn't thinking. I can only apologize. But I—I..."

Her stomach lurched. Had she really just kissed a man to whom she hadn't been properly introduced? Their mouths had touched for only a matter of seconds. But still. A man she didn't even know had licked her mouth. Except now she examined his features and wasn't so sure he was entirely a stranger after all. "Have we met?"

He studied her. "I think...Yeah," he said in a low voice. "I get it now. You musta been pinched before."

Goodness, perhaps the man was as befuddled as she. "That can't be true. I'd remember if you'd pinched me. I've only been pinched by my grandmother."

"Your grandmother?" The man looked perplexed. His hand pushed at his hair again.

"Fingers like iron." She touched her ear and grimaced at the memory. "She is dead, now. Oh I said, that didn't I. If she weren't I suppose I'd still be living with her in New Wilhelm. She would never approve of my so much as visiting Mr. Panz alone."

She groaned aloud when she thought of what her grandmother would have said if she'd seen Callie kiss a man—goodness, a stranger. The poor woman would likely die again.

Callie wondered if she might die herself when the effects of the wine had worn off and she remembered this strange reckless episode. This whole day, actually. She shook her head, which made it feel even more likely to detach from her shoulders.

The man gave her a long curious look then turned away. He tossed his bowler hat onto a chair, moved to a shelf and began to flip through books.

She stared at the broad back. "I apologize if I've offended you."

Without looking up, he muttered, "Hell. Forget it. I have. I shoulda started work instead of trying to figure your game."

She flinched at his language and his dismissal. Was he disgusted by her? Not surprising, perhaps. Five minutes alone with the man and she'd ended up kissing him. Yes, but they'd shared that kiss.

She was opening her mouth to point out she wasn't the only one to blame, when he turned to face her again and jerked his head toward the door. "You're good and smooth... but go. No alarm, eh? I hear a peep and I'll be after you. Go. Get a move on. Maybe wait in the stable 'til the ruckus passes."

"Really? Whatever for?"

For a moment he seemed about to say something, but then shook his head.

"But what is it all about?" she asked again hesitantly.

He was striding around the library now, pausing to squint at titles. "Panz's unpopular."

She recalled the red lips in a smirk and his insinuating manner. "He is a disagreeable man." Another sign that the wine had gone to her head: Callie knew well enough a lady never spoke ill of anyone.

The large man pulled out a watch. "Less'n ten minutes left, dammit." He narrowed his eyes. "Messing about. Gotta work."

He shoved the watch back in his pocket, walked to the large desk out in the library's main room. He riffled through a pile of papers.

"What are you doing?" she squeaked.

He transferred his glare to her. "You're staying? Help, then."

Why had his manner changed? The lovely soft shush of the wine through her veins was waning fast, as did the bond she felt with this man. Oddly enough, he still appeared attractive to her, so perhaps the wine still had some hold on her. He moved across the library, striding to the back wall. She watched, fascinated, but a horrible nightmare sensation grew.

Who was this man?

He returned and shoved a newspaper at her demanding, "You say you translate. What's this say?"

She shook her head. "Oh, no. I'm not to look back there."

Why not? She had nearly avoided asking herself this question since entering the library, but the question loomed as large as this suddenly stern, intimidating man.

He continued to hold out the newspaper. She took it and at once saw the cover picture, an unpleasant wood carving of a man beating a woman. "French, eh?"

The appalling picture swam before her. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and wished she could shut out the dawning truth.

"Yes. Le Rire. 'The Laughter,' but it is—" she cleared her throat, "—about la flagellation de femmes." With trembling fingers, she handed it back to him.

"That'll do." He muttered something about "finding goddamn lists" and casually tossed the dreadful newspaper onto the chair next to his hat. She stared down at her well-polished side-button boots, and tried to ignore the thoughts, accompanied by intimations of nausea, that rolled through her.

"That stuff anywhere else?"

She looked up from her miserable reverie. "I do not know. I - I don't actually work here."

"Yeah, you said."

