 
# The Mistletoe Trap

## Eve Pendle
Copyright © 2018 by Eve Pendle

First published in the _Love Rekindled at Christmas_ charity anthology and under the title, _A Pineapple in a Pine Tree_.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover: © 2020 by Eve Pendle. Images under licence from Freepix and Period Images.

  Created with Vellum
Five years after breaking Amelia Chilson's heart, he's back. Robert Danbury wants the mistletoe kiss Amelia denied him years ago, but nothing more; loving a woman again is an unthinkable risk. Then they're caught innocently in bed together and Robert has an instant to choose: Amelia's reputation, their lost love, or his conscience.

# Content Notes

These content notes are made available so readers can inform themselves if they want to. They're based on movie classification notes. Some readers might consider these as 'spoilers'.

  * Bad language: mild, infrequent
  * Sex: several fully described sex scenes
  * Violence: none
  * Other: death of secondary character in backstory

See the full (much more detailed) trigger warnings for further information if you need it: <https://evependle.com/index.php/2019/01/05/cw-a-pineapple-in-a-pine-tree/>

# Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Epilogue

Author's Note

Also by Eve Pendle

Excerpt: Falling for a Rake

Excerpt: On His Knees

# Chapter 1

_24 th December 1817_

Amelia Chilson was bored of red roses. She rethreaded her needle yet again with red silk and began stitching the edge of a petal. The sounds of her parents' friends laughing came from next door into the library where Amelia had slipped away to work. No-one would miss her and if this embroidery wasn't finished by after Christmas her little enterprise would be ruined by disappointing her socialite client.

The door swung open and Amelia looked up to see her mother.

"You ought to be playing parlor games." Her mother seemed to float rather than walk, elegant as ever. "I need to talk to you."

Amelia put the embroidery away into her trunk as her mother approached.

"I have some news, and I hope you won't be upset with me." Her mother pulled up a chair and sat opposite her.

"How could I be?" Concern trickled down Amelia's back even as she pasted a cheerful smile on her face. These Christmas parties were important to her parents and, even if she had to hide away in the library for a couple of hours to ensure that her wealthy patroness had a romantic embroidered cushion as a Burns Night present for her fiancé, she wanted her mother to be happy.

"We haven't talked about seating arrangements for dinner tonight."

"I don't mind you seating me next to Mr. Harris." That wasn't strictly true, but she could put tolerate his poor jokes and boasts about his aristocratic connections.

"That's..." Her mother looked away, out of the window where the snow was falling gently on the ground as the light faded. "Well, the thing is, the way the table plan is, I have to put you next to Robert." Her mother tapped her lips and swallowed. "He's coming for Christmas."

"Robert?" That name. It still made her heart pound even after, how long? Five years? "Robert who?" Her mother couldn't possibly mean... Robert. The last time Amelia had spoken to him, she'd hissed that she never wanted to see him again.

"Robert Danbury." Her mother's mouth twisted with guilt.

"No." She could not see Robert Danbury. "You told me the Danburys were coming. You didn't mention their son." Robert Danbury, the only man she'd loved and thought she'd marry. She'd have stayed in London, filial duty be damned, if she'd known he'd be here.

"Please understand, darling," her mother pleaded. "The Danburys have been very worried about him. He's been practically a recluse since his wife died."

Her heart twinged for him, but she rejected the sensation. After all, he wouldn't feel anything for her.

"They wrote and asked if he could come for Christmas with his daughter."

"Mother..." Her hope of marriage had disintegrated like a thread burning to ash when she'd watched Robert announce his engagement to Miss Isabella Garway, a prettier, more vivacious lady than her.

"I couldn't say no." Her mother leaned forwards, eyes full of supplication. "Surely you can understand, I couldn't say no to my friends when they're worried about their only son."

"And you didn't see fit to tell me until today? How could you?" She stared at her mother, her chest feeling like a pin cushion.

"I know you once held a bit of hope in that area. But you've told me many times now you don't intend to marry." Tilting her head, her mother regarded Amelia with eminent reasonableness. "It was a long time ago. You have your own life now."

She did. She had a little business doing embroidery for women disinclined to work but wanting the credit of being accomplished. The safety and comfort of Aunt Henrietta's London townhouse felt much too far away.

"I'm going home." Was it too late to ride? It was Christmas Eve. If she could borrow a good enough horse it wouldn't matter that all the coaching inns would be closed. She'd ride all the way on... Father wouldn't lend her a horse. She'd walk. With all her luggage.

"Please don't. It's one meal." Her mother's brows furrowed. "I don't want you to be alone at Christmas." Frequent company to help with Amelia's decline after Robert had married was one of the reasons her mother had suggested Amelia go to live with Great Aunt Henrietta.

"I know... I just." She couldn't see Robert. After he'd announced his engagement, Robert had asked if they could still be friends, his face earnest and his hand held out towards her. He'd been pushed upright by the force of her rejection.

Leaving at Christmas would hurt her mother, who had tried to help her and mess up the numbers at table. Besides, Great Aunt Henrietta had given the servants time off for Christmas. She would be cold and hungry until after Boxing Day at least if she returned to London.

"You can make well-mannered conversation for a couple of hours." Her mother attempted a confidence inspiring smile.

"That's always been my forte," Amelia muttered. The sarcastic remark was either not heard or acknowledged by her mother.

However much she protested she was shy, her mother swore practice was the only cure, and she'd been partially right. It had taken Amelia's determination to stitch herself back together and find a new design for her life to overcome her reticence. She'd thought marriage and love was her purpose, but over the last five years, that had changed. If sometimes she felt a pang that she wouldn't have a family, taking clothes she'd made to the orphanage assuaged it.

She still liked time on her own. But Christmas was for being happy and grateful for what one had, even if it was not what one wanted. The least she could do was stay and try not to ruin her mother's plans. She'd go home after Christmas and everything would go back to normal. Nothing could change so drastically in just a couple of days.

Amelia took a fortifying breath. "I'll stay. It's nothing."

"You're so good." Her mother beamed as she stood. "Robert will be staying in the blue room so he can be close to his daughter."

"The blue room is opposite mine." Amelia's muscles bunched up and she resisted the urge to put her head in her hands and sob. It would look like she'd arranged it for a liaison. Usually, Great-Aunt Henrietta took the blue room. But Henrietta was spending Christmas with her friend Caroline, for the first time, and she would be having a much jollier time than Amelia was.

Frowning, her mother looked down at her. "I thought you moved away from the nursery?"

"No." Amelia dragged her hand through her hair, only to remember it had been carefully pinned with little silk flowers by her mother's maid, rather than the simple bun she typically wore. "Don't you remember? We discussed it when I visited in the summer, but you wanted to finish redecorating the Chintz room first."

If Henrietta was here, there would be no space in the house for Robert Danbury. But Amelia couldn't truly resent her. She owed her great-aunt not just for helping her when she'd been sure nothing would make her happy again, but for helping her find a purpose in life with her embroidery business. Amelia was glad Henrietta and Caroline were finally spending the season together. Except for this issue of the blue room.

"Oh bother." Her mother put her hand to her mouth and hummed as she thought. "We can move your things–oh no, that won't work–the Wisbeches are in that room. If you're quick, you can–"

The sound of a carriage rumbled outside on the gravel.

"That's the Danburys." Her mother pulled Amelia up and kissed her cheek. "There's no time to sort it, I'm sorry." She turned Amelia and her deft hands straightened her hair. "Forgive me."

"Of course." This Christmas was a disaster.

Robert stepped out of the carriage and Amelia's heart skipped a beat. She'd forgotten how attractive he was. His top hat made him seem even taller than she recalled. In the last five years, her memory must have toned him down to a shadow of his real self. Probably to help her forget him, but it was like making a thread too long when sewing: it seemed like a good idea, but made it knot and snag.

His shoulders were broader than when she'd last seen him. He'd grown from a handsome youth into a devastating man.

There were other differences too. In the past, he'd always walked intently toward his object, hessian boots thumping. Now he waited patiently. Turning back to the carriage, he held out his hands. A little girl stood on the edge of the step. The child said something and Robert nodded. There was a blur of blue pelisse and Robert's great-coat as he lifted her out of the carriage and spun her around.

A pang went through Amelia. If he'd proposed to her, he might be father to a daughter of their own.

Robert was laughing, crinkles of affection next to his eyes. The expression froze as their gazes met and recognition shot between them. He looked away as he lowered his daughter to the ground.

Beside her, Mr. and Mrs. Danbury were being greeted by her parents with cries of 'Merry Christmas' and 'welcome'. Amelia joined in, smiling and hugging Mrs. Danbury, but she watched Robert. At the bottom of the steps up to the house, he stopped to have a whispered conversation. Robert was leaning down to the little girl, his head next to hers, the same shade of dark brown.

The little girl appeared to be shy. Amelia's throat ached like it had been sewn up. She'd been an only child herself, and terribly withdrawn. She'd thought she'd always be that way, and would one day have a family of her own to insulate herself from the rest of the world. But being heartbroken had caused her to overturn both of those assumptions.

Robert walked up the steps slowly as the girl trotted up, peeping to either side warily. Out of the corner of her eye Amelia saw her parents share a look. She supposed they were surprised the child wasn't being carried by a nursemaid, as would be more usual. As formal welcomes from her parents were in progress with Robert, his daughter fiddled with her skirts and looked at Amelia covertly.

"Happy Christmas." The girl looked up at her with big, serious brown eyes just like Robert's.

"Happy Christmas to you too." Amelia knelt. "We haven't met before. What's your name?" Above her head, she sensed more than saw Robert turn.

"Miss Edith Danbury." She enunciated every word carefully, but in barely more than a whisper. Amelia's stomach became liquid at the little girl's concentration.

"An excellent, strong name." Amelia glanced up at Robert. In his expression she saw as much apprehension as was probably in her own face, as well as a streak of pride. Understandable. If she had a daughter like Edith, overcoming her apprehension to greet her hosts correctly, she'd be proud too. "My name is Amelia Chilson."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Chilson," Edith said as though she'd been taught it by rote.

"Oh, no." Amelia struggled to keep her fingers still. They suddenly longed-for silk threads and a needle. "I'm Miss Chilson. My mother is Mrs. Chilson, she's over there."

"You're a Miss like me." Edith's eyes lit up.

"Yes." An unmarried woman was considered by society in general no different than a little girl. She stood and brushed off the snow that had landed on her dress.

There was only so many flakes to be dusted from her skirts, but she shouldn't have looked up. As soon as she did she was caught by his face. He wasn't as clean shaven as he used to be, with dark stubble across his jawline. There were tiny laughter lines around his eyes and mouth. His expression was carefully neutral, perhaps even concerned.

"Mr. Danbury." She couldn't trust herself to say his Christian name. The word _Robert_ might come out with all sorts of intonation she couldn't control or predict. A game of voice roulette - it could be angry, longing, accusatory, resentful, or supplicant. She had no idea. She was wholly unprepared for this encounter.

"Miss Chilson."

"Do come inside." She clasped her hands behind her back to prevent herself from grabbing his lapels and shaking him until he went home or she shook out of him the reason he'd looked over her and married another woman instead. "It's cold out here and there's mulled wine in the parlor."

Miss Danbury only needed a little encouragement from her father and held his hand as they walked into the entrance hall. Amelia stood and watched them for a second, his heavy footsteps and her tripping little gait.

Hadn't she learned anything? She might have forgotten how attractive he was, but her heart hadn't forgotten how to jump at the sound of his voice. It was a good thing she had also not forgotten what she'd sworn when he'd broken her heart. She'd promised herself she'd never fall in love again, or dream of marriage. Especially not with Robert Danbury.

He hadn't seen Amelia in five years, then, it seemed without warning, he was sat next to her at Christmas Eve dinner. But she was still as beautiful as he recalled. He'd forgotten that her nose was a little snub. It gave her the cuteness that had faded to a vague sweet taste in his mind.

"I didn't think you'd be here." Amelia didn't face him, looking fixedly at her plate as she picked at the slice of pheasant breast she'd been served and pushed around the carrots and parsnips.

She wasn't pleased to see him. What had he expected? He'd been courting her, she'd rebuffed him, then he'd married Isabella. Their last meeting hadn't been amicable. He'd been desperate to salvage something from the ruins of his situation and she'd made it clear again that she hadn't had any tender feelings for him.

"I didn't know either." He'd been so focused on ensuring his mother and Edith had a wonderful Christmas, since they might not have another together, he'd hardly thought of anything else. Little had he realized when his mother had revealed to him that she was ill, that this would be the result. His father had taken him aside and told him what his mother hadn't wanted to admit. The doctors were not hopeful for her and she grew weaker every day. When his mother had asked if he'd break his self-imposed exile and come to Christmas, he'd agreed immediately, if reluctantly.

"We don't have to converse." Amelia didn't turn.

The view of her graceful neck was unintentional but still made her hair glint in the candlelight. The sight made his fingers itch with the desire to run his hands up from her back into the soft blond curls. He took another mouthful of pheasant to prevent himself from doing something truly stupid. The tender meat and rich red-wine sauce were delicious, the parsnips perfectly cooked, but he couldn't enjoy it. He'd told himself intermittently over the years that he hadn't loved Amelia and it had been a flight of youthful fancy.

His mother caught his eye from further up the table and gave him a tired smile. He returned it. She nodded toward Amelia and made an expression he recognized as, 'go on'.

"I want to talk to you," he said. It was like the reckless urge to touch a thorny plant. Amelia had strung him along, making him think she'd cared for him, only to shatter him by point-blank saying she didn't love him and denying him a kiss. Too late of course, because he'd already given her the largest part of his heart. Everything had gone wrong thereafter, but seeing her again made him wish for that kiss.

"You're seated opposite me tomorrow." She ignored his previous statement entirely. "And do beware, my mother has put mistletoe practically everywhere."

"I see," he replied. She'd probably refuse to kiss him anyway, as she had years ago. Though there was a prick of resentment in her tone as if she loathed the idea of kissing him at all. Maybe she really had just tolerated him all the time they'd been flirting.

"What have you been doing?" It was an act of self-torture to want to know, anything to feel close to her. After such a long drought, even Amelia snapping at him felt like the barb of a rose, just a part of the experience that he'd missed as much as the rich scent and the soft petals.

"There are a number of charities my great-aunt and I help," she stated. Just a fact, not a boast. "I make clothes and blankets for the poor."

"Oh, what a good work," Mrs. Wisbech cut into the conversation from across the table. "It's so important to ensure those without means or skills are provided for."

She had no children of her own, so she was generously aiding those in need. His chest tightened. In the years since he'd last seen Amelia, other things had taken precedence to his feelings. His marriage to Isabella. Her death. His daughter. The estates. The success of the paper mill felt hollow because of what was lost.

All that had convinced him that he was indifferent to Amelia and over his calf love. He wasn't. But amongst genuine admiration for her work, there was a hint of disappointment that she'd chosen such an earnest, but uninteresting, path. Every gentle-woman in the country helped the parish poor by knitting socks and handing out pennies to those who were 'worthy' and 'suitably' grateful.

"Your mother says you made a beautiful christening gown with the most intricate embroidery." Mrs. Wisbech smiled across at Amelia. "Did you donate it? Or are you hoping to have use of it one day?"

"It was nice." Amelia's face went blank. "I donated it to the _Women's Society of Hope_. It's run by my great-aunt's friend Caroline. That's who Henrietta is spending Christmas with rather than being here with us, as Caroline is recently widowed."

"The Society of Hope." It sounded more like the Amelia he remembered, quiet and well-mannered, with a core of bright determination. "What does the organization do?"

"It helps fallen women and their children." Amelia looked at him levelly.

Mrs. Wisbech's knife clattered onto her plate. There was an awkward silence.

"Well." Mrs. Wisbech picked up her knife. "I'm sorry to hear it was given to those who won't appreciate it and don't deserve it."

"I regret you feel that way. I think every baby deserves to be christened in a beautiful gown." Pink had risen in Amelia's cheeks and she spoke into her plate. But she spoke boldly.

Robert was struggling to restrain his grin and his shock. A charity for prostitutes was out of the usual. It spoke of a kind but independent spirit. It was the Amelia he remembered, but bigger, like a fully grown flower where he'd seen the green young plant.

"It is not the child that is at fault, it is the mother." Mrs. Wisbech's earnest condemnation of fallen women quietened the chatter at their end of the table.

Amelia's lips flattened into a pale line and her knuckles whitened as she gripped her fork. "At Christmastime, isn't it beholden on us to think of every child as baby Jesus, and every mother as Mary?"

"The blessed mother of Jesus was a virgin." Mrs. Wisbech arched an eyebrow, as though she'd won the argument.

Amelia didn't retort. That was probably best, but he could see her scowling at her carrots.

"If certain men didn't request such acts, women would not provide them." He directed his comment to the table generally. "One cannot blame a single party in such cases." If he could restrain himself, other men ought to. He'd never sullied his marriage vows, as he knew some of his friends did and had been alone since he'd been a widower.

"The foundling hospital would have been a good charity for the gown." Mrs. Wisbech declared. "Perhaps you will focus your efforts towards orphans in the future."

"They're half orphans," Amelia mumbled, only just audible to him.

He stifled a laugh.

"Mr. Danbury." A footman was at his elbow. "Your daughter's nursemaid is insisting Miss Danbury see you before she goes to bed. I've told her–"

"I'll come immediately." He always saw his daughter before she went to sleep, usually to read her a story. He folded his napkin next to his plate. "Please excuse me for a moment." He began to stand.

"Oh, Mr. Danbury, bring the little poppet down," Mrs. Wisbech said, loud enough to be heard all the way down the table. "What do you think, Mrs. Chilson?"

He hesitated. Edith could be overwhelmed by lots of people and it had already been a long day.

"That would be lovely." His mother's face brightened.

Mrs. Chilson nodded to the footman. "Please bring her down."

He sat back into his chair and looked across to Amelia. She didn't meet his gaze.

Edith's eyes were wide when she walked into the dining room. She was wearing her pale blue dress with the puffy sleeves. Pushing out his chair, Robert held out his arms and she came straight to him. He scooped her up and put her on his knee and she turned into him, shielding herself from the smiling faces around the table. It was hardly believable some days she was the same child who he'd cradled on his arm when she was born. He hugged her tight. "Did you have a tasty dinner?"