She barely noticed his disparaging tone. The room began to reel in an increasingly unpleasant manner as shock seeped into her mind.

He pointed through the doorway of her office at the scrap of foolscap on her desk. "What's that?"

"Oh, those are the words that I don't know." She hesitated, and then fetched the paper. "Mr. Panz said he'd return to discuss them."

Perhaps he could tell her more, though she was growing sure she didn't wanted to learn the depths of her own stupidity. She handed him the list.

The large man didn't answer. For a full minute, he stared down at the scrap in his hand. His face flushed.

"They are English words, aren't they," she said, hoping he would nod or say something, anything but stare at the list with that scowl. "Or perhaps some are Latin?" She remembered three of them: fellatrice, fricatrice and gamahuching.

He shoved the paper into his pocket and frowned at her. In a low harsh voice, he said, "Enough, girl. You're not stupid. This place. You know about it."

She didn't know about the words on the paper—but even in her addled state, she knew about the place. To be truthful, even before she allowed Mr. Panz to lead her here, she had suspected he supported gambling. After all, Grandmama had said, "pray for your papa. He has a problem with gaming."

But more than that? Yes, she had suspected worse in Mr. Panz's office. She just didn't want to think about it then. Or now.

He strolled to the forbidden back bookcases, reached for a thick blue volume, flipped through it, put it back. He found another one, took another brief look and handed it to her. It was in German.

"Der Kuss des Teufels," she absently translated, "The Kiss of the Devil."

"Liebe mich," she muttered as she scanned the first page's dialogue.

"Love me." He snorted. "Huh. Look."

She did.

Unlike the book she'd been reading, it was loaded with hand-colored prints. At first she thought they were peculiar animals, but then she discerned a woman and man. They were embracing. Naked.

"Oh." She threw the book to the ground, covered her hands with her face.

The man was speaking and she rose to the surface to hear him say, "pornography and a whorehouse above the—"

Her stomach gave a definite lurch. "Mr. Panz. The books. That's what the books—"

What a fool she'd been. A miserable fool—a debauched and drunken one.

He interrupted her self-recriminations. "You translate. That'll be evidence. So stop pretending, help and—"

She was a fool and he was a... "Oh, no, Mr. Panz is horrible. And you're a...you're a..." She pushed past him.

"Yah. A copper," he finished for her.

She shoved open the library door and ran out to the corner of the garden where she was violently sick.

* * *

To read the rest of Someone To Cherish: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/40032

To sign up for Kate's newsletter: http://tinyletter.com/katerothwell (she only notifies you when she has a new release)

Her websites:

http://summerdevon.com

http://katerothwell.com

http://katerothwell.blogspot.com

and you'll also find her on twitter, facebook and google+ (hey, avoiding writing is hard work!)

Other titles by Kate Rothwell:

Somebody Wonderful —Kensington Publishing

Somebody to Love —Kensington Publishing

By Kate Rothwell, writing as Summer Devon:

Direct Deposit—Total-e-Bound Publishing

Futurelove—Ellora's Cave Publishing (also in Out of this World Lover anthology by Pocket Books)

Invisible Touch—Ellora's Cave Publishing

Knight's Challenge—Samhain Publishing

Learning Charity—Samhain Publishing

Perfection—Ellora's Cave Publishing (also in Taming Him anthology by Pocket Books)

Revealing Skills—Samhain Publishing

Taken Unaware—Samhain Publishing

The Mad Baron—Liquid Silver

Powder of Love—Loose Id

Someone to Cherish--booksforabuck

Books cowritten with Bonnie Dee (through Loose Id, m/m titles)

Seducing Stephen

House of Mirrors

The Gentleman and the Rogue

The Nobleman and the Spy

Coming fall/winter of 2011 and 2012:

Unnatural Calamities\--Samhain

Claws in Velvet (cowritten with Linda Gayle)—Loose Id

Serious Play (cowritten with Bonnie Dee)—Carina Press

The Psychic and the Sleuth (cowritten with Bonnie Dee)—Samhain