Edith nodded. Curiosity overcame shyness and she peeped around the side of his shoulder. She looked around the table with all the quiet subtlety of an overawed four-year-old child

It took him a moment to realize she was staring at Amelia. With her blue eyes and shining waves of blonde hair, Edith would be drawn to her. He ought to distract her from being rude.

"Are you excited about Christmas?" Amelia asked from beside him, before he could say anything.

Edith nodded.

"Do you think your papa has brought you a lovely present?"

More vigorous nodding this time. "Dolly." His daughter's voice was a breathless whisper of excitement.

"Will your dolls have tea together?" Amelia asked.

A shake of the head this time. "Adventures." She said it just the same way as he did when he suggested they go out together, ad-ven-tures, with all the emphasis on 'ven'.

His heart tried to push out of his chest like a plant struggling to escape a cloche it had outgrown. He and Edith went on adventures to the glasshouse or the woods, and she wanted to take her dolls for adventures too. They were their special activity, and somehow just saying the word in Amelia's presence invoked the thought of the three of them exploring the gardens together, Edith watching Amelia for how to hold her skirts out of the mud, or step over a stile gracefully.

"Adventures sound exciting for your dolls. Let's hope your papa knows what you'd like."

Their gazes met over Edith's head and his heart jolted as though he'd forgotten again how lovely she was. She must charm all the women and children at her charity, just like she had effortlessly charmed Edith.

Reminded of his presence, Edith's gaze slid around back to him expectantly, as if she thought he would reveal the German-made doll he'd bought her, with stunningly painted wooden hands and feet, and real hair. It was only when he noticed Amelia watching them with a wistful expression that he realized he'd picked a doll with blue eyes exactly like hers. He swallowed.

"You had better go to bed, so you can be ready for your adventures tomorrow. I can't read to you tonight, but we'll have a story tomorrow morning to make up for it." He grasped Edith under the armpits and lowered her to the floor. She looked up at him wordlessly, waiting.

Edith wasn't going to leave without him saying it. In front of all the dinner guests. Amelia would think him a weakly indulgent father who denied his daughter nothing since she didn't have a mother. But perhaps that was closer to the truth than he would like to admit.

"Night-night, sleep-tight, don't let the bed bugs bite." He leaned down and kissed her little cheek. As he drew back, he couldn't resist smoothing the stray wisp of hair out of her eyes.

Edith's nursemaid led her away and Robert managed not to watch his daughter like a besotted fool, replacing his napkin in his lap and only checking once as she left the room.

"She's a sweet child." Amelia toyed with the little sprig of holly and ivy next to her place setting. "You must dote on her."

"I wouldn't say that." Was it that obvious? He picked up his knife and fork, but belatedly realized he'd finished his food. Discussing his daughter with Amelia was more than he could do. Not after seeing her speak so tenderly to Edith.

"I see." Her tone was playful. "She isn't sweet, or you don't dote on her?"

He spoiled his daughter, that was the truth. Edith ought to have a brother or sister so she wasn't the focus of so much of the attention. Honestly, it was what he had always wanted, a house full of giggling children. He'd once thought he'd have that with Amelia, but that wasn't going to happen now. He couldn't allow himself the folly of imagining the three of them together.

"Do you live here all year round?" he asked. The abrupt change of conversation rang hollow.

"I live in London with my great-aunt." The hard edge had returned to her voice. She looked to her other side, where there was a lull in conversation. "Do you visit London at all, Mr. Harris?"

Amelia had been shy years ago, frequently not daring to voice her opinions to any but a select few. She'd been a wallflower, budding and hiding her beauty behind a screen of leaves. Since then she'd bloomed, and although she wasn't a showy flower, she was strong. Being a companion and her charity work had obviously given her confidence. There would be no space in her refined London life for a quiet widower and his daughter. A good thing too, since he couldn't marry again, as lovemaking was out of the question after he'd lost Isabella in childbirth.

It had been Christmas when he'd lost Amelia and by some miracle, they were together again at Christmas. Though it could never come to anything and it was years too late, he still wanted from Amelia what he'd desired five years ago. A kiss.

# Chapter 2

Placing the candle-holder on the table, Amelia rummaged around in her workbox for the red silk thread she needed for the next section of embroidery. Her little corner of the library was well lit and her favorite place in her parent's house to work. Dinner had continued without incident after the dispute with Mrs. Wisbech and the visit from Robert's daughter. After the ladies had withdrawn, she'd escaped as soon as was civil. She didn't want to be sitting across the fire from Robert, telling herself again that neither his attitudes towards fallen women nor his generous sweetness with his daughter were anything to admire him for. The intense look in his eye when he smiled at her was no better.

Robert next to her at dinner was as much of a trial as Mrs. Wisbech's awful comments, though in a different way. What would he think of her if he knew that his closeness made her quiver with awareness, every part of her tingling?

The fire had been smoking at some point and beneath the scent of pine boughs, there was a tang of wood smoke. Moving to her trunk, she picked out a candle from her supply. Once it was dark, as early as five o'clock at this time of year, a good candle or an oil lamp was essential.

She went to pick up her candle and leave, her gaze slipping across the bookshelves. _The Parent's Assistant_ seemed to jump out at her and she thought of Robert saying he'd read Edith a story. These shelves had been hers when she lived here, allocated to her as a child by her mother. Initially, they'd held the books that had been read to her when she came down to see her parents in the evening. The books she read as an adult had all been taken to London five years ago, but these vestiges of childhood remained. Along with all hope of being a parent herself.

She didn't have a present for either Robert or Edith tomorrow. It wasn't expected to give presents outside of close family, but a children's book would be a kind gesture. She didn't examine why she'd want to be generous to a little girl she barely knew, the daughter of a man who'd snubbed her.

Her heart squeezed at the thought of Robert reading to Edith as she focused on the shelves. There was _Aesop's Fables_. There was _The History of Little Goody Two-Shoes_ , which she'd loved. Or _The Parent's Assistant_ that had caught her eye. She picked the book off the shelf and flicked through. Her forgotten edition had engraved pictures and included the story of _The Purple Jar_ , where the girl chooses a purple vase instead of shoes, only to discover the jar was just clear glass, full of disgusting purple liquid. She and Great-Aunt Henrietta had laughed once that the moral of the story was never to trust a man selling you something that looked too good to be true.

That was why she sometimes made a quick miniature of the whole pattern, so the lady ordering an embroidery would know where the piece was heading, and approve the design. She'd made a tiny shawl for Miss Montrose this summer, in light pinks and greens. The sample was somewhere in her work trunk, where she liked to keep all her pieces that would fit. If Edith's doll was large, it could be a shawl, otherwise it could be a blanket.

"Apologies." A masculine voice came from behind her.

She wheeled around to see Robert standing in the doorway. He stood so straight, like his back was made of metal.

"I don't want to interrupt you." He paused. "I came to find a book to read."

He would pick a book and take it with him into his room, maybe to read in bed. His unclothed skin mere inches from the pages. Her chest tightened. Lucky book.

"One moment." She was acting like a green girl. It wasn't her place to be jealous of whichever book he chose. "I'll leave you to choose in peace." She slid _The Parent's Assistant_ back onto the shelf.

There was a soft swoosh as he closed the door and the sound of footsteps in the room. She gathered up the silk and heard the soft chink as he set his candle on the reading table in the middle of the room. Then out of the corner of her eye, she could see him standing in the large archway of the alcove, watching her. His face was panes of light and shadow from the fire and the candles.

"How have you been? It was a while ago that we last saw each other."

"Yes." That wasn't an answer. Even answering his innocent question was dangerous, bringing up all the sentiments of the past. He made her want to shout the question that had been rumbling around her head for five years. "Fine. Thank you."

"Are you happy in London?" His voice was low and warm, concerned almost. "You used to avoid crowds."

"Things change." Specifically, heartbreak had changed her. First nearly snapping her, then galvanizing her into a new life. A new way of being.

"Do you go to balls, assemblies, Vauxhall Gardens?" He sounded befuddled at the concept. As well he might, since Amelia had always avoided such gatherings in the past.

"No. Henrietta and I go to the theatre most weeks and go to the park every day. We meet up with her friends. Otherwise, we usually stay quietly at home. We read from the lending library." London had plenty of distractions that weren't Almacks or gin palaces. Henrietta had an enormous library that she'd picked out books from when Amelia had first arrived and dropped them into her hands saying that these would make her feel better. Poetry, mostly, but novels as well. Scott, Burns, Donne, Byron. Poetry that spoke to her aching heart. And to her other sensibilities.

Henrietta was a woman of the 1780s, always rolling her eyes about how insubstantial the current dresses and the girls in them were. She had laughed at how scandalized Amelia had been by Donne and Byron's poems and told her this was how the world was now she was a grown woman. At first, Amelia had read Donne's poems of thwarted love. Then among the long tirades on Donne's faithless loves, _The Flea_ had caught her attention. _Thou know'st that this cannot be said a sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead._ It had remade all her youthful preconceptions about what was, and wasn't, a sin.

Robert's shoulders looked strong, even under his coat, and his hair, shiny and gently curved over his ear, begged for her touch. He looked like he would be a wonderful lover. Tender and strong. And unlike either of her previous lovers, he would make her love him. Lying with Robert would take her whole heart, not just her corporeal body. She knew instinctively that with Robert that a mingling of blood in the marital bed would mean more than it would in a flea.

Enough. This train of thought was not a good idea. She went to walk past him.

He turned with her. "Aren't you going to take your candle?"

She hesitated. _Darn_. She needed light to work by upstairs. He always befuddled her.

"There's mistletoe," he added. His voice was like sweet sherry, washing over her and promising searing delight, soothing as the alcohol stung.

"I warned you, it's everywhere." Why was her heart beating faster?

"We're under some now." His cheekbones were thrown into relief in the candlelight.

She followed his gaze upwards to the ball of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling, just where they'd stopped in the entrance to the alcove. A Christmas kissing trap.

"It wouldn't be proper." Her blood was crackling through her like a fire. Her first kiss with Robert, after all these years. Her eighteen-year-old self would have fainted away. Her present self was sewn to the floor. His warm lips could reignite all the old feelings that had been waiting, dry and ready for a spark.

"There's no-one to see us." He spread his hands as if to present the lack of company.

"There's no-one to see that we didn't kiss." But she didn't move. If she really didn't want to feel his lips on hers, she would retrieve her candle and depart. She'd laugh, and brush away his insinuation like so much dust.

"It's bad luck not to kiss." He took a step towards her, closing the gap between them. "You denied me once before."

She had. Before his marriage. At the beginning of the Christmas season of 1812, he'd caught her beneath the mistletoe in a crowded room. And she had felt the walls closing in on her as everyone watched them.

"And you blame that for your bad luck?" Her voice came out more concerned than confrontational.

He didn't say anything, but she could see it was only a force of pure will that kept his gaze on her face. He wanted to hide the pain of the past years from her, but it was there, plain to see.

"It's supposed to be the woman who is unlucky if she doesn't have a kiss under the mistletoe."

There was a beat of silence.

"I was embarrassed." She rattled off the excuse. "Everyone was watching. I felt like if you kissed me everyone would laugh at me." The silly, besotted girl throwing her handkerchief at a confident man obviously her superior. Their parents might have been friends, but he'd been away at boarding school most of his childhood. When she'd been tutored in embroidery by a governess, he'd been at university. She still flushed with humiliation at the memory of him laughing at her when she'd revealed she'd thought pineapples grew on pine trees. As an only child, she'd no idea how to deal with interactions between people, never-mind those between men and women.

"I asked to kiss you under the mistletoe," he said mildly. "And you refused in front of our families and friends."

He didn't say that he'd put his pride on the line and she'd embarrassed him. He didn't have to. Suddenly she saw it so plainly. In her own shyness and fear of discomfort, she'd embarrassed him. She'd thought he had understood that she'd felt awkward, that she hadn't been rejecting him, just the public mortification of everyone watching her. She'd thought he knew. After all, he'd still talked to her and danced with her afterward.

Until he'd married Isabella Garway and she'd told him she never wanted to see him again. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"It's in the past." Stepping forward, he reached out and smoothed his thumb across the apple of her cheek while his brown eyes searched her face. "No-one is watching us now."

She wanted to turn her face towards his hand. He was near and she could smell his cologne, something earthy and spicy. Could he hear her heartbeat? It seemed to be coming from outside her body, pushing her along. Without her volition, her feet went up onto tiptoes. Her mouth opened and her chin tilted up in an invitation for him to kiss her. But he didn't.

She'd done him wrong once, and maybe this was just repeating the error in another way. But sense be damned. Softly, she touched her lips to his, so he could misinterpret it as a casual kiss of apology. Maybe she could have lied to herself that was all it was if she hadn't heard the tiniest catch of his breath as his lips moved on hers. At the moment that she would have pulled away if this were a chaste kiss, his fingers pushed into the hair above her ear and he deepened the kiss, their tongues meeting between their lips.

She grasped at his lapels to steady herself. He wrapped his arms around her waist so she was pressed to him, the thin wool of her skirt and linen petticoats feeling like no barrier between them. His mouth was warm on hers, demanding more, his tongue stroking her lips. But the kiss was that of a new lover, allowing her the opportunity to leave, not holding her too tightly.

She'd been kissed before and assumed her lovers had been skilled, or certainly competent. But a kiss had never felt like this before, a sweet sparking sensation through her lips that spread all down her body. Her hand had found his shoulder, and ohhh, his body was as firm and muscled beneath the superfine wool of his coat as it had looked. The side of her forefinger rubbed against the smooth skin and jagged stubble of his neck. She wanted to indulge in his strength. If she'd known their mistletoe kiss would be like this, she'd have been right to refuse him in company. Her hips pressed closer to him of their own volition. He was hard against her stomach, which fluttered in response. It had been a while since she'd had a lover and her body revived to Robert's touch. She wanted to feel his skin, touch and be touched, and have the thrill of joining. He'd be as attentive and tender as his kiss. An idea bloomed in her belly; they could be lovers.

It was a good thing there was no-one to see them, as he was trailing kisses across her jaw and the sensitive skin of her neck. She tilted her head to allow him more access. This was madness and she craved it.

A door slammed.

The push away was instinctive, but she saw his brows tuck together momentarily before his hands released her waist. They stood mute, both panting slightly.

The implications of being caught together rushed through her mind: her life as a respectable spinster companion, gone in a haze of scandal. She'd come a long way in five years with Henrietta's assistance. Pinning all her hopes on Robert had been a mistake then, and it was no less an error now. One kiss and she'd been about to forget all the years when she'd worked to put him out of her mind and heart, and how she'd found comfort and happiness without him. He'd let her down, like a purple vase. He would prove just as false again, if she let him.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway.

He was watching her, his expression shuttered now. The murmured voices of the butler chastising the footman for his tardy clearing of the dessert plates felt as if they were right next to them. It was a timely reminder that it was too late for the two of them.

"I'll leave you in peace." She put all the best wishes she could in the words and hoped he understood. To be naïve enough to think a man would marry her and make his life with her at eighteen was bird-witted, but understandable. To make the same mistake, with the same man no-less, at twenty-three would make her a nincompoop. "To find a book."

She turned away, gathered her candles and thread. There was no way she was going to risk herself again, just to close this chapter properly. She'd always wonder why he'd chosen another woman instead of her, but to bring up the topic between them would be futile and hurtful. She was almost at the door when he spoke.

"I visit London sometimes." He rubbed his neck. "Usually every month or fortnight, on a Wednesday, for business. Could I call on you in the afternoon?"

Her mouth fell open. He had no idea what he was asking.

Every Wednesday afternoon Henrietta had a visit from her friend Caroline. From the beginning, Henrietta had been clear that Amelia was to make herself scarce and not disturb them. She said they played cards and were particular about being disturbed.

For the first year or so, Amelia hadn't questioned it and had left the house, along with the servants on their half day holiday, and gone to church or to the heath for a walk. Sometimes she'd taken the opportunity to visit one of her embroidery clients. One particularly wet and cold February afternoon, she'd decided to stay home and had lounged in the library, sewing and reading. And however good a card game was, the sounds she'd heard coming from Henrietta's bedroom were... excessive.

The John Donne poetry and Henrietta and everything Amelia had learned in the year since she'd arrived had crystallized in her mind. What Henrietta and Caroline did together was not a dishonor. Amelia had been brought up to understand that her innocence was only for her husband. But if Amelia wasn't going to have a husband, and she didn't want to have a female 'friend' like Henrietta and Caroline, then who was it for but herself? And as _The Flea_ showed, worrying about preserving herself for marriage was a false fear.

As Donne said, it wouldn't harm her or anyone else if she experienced the marriage bed. If Great-Aunt Henrietta could have a lover, then so could Amelia. On a Wednesday afternoon.

By innocently asking if he could call on her on a Wednesday afternoon, it was as if he'd asked to be her lover.

"What a nice idea. Unfortunately, I'm very busy." She had guarded her heart too long to risk it now. She was determined to take after Henrietta and be a happy spinster.

"Naturally." Robert's hand stilled on his neck as if his fingers were digging into his skin. "Goodnight, Miss Chilson."

She felt his gaze, hot on her back, all the way until the door closed behind her.

Robert listened to Amelia's light footsteps until he wasn't sure whether he was imagining the sound or not. The feel of her lips still tingled on his and the darkness of the library felt like a thick fog around him.

He let out a deep, shuddering breath and straightened his cravat. Kissing Amelia, after all this time, was as stupefying and beautiful as the clear night sky.

This ought to feel like closure, but it didn't. Obeying Amelia's command to leave her alone had been a thorn so deep into his flesh that he'd barely felt the ache of it anymore. Their kiss had reopened the wound, leaking hope and love.

The feeling took him straight back to being twenty-one again. He'd graduated from Cambridge at the beginning of the summer of 1812 and upon returning home, had continuously argued with his parents. He'd wanted to join the army and fight the French, or at least manage the paper mill himself rather than shadow his father and learn the business of estate management. Fresh from university, he was convinced they had to innovate and his father's traditional views frustrated him.

But his parents' real intent had been transparent. They'd not only wanted to keep their only son away from war, they'd conspicuously ensured he went to every local social occasion where young women were present.

Amelia's laugh, gentle, soft and warm, had drawn him in. She had been a wallflower, always on the edge of the chatter. But when he'd come and sat next to her, they'd talked easily. She'd listened to him explain the cultivation of pineapples and he'd asked about stem stitch and back stitch. He'd hoped they had a connection, but when he'd watched her he'd not been able to see anything particular about her regard for him. He had never been sure whether all the partiality had been on his side. But there had been a lot of partiality. Love, even.

Isabella had been utterly different. Gregarious and flashy, she'd made her admiration of him very clear. Whenever Amelia wasn't there, or was reluctant to dance in public, Isabella had grabbed his hand and insisted on one more country dance.

As the leaves had turned yellow then brown, Robert had plucked up courage when out walking to ask Amelia about her thoughts on love. She'd rebuffed him then, not giving any indication she might share his budding feelings.

Still, he'd been cautiously optimistic as the days shortened and cooled and the nights became longer. They conversed and he teased her. She did seem to smile a bit more when she saw him. How did one coax a lady of delicate sensibilities into revealing her true feelings?

Then the Nevins' ball, the first of the Christmas season, provided the simple answer. A kiss under the mistletoe was socially required. It was the perfect way to see if she would welcome his advances without spoiling their friendship with an unwanted proposal.

He hadn't meant for everyone to be watching, but by the time she'd leaned away and flushed holly-berry red, it was too late. She'd made herself entirely clear and humiliated him into the bargain by not even allowing a chaste peck on the cheek. That was how much she didn't want him.

This evening she'd turned everything upside-down by revealing that she'd not kissed him because of simple embarrassment. Perhaps accepting his attention had always been due to reluctance to draw attention to herself by rebuffing him. Even their kiss just now, when she'd arched against him so sweetly when they'd kissed, didn't mean she cared for him. After all, she was 'too busy' to meet.

Turning to the bookshelves, he blindly picked a volume. He'd go to bed. Tomorrow he would fulfill his mother's wish for a wonderful Christmas, possibly her last. He'd care for his daughter, who deserved better than her secluded life so far. He wouldn't involve himself with Amelia, to protect himself and her. His vow to not marry was important, not something to be dismissed as soon as it was inconvenient.

She was undoing two stitches for every three she made. Which was, in general, the theme for the day. That kiss under the mistletoe had been a mistake. A devastating, beautiful, delicious mistake she wanted to repeat. But like a blue thread accidentally stitched into a scarlet rose, it had to be undone. It wouldn't do her any good to think of his arms around her, the feeling of his tongue or the firm strength of his shoulders. He'd hurt her once, it would be unwise to allow him to again.

The embers were glowing in the fireplace grate, and her candle was spilling a little ring of light onto the red silk threads. The needle wouldn't go where she wanted it. Her fingers were heavy and every stitch seemed uneven. Instead of focusing on her work she was thinking about Robert.

She put the embroidery aside, blew out the candle and slid down into her bed. It was pointless to resist. She would undo the night's work tomorrow, and make better progress once she was concentrating properly. She'd forget about Robert and the quivers down her spine and the warmth between her legs that he engendered. Pulling the covers over her, she closed her eyes. Tomorrow she'd sort out everything. Tonight she ought to sleep.

But immediately she could see him in her mind, as he had been earlier. His arms had felt sturdy around her. She hadn't had any reason to look or think about such things years ago, when she'd been a shy virgin, but her imagination filled in all the blanks now, thinking of uses for all that muscle. Like lifting her up.

Between his legs was well filled out too, she'd felt that clearly. If his manhood was as generously proportioned as it seemed, he'd be a deliciously tight fit. Would he have mischievous fingers that would stroke and tease at her nipples? He seemed as if he'd be a considerate lover, perhaps a little serious.

Well, it was bacon-brained speculation. She opened her eyes and stared at the wall leading to the corridor. He was through that door, across the corridor, and into the next room. He might only be twelve feet away from her right now. He might be under just a thin layer of linen. His chest might be bare.

The impulse to get up and go to find out went through her like a needle through fabric, a bold invasion that left a thread behind it. Two doors. A couple of steps across the corridor. She would enter without a knock and he'd be surprised, lying reading in bed. He would take her in his arms when she crawled over the bed to him, and hold her fast.

Or not. Hadn't she already comprehended how to combat such thoughts about Robert? Her first lover – no love involved – had been her antidote to Robert, to some extent. Though she could never be sure why she'd laughed it off when Pierre had asked her to marry him, saying learning French would be beyond her.

It wasn't often she gave in to the temptation of doing as he'd taught her. _Onanism_ , Pierre had called it, and he'd delighted in watching her. And here in the privacy of her own bed, she could indulge the fantasy that Robert's fingers knew exactly what she liked. She'd never risked for even a moment letting her guard down and imagining Robert as she touched herself. But this was Christmas, a time for excess and revelry. She relaxed and allowed her hand to smooth down over her collar bones, rubbing the linen of her nightgown against her nipple, pressing her waist and then gathering up the fabric at her hip to allow her hand to slip between her legs.

It was her own fingers that found the wetness seeping from her lips, but she imagined Robert's expression of surprised joy that she was drenched for him.

She dipped her finger down to her entrance and slid her fingers up and over the top of her clitoris, spiraling in and away. It could be Robert's fingers on her, his body over her, him watching her expressions as he brought her to pleasure. She didn't want to want him, but her body was primed, desperate to tip over into ecstasy. Her fingers had sped up without her volition, focusing closer onto her center of pleasure, pushing harder onto it. He would be inside her, in the place that felt like an empty cavern though it was nothing of the kind. He would fill her up, hard against her core. Her orgasm punctured through her, making her jolt with the laconic pleasure of it. As it ebbed away, she moved her hand away. Her fingers and wrist ached from the ferocity of her circling.

She probably ought not to have done that. Her fingers were sticky and her knuckles felt brittle as she wiped them on her nightgown. For five years, she'd remained steady in her intention to never think of Robert during lovemaking, solo or otherwise. She didn't know how she could look at Robert again without reliving the orgasm she'd had in his honor, or pleasure herself without imagining him there, with her. It was like having used silk thread – linen thread would inevitably feel inferior now.

But perhaps it was better than her other impulse. This might have been unwise, but the alternatives were much more dangerous than her little fantasy.

# Chapter 3

Christmas day dawned with an ice-blue sky, frost decorating every blade of grass in the garden and painting swirling patterns on Amelia's window that melted as the morning fire warmed her bedroom. After breakfast and church, the whole party gathered in the drawing room to exchange presents. The fire was blazing in the grate and the Wisbechs had taken the prime seats near to it. Mrs. Wisbech was volubly complaining about _The Holly and the Ivy_ being sung in the church service, on the basis that it was pagan nonsense. Amelia wondered if the comment was pointed at her mother. The walls in the drawing room were covered in boughs of evergreen with tiny pine cones, holly with bright red berries, and mistletoe. Wreaths with cinnamon sticks and clove oranges were hung between every picture and the scent of Christmas was in the air.

It was warm and comfortable, but Amelia couldn't relax. Wherever she looked in the room there was the memory of her and Robert kissing under the mistletoe. It was like they were ghosts, haunting the whole house with their denied lust. She could see them in a clinch, his hands tight on her waist, her fingers in his hair. They were under every ball of mistletoe, kissing each other with reckless abandon. Every sigh and breath she heard reminded her of the little moans of delight he had made from the back of his throat.

Ghost Robert and Amelia were everywhere. When her mother unwrapped the gloves she'd given her, a shadow of Robert was stroking Amelia's hair. When her father thanked her for the engraved pipe she'd bought him in London she had to grit her teeth to focus on him, because just at the edge of her vision was her apparition, running her hands over Robert's shoulders.

The only place of relative escape was when she looked at Robert. The presence of Edith, who was sat on the floor next to him, thankfully kept such thoughts from her. But it didn't help. Edith was awed by the grandeur of Christmas day. She watched intently as the adults received their presents, taking joy in every gift as well as fidgeting with anticipation for her own presents.

"Now," Robert said when his parents had exchanged their presents. He leaned over and from under his chair drew a box, covered with floral print muslin and tied with a big red ribbon in a bow. "Who do you think this is for?"

Edith bit her lip. "Is it for me?"

Amelia looked over to the window, past Robert's mother who observed indulgently.

"Yes." Robert smiled and nodded, holding the box out to her.

Edith tugged at the ribbon. Thankfully the bow released immediately, otherwise probably her impatience would have damaged it. Then the fabric fell open, the lid was off the box, and Edith was staring open-mouthed for a full three seconds before grabbing up the doll inside and holding it close to her face to take in all the details.

"Oh," Edith sighed. "She's wonderful." Her gaze was fixed on the face of the doll. "Where did you get it, Papa?"

The doll had a delicately painted wooden face and hands, blonde ringlets, and big blue eyes. Her dress was pale blue, like the one Edith had been wearing yesterday.

"It comes all the way from Germany." Robert was leaned forwards in his chair, elbows on his knees, watching his daughter with barely disguised mirth.

"Did you go to Germany?" Edith asked, running her fingers across the doll's dress.

"No, another man did and bought many dolls. I chose her for you from the ones he bought. What will you call her?" His voice was patient.

A moment of panic went across Edith's face. "I don't know." She stroked the yellow curls of hair as she frowned thoughtfully.

"Do you like it?" Robert's happiness at his daughter's joy showed in every line of his face.

"Oh, yes." She looked up, then threw herself into Robert's arms.

They made a nice scene, the two of them, embracing. Him in his bottle-green waistcoat and black tail-coat, her with little green ribbons on her dress and in her hair.

Her heart throbbed. It was a kind present from a father to daughter. A German doll was the best, and expensive. Perhaps it was lavish of him, but Edith didn't seem spoilt, just protected and loved.

She wished he were hers. She wished they both were. To be included in that, to be part of their family, would be something. But she'd always be second best to Robert, the woman he kissed because tragedy had befallen his wife. When Amelia had said she hadn't wanted to see him again years ago, it was partly because she'd known her weak heart would thud at the sight of him and that might induce her to accept less than she deserved. Love was a dangerous thing, making a person desperate to be near a man, and Amelia did not want it.

Robert ruffled Edith's hair and kissed her cheek as they shifted apart.

For just a moment, she could include herself in that coveted tenderness. She could pretend Edith was as beloved to her as the daughter the deepest aches in her chest longed for, but would never have.

"I have something more for you, Edith." She took a deep breath. "Or, more correctly, for your doll." She drew out the shawl. She hadn't wrapped it, as she didn't want to make a performance out of the gift. She held it out to Edith.

Edith turned to her father for approval then approached cautiously, like a spaniel coming to take a treat. She looked at the embroidered fabric in Amelia's hand for a second before tilting her head. "What is it?"

"It's a shawl, so your doll will stay warm."

A slow smile crept across Edith's face as she picked the fabric from Amelia's hand. She draped it over the doll's shoulders, then set about trying to adjust it to look right.

Robert's gaze skipped between her, Edith, and the doll. "Thank you. That's–" He cleared his throat. "Thank you." He stared at the doll, his throat bobbing. "I don't have anything to give you."

"It doesn't matter." And it didn't. This warmth spreading outwards from her heart was enough. Watching Edith play with the little doll covered in the embroidery she'd made was enough. Seeing Robert appreciate her gift was plenty.

"And I thought you might like this." Amelia reached behind her, her heart thudding. It felt like giving a piece of herself, passing over the copy of _The Parent's Assistant_. When she'd gone into the library to retrieve the sample for Edith this morning, she'd stood in front of the bookshelf again. The impulse to give him the book was as foolish and uncontrollable as the need to kiss him last night. Their fingers touched as he took the book and she felt it like a silky burn, all the way up her arm. When she looked up, he was staring at her mouth, as if he, too, was reliving their kiss. She flushed hot under her dress.

"I was thinking I might call her Belle?" Edith said suddenly, turning to her father for approval. "Would that suit her?"

Robert's expression dropped, his hand holding the book falling into his lap. A diminutive of her mother's name.

"It's a charming name." He recovered quickly, but his voice sounded a little hoarse. "If you like, you could call her that."

Just in case Amelia might have thought she had any role to play in their lives, there was this simple reminder. Robert Danbury had chosen Isabella. He'd not chosen Amelia, he'd chosen Edith's mother.

"Thank you, Papa." Edith smiled. "Will you play with Belle and me?"

"Amelia darling," her mother called from the other side of the room. "Do see these delightful things Mrs. Wisbech gave me."

"Has Mrs. Wisbech been too generous, as always?" She didn't look at Robert as she rose and walked quickly away. Sometimes her mother could be remarkably perceptive. Amelia had been cast aside in favor of Isabella Garway once, and it was silly to think anything of her kiss with Robert yesterday. He might have wanted to kiss her – then and now – but he'd married another woman. It meant as little as his attention had five years ago. A kiss was just a kiss.

The wind and snow outside precluded a Christmas day walk and the whole party spent the afternoon playing cards, reading, and occasionally singing carols. Amelia sat quietly in the corner of the drawing room, focused on her embroidery. The work soothed her as she tried not to watch Robert conversing with his mother while Edith played on the floor, using several of the chairs as a doll's house. Amelia listened as Edith and Mrs. Danbury discussed the doll's dress and how to use the red ribbon in the doll's hair.

Outside, the clouds turned from silver to grey to black before the maids inconspicuously lit candles and closed the curtains. Amelia focused on the roses, trying to space her stitches evenly as she listened to Mrs. Danbury pretend to pour tea, 'accompany' Belle the doll to the theatre, and compliment the doll's blonde hair and blue eyes. All the things she and her mother had played when Amelia was a child. She ran a finger over a completed red rose and knew she wouldn't be able to do the same with a daughter of hers. It was as if the embroidered petals were real thorns.

"I think I'm going to have to take a rest," Mrs. Danbury said with a groan and a weary smile, late in the afternoon after she'd had half a dozen cups of tea with Edith and Belle the doll.

"Will you play with me, Papa?" Edith immediately asked.

"Mother." Robert rushed to her side to lend her his hand. "Shall I help you to your room?"

"Not at all." Mrs. Danbury stood heavily, then patted her son's forearm. "You play with your daughter."

"Will you play?"

Amelia jerked her head up to see Edith standing in front of her. Edith held her doll and her green dress glinted gold in the candlelight.

"Please?" Edith smiled, her little teeth milk white.

"You mustn't bother Miss Chilson, Edith," Robert said from the floor where he was sitting.

"It's no bother." Amelia slipped her needle into a stitch on the back of the embroidery to keep the thread neat, and put it aside. "I like to play." This was no different to playing with the children at the _Women's Society of Hope._ Except none of those children had fathers present who made Amelia's heart thud.

"Very well." Something like panic went across Robert's face. "But only for a little while, though."

"Where shall we go?" Amelia stood. She'd been sitting for too long and she couldn't 'drink tea' and exchange pleasantries with Belle.

"On an adventure." Edith bit her lip in anticipation. "Deep into the forest."

"I don't know if we can do that today," Robert said ruefully as he came to join them.

"Of course we can." Amelia turned to Robert. "Do you have your book?"

He fetched it wordlessly and passed it to Amelia, who knelt and placed it on the floor. "There, that's the carriage. Would Belle like to make herself comfortable?"

Edith nodded, a little confused, and sat the doll on the book.

"Perfect. Now. The horses are quite beautiful and winged, but unfortunately invisible. You ensure Belle holds on tight, and we shall take her to the forest." Gently, Amelia pushed the book forward on the carpet, then held the edges and lifted it up.

The 'clip-clop' noise of a horse trotting came from behind her and Amelia turned to see Robert. He was snapping and clapping to make the impression of a horse's hooves on road.

Edith giggled. "Papa's a horsey!"

Robert nodded ruefully but didn't stop the sound effects.

Amelia didn't restrain her grin as she turned away. "To the forest!" She moved the book slowly so Edith could keep up and the doll didn't over-balance.

"I'm looking forward to seeing this forest," Robert murmured into her ear, so Edith didn't hear.

"It's not far now." Amelia moved them towards the fireplace. "Over the sea-carpet." They went around the Wisbechs and Amelia's parents to the side of the fire. "Around the mountains. And here's the forest." She landed the book next to the basket of logs placed by the fireplace for the convenience of the maid tending the fire.

"Oh, I see!" Edith stood the doll up while Robert took out several small logs from the basket and stood them on their ends to make the 'forest'. They hunted for animals, counted tree rings, then moved to the other forest of the fir boughs across the mantelpiece. Amelia was constantly aware of Robert near her, his deep voice only occasionally interjecting when Edith needed him.

When the clock chimed in the hallway. Robert frowned and reached into his pocket, drawing out a watch. "Is that the time already? Edith, it's time to get ready for bed."

"But Papa..." Edith's bottom lip stuck out in a pout.

"We'll play again another time," Amelia reassured her. A lie, of course. A prick of disappointment that they were finished playing was ridiculous.

Robert rang for Edith's nurse and Edith rushed to Amelia first, her little arms clutching at her as she said goodnight.

"Thank you." Robert settled into the chair next to Amelia's after Edith had gone with her nurse. They sat slightly away from the rest of the party, who had moved to the card table. "For playing with Edith and for her present."

"You're welcome." There was so much they weren't saying. A hundred questions hung between them. But for now they were just two people having a Christmas afternoon together and it was as warm and sweet as eggnog. Talking was an excuse to look at him and take in every familiar and yet unfamiliar plane of his face.

"Thank you for the book, too," he said. "I've been looking for more stories to read to Edith. Perhaps you know some?"

His question opened a simple subject that had nothing to do with any of the past they ought to discuss. She suggested he try _Aesop's Fables_ , and from there they meandered across all the novels and poetry they'd read recently from the most popular writers like Byron, Shelley, Keats, and Wordsworth. It was just like when they'd been young. Amelia might have believed that nothing had changed if it weren't for the latent sadness around Robert's mouth whenever he was in repose and the heaviness in her heart that reminded her it was all too late. They were just in the middle of debating the merits of _I wandered lonely as a cloud_ , when a gong sounded.

"Is that the signal for dressing for dinner?" Robert frowned and was out of his seat as he spoke.

"That's the dinner gong," Mrs. Chilson replied from the card table across the room. "We don't change for dinner on Christmas day."

"Ah." Robert rubbed his chin with one hand and stood. "Well, I usually change quickly and manage to read a story to Edith before I come down for dinner. Could you excuse me? I missed yesterday's story and I can't disappoint her two days in a row. I'll be a little late."

"Not to worry." Mrs. Chilson waved one hand in dismissal. "We'll wait for you."

"There's no need." Robert hesitated by the door.

"Oh, but we shall. Another few minutes before food won't do us any harm." Mrs. Chilson assured Robert and he left the room.

After finishing up their game they all relocated to the dining room. Unfortunately, Mrs. Chilson's insistence on waiting for Robert meant there was no food served for almost three-quarters of an hour. During which time, the whole party sat around the table and drank wine. Amelia listened to the conversation, feeling like a hollow automaton with no idea how to act. After being so happy talking to Robert, the loud chatter of the dinner table was too much. She just had to survive Christmas politely for her mother.

With the empty seat for Robert opposite her and Mr. Wisbech flirting with Mrs. Harris next to her, Amelia had little to do but sip the rich red wine. Despite her determination to overcome her shyness, she still found conversation at dinner tables difficult. Ballrooms were impossible and she eschewed them. But dinner was unavoidable. She always felt like she was the one left out of the discussion. Even here at her parents' home, she'd rather be in the library, sewing. Her hands felt empty, itching for a needle and thread as they all waited at table for Robert, and she toyed with her wine glass.

As she watched the married couples chuckle and tell tales where they finished each other's sentences a cloak of rosehips seemed to settle on her shoulders, overly warm, sweet, and itchy. Why wasn't she one of these happily married people? Why hadn't Robert asked her to marry him? It was her own choice to make the best of her situation, and to protect her heart, but it hadn't been her fault that Robert had courted her then let her down. He'd stolen her heart, and she wanted an answer in return. Why?

It was only when she began to feel a bit light-headed that she checked her wine glass. Still almost full. She couldn't have drunk that much then, as she didn't think the footman had filled it more than once. Had he?

Robert rejoined the party after reading _The Purple Jar_ from _The Parent's Assistant_ to Edith. She had listened, entranced, then said that she would have bought the shoes.

Everyone sat in the same places as lunch for the light-supper and as promised, the food was being served when he took his place at the table.

He glanced across at Amelia. She was pink-cheeked. Something pulled taut between them as their gazes met. His heart expanded like a seed in water before it cracked open to grow. He stomped it down and looked away. He'd learned when Amelia had rebuffed him that it didn't do to hope she would return his affection. Even if he wanted to see her presents to Edith and himself as a sign, what could come of it? He couldn't lose another wife in childbirth because he couldn't risk the pain to himself or Edith.

Amelia's laugh at something Mrs. Harris said snapped his regard back to her. Amelia wasn't just rosy-cheeked, she was foxed. Her eyes were too bright, her laughter too loud. She took a sip of her almost empty wine glass. Without food, the wine could have gone straight to her head while they'd all been waiting to eat.

He tried to focus on the conversation and eating the creamy leek and potato soup. Breaking a piece of bread, he knew he ought not to be staring across the table at Amelia. But after sitting next to her yesterday, their kiss in the library, and this morning's presents all made him feel that across the table was much too far away. He paid only half attention to Mrs. Wisbech next to him, unable to keep his attention from Amelia.

It must have been his wishful fancy that her gaze kept returning to him, even as the soup was cleared away. She wasn't interested in him, she had her life in London. He'd obtained a kiss and a partial explanation, but it wouldn't do any good. It was too late. He couldn't risk marrying, for her sake as well as his. She deserved a full marriage, if that was what she chose, not a husband who would rather drive himself mad with longing than allow himself marital relations that could ultimately kill her.

This was all just a seasonal flirtation he told himself as the meal was cleared away. Their kiss had just been her forbearance of his nostalgia. The surge of regret he'd felt earlier that he couldn't immediately reciprocate her present with one of his own, perhaps a sapphire ring that would match her eyes, was Christmas goodwill and nothing more.

"Ah, wonderful! Here's the Snapdragon!" Mrs. Chilson beckoned in the footman, who was shuffling nervously in with an enormous glass bowl.

_Snapdragon_. Oh, this was a terrible idea. They could burn the house down with this idiocy.

The bowl had a smattering of dried fruit and blanched almonds in the bottom, all covered with potent brandy, the scent of which wafted across the table.

"Now, does everyone know how to play?" Mr. Chilson twinkled across at them.

"You snatch the raisins from the burning brandy," Mr. Harris interrupted Amelia's mother as she had been about to explain.

Most of the party had drunk more than they ought. Someone could get terribly burnt. In particular, Amelia could get hurt. Her expression was glittering with intent, like she might do something rash. "I really don't think–"

"The person who retrieves the most raisins gets a boon," Mrs. Chilson added.

Promptly his objections were mown away. A thought grew into his mind with strong suckers like ivy. If he won, he could claim a kiss. He could claim another kiss from Amelia to try to sate the growing need inside of him.

With a flourish, Mr. Chilson struck a match and touched it to the brandy. A blue flame licked its way across the bowl.

Next to him, Mrs. Wisbech squealed, "How strange it is!"

Across the table, Amelia's brow was furrowed. She looked otherworldly in the blue light. She was already leaning over the bowl, picking out raisins with nimble fingers. Mr. Harris and Robert's father were laughing and blowing on their fingers.

Robert set to with both hands, pulling out fruit even as his skin yelled at him not to. Having drunk a bit too much was an advantage in this game that Robert didn't have. But he didn't pause, grabbing at the increasingly hot raisins until the fire died out and Mr. Chilson clapped his hands and announced the end of the game.

"There'll be plenty of time to eat the rest of the juicy brandy raisins, don't you worry." Mr. Chilson beamed at his guests. "How did we all do?"

Mrs. Wisbech and Mrs. Harris confessed to neither having managed any at all, whereas their husbands had retrieved seven and five respectively. Mrs. Chilson proudly showed six. His parents managed four each.

"Amelia, how many did you get?" Mr. Chilson asked.

"Twelve." Her mouth pulled into a sly smile and she popped a raisin from her pile into her mouth. She looked over at him as her mouth slightly opened, eyes narrowed. Probably from the burn of the raisin. Or a taunt that she was going to win the boon.

"How many did you manage, Mr. Danbury?"

"Thirteen." He nudged his plate forwards.

Beside him, Mrs. Wisbech counted the raisins on his plate. "Lucky thirteen," she reported gleefully.

Amelia's expression had sunk to thunderous disappointment. She'd been certain she was going to win. She'd had a boon in mind, just as he had. And suddenly, knowing what she'd wanted badly enough to burn herself, was imperative. Perhaps she wanted a kiss from him.

"Well, you win easily." Mr. Chilson winked at him. "What boon will you choose?"

"I'll give my boon to Miss Chilson. As a Christmas present." He could have asked her later what her boon would have been, but by then she'd have censored herself. This was the only true way to find out. And he owed her a gift.

"How generous." Mrs. Chilson nodded happily. "Well, what do you choose, Amelia?"

The other guests were munching their sweet treats and laughing as they compared the pink marks on their fingers.

Amelia was drunk and burnt. A trickle of unease went down his back. He ought to have taken his boon and asked everyone to compliment him, or something uninteresting like that. He should have gone with his impulse earlier to send her expensive jewelry when she was safely back in London.

"Why did you marry her?" Amelia stared right at him, her ferocity as strong as the Snapdragon fire.

He gaped, unable to move, the question pinning him. The rest of the party hushed then shared sidelong glances or looked awkwardly into their hands. Mrs. Chilson smothered a gasp and exchanged a horrified glance with Mr. Chilson.

"I don't know," he said into the unbearable silence. That wasn't the right answer. He ought to have said because he loved her, but that hadn't been strictly true. And saying the truth, that Isabella had kissed him and snared him in the parson's mousetrap, was beyond ungentlemanly.

"Indeed." Mrs. Chilson said lightly, having recovered herself. "Which of us knows why we do anything. I think the ladies should retire and the gentlemen ought to have a cigar and brandy."

"Oh yes, a much better use of fire and brandy," said Mr. Harris. Mr. Wisbech nodded and Mr. Chilson guffawed a little too hard.

"We'll go to the drawing room." Mrs. Chilson rose. "A game of whist will round off the evening admirably. Amelia, you can be dealer."

The ladies followed Mrs. Chilson out, leaving the gentlemen to busy themselves pouring brandy and fussing with cigars. Amelia left with them, not even casting a glance over her shoulder at him.

Robert absently agreed to a question someone asked and found an unlit cigar in his hand and a large glass of golden alcohol on the coaster at his elbow.

Amelia's eyes had been round and accusing. He'd thought all this time that she didn't care about him, disliked him maybe. He'd thought she had toyed with his affections when her own heart was untouched, as evidenced by the denied mistletoe kiss, refuting any love for him, her mother not confiding any partiality to his mother, and Amelia ultimately never wanting to see him again. It had never occurred to him that she had her own questions about what had happened between them.

But there was a footnote to her question over the Snapdragon, clearly stated. Amelia wanted to know why he hadn't married her.

# Chapter 4

As soon as Robert was in the hall, he was filling his chest with air, away from the clogging scent of smoke. He stared at the paintings of men with curly wigs and women in skirts so large they must have had trouble moving. He'd said he was going to join the ladies, and the drawing-room door was just there. But he didn't open it. Amelia would be there and he had no idea what to say to her, or what to do with the new knowledge she'd given him.

Perhaps he'd go to bed. He could leave tomorrow and forget all of this, ignore the feelings that had been revived and concern himself with ensuring the tulip harvest was good this year. He'd check on Edith. Watching her sleep peacefully always soothed him. He was halfway up the stairs when a door opened.

"Goodnight, Mama. Goodnight everyone." Amelia's voice came from below.

He turned in time to see her close the door behind her before she lurched away, tripping on her skirts.

"Amelia." He took the stairs in four bounds to get down to her.

She regained her balance and pushed past him when he reached for her, wobbling to the bottom of the stairs.

His heart seemed to be beating its way out of his chest via his throat. For a moment he'd thought she would fall. "Wait." He stayed at her elbow while she determinedly made her way up the stairs. "Let me help you."

"No thank you, Mr. Danbury." She gripped the banister tightly and focused straight ahead, chin up, taking the steps with more speed than he'd have guessed her capable.

"You used to call me Robert." Only an hour ago, she'd asked him why he'd married another woman. Five years ago, her eyes had lit up from beneath her lashes when she'd danced with him and she'd bit her lip when he'd suggested she call him by his Christian name.

"I used to think you cared for me." Her voice was like a lemon, with a sting but sadness and sweetness too.

In _vino-veritas_. "I did." He didn't add, _I do_. Because his love for her had lain dormant all these years, waiting for the rains.

"Not enough," she muttered.

There was no possible retort to that. She was right. His affection hadn't been enough, he'd wanted hers in return.

They made it to the top of the stairs without incident, which was testament to Amelia's determination. She held herself upright and focused, and he knew it was partly for him. Before she saw him, she'd flopped with easy, loose limbedness. As they entered her room, she lurched away from him, making for the fireplace.

"Lie down." He pointed at the bed. A small bed with a pink cover, suitable for a young lady on her own.

"I'm not lying down." She leaned against the mantelpiece. Her eyes were big and dark, the blue hardly visible in the half-light of the fire and candles. She was going to set her dress alight if she wasn't careful. The thoughtful maids had left a fire that made her modestly sized room surprisingly warm.

"I'm not arguing with you." He used his sternest tone.

She laughed.

Even as he relished the sound, he knew this was a terrible idea. Why wasn't her mother looking after her? Yet, the answer was obvious. Because her mother was busy entertaining and having a good time. She didn't realize her daughter had imbibed too much alcohol. He could go downstairs and find someone else to look after her, but then there would be all sorts of questions, of a most inconvenient nature. Why had he been upstairs with her? Why was she so scandalously drunk? It would reflect poorly on everyone. It would spoil her parents' Christmas, discomfit his family, and potentially ruin Amelia's character over a silly mistake.

He would stay until she inevitably fell asleep, then he'd sneak away to his room. She would wake up with a headache and no memory of how she'd got to bed and hopefully never get drunk again. He'd not mention it. No-one would ever be any the wiser. Easy. "Please. Come and lie down. You'll feel better. I bet the room is spinning."

"You're not lying down," she said mulishly, swaying slightly even as she gripped the mantelpiece.

"I'll stay with you." He understood her failure to deny that the room was spinning as a tacit agreement that it was. Which meant he couldn't leave her on her own, even if he might want to. He walked over to the bed, deliberately not looking too much at her room, with its samplers on the wall and intricately embroidered fire-guard front. "Come on."

She looked at him, confused. "You're in my bedroom."

"Yes."

"You should have been here..." She seemed to struggle for words. Presumably, her wine befuddled head was not cooperating with what she was trying to say. "Before."

Their gazes met. There was a frisson of awareness as well as recognition that it was too late.

She lurched towards him and he leaped forward to catch her. But somehow she made it to the bed before he reached her, collapsing onto it.

"All right." He breathed a sigh of relief. "That's better isn't it." He sat down on the bed.

"Lie down," she demanded.

He weighed up the issue in his mind. This was at least as risky as Snapdragon.

She began to struggle upright again.

"No, no, no." He had to keep her lying down, safe.

She stopped and pinned him with her gaze.

"Just for a moment." He sighed. He wasn't sure whether he was telling her or reassuring himself as he eased himself down until he was lying on his side, opposite her.

Even drunk, she was beautiful. Her blonde hair spilled out of its pins, tendrils over her face and neck. It would be soft in his fingers like a camellia petal. He clenched his fists against the impulse to smooth her hair back.

She was watching him and he took the opportunity to memorize her eyes to remember when he was alone, back home at Loudwater. The blue was graded, from a winter clear sky to the deep blue of a summer evening.

"Kiss me." Her voice was husky and her gaze lowered to his lips.

He shifted minutely towards her, wanting her kiss, wanting the past to be irrelevant. But sanity stopped him. "I can't."

She was drunk. A kiss was never just a kiss. She was an inexperienced lady and didn't know what she was asking for, or the risk they would be taking. And aside from all the ecstasy, tomorrow there would be regret. From her for having given away her innocence so rashly, and from him for having taken advantage of her and for the possible consequences. Probably, she wouldn't even recall this tomorrow morning. Whatever feelings she might have right now, they were not reliable. An inebriated lady was not a good judge of her own wants or needs. She shifted and on the small bed, risked falling. He put his arms around her, just to keep her on the bed. Not too tight, and he spread his hands over the curve of the small of her back.

Her eyelids drifted closed. She let out a deep sigh. "I wish..."

"I know." He made circles with his palms, warming and comforting her. Her breasts were spilling out of the top of her dress. He didn't look. Well, he tried not to. But the moment he shut his eyes, they were there, in naked glory as his imagination supplied all the details her dress hid.

He was hard. _Of course_. He was hard for her even though she was a nuisance and she was beautiful and he didn't know which of them had made the biggest mistake. Him by allowing his pride to be hurt by her and mollified by Isabella. Or her for asking him why he'd married another woman, revealing her feelings when it was far too late. He was too fractured from Isabella's death for anything now. Because whatever else his marriage had been, it had been an education. He wasn't going to marry again and have another wife die in childbirth, leaving him broken and with a motherless baby.

That thought stopped his arousal, to the point that Amelia was again a person to be protected rather than a partner in lust. She couldn't reciprocate anything right now. Her breathing was slow and even. Could she really be asleep? "Amelia?"

She made a tiny sound like a disgruntled kitten and burrowed her nose into the linen of his shirt.

Continuing to stroke her back, he stared into the shadows of her room left by the candle on the bedside table and the fire in the hearth. He couldn't leave. She was drunk and vulnerable and cold. What if she were to cast up her accounts?

"Amelia." A knock sounded at the door as it opened. "I came to find out how you were..."

He turned in time to see Mrs. Wisbech's delighted look of horror.

"Oh! Mr. Danbury, what is this?" Mrs. Wisbech exclaimed from the doorway. "You're in Miss Chilson's bed!"

_Deuce take it._

"Thank you for that invaluable observation." He extracted himself from Amelia, who was stirring. "I think there are some people in the next county who didn't hear you."

"What... What's happening?" Amelia reached across the bed, with a sensuous movement, as though for a lover.

Mrs. Wisbech gasped.

"This isn't what you think." No, that sounded guilty. He took a deep breath. "I was looking after her since she's not feeling well." This was what he'd been afraid of, and a moment's hesitation had made it a reality. Amelia's reputation would be destroyed.

"Rest assured, Amelia is absolutely safe in my presence." He strode to the doorway and directed Mrs. Wisbech to leave the room with a hand on the door and one pointing to the hallway. She backed away and he closed the door behind them.

"Safe with a single man." The light from her candle revealed Mrs. Wisbech putting her hand over her mouth.

"We're married." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, a desperate attempt to salvage Amelia's reputation.

"Married?" Mrs. Wisbech's expression soured and her hand fell. "When?"

"Engaged to be married." That was as good as married. Not scandalously reputation ruining at all.

"Did you know they were engaged?" Mrs. Wisbech asked the corridor.

What? He turned. Ah. Not the corridor. Mr. Chilson was headed towards them, greying bushy eyebrows in a frown of consternation.

"Mr. Chilson, I'm glad you're here." Robert smiled pleasantly, his heart racing. "Perhaps you could ask someone to stay with Amelia. She isn't feeling well. I realize this engagement will come as a bit of a shock to you." To him, to Robert, and definitely to Amelia. "I suggest we discuss it in your study tomorrow morning."

Not waiting for Mr. Chilson's nod, he opened the door to his bedroom, conveniently opposite Amelia's. Leaving them in the corridor with matching looks of confusion, he walked away, just as he ought to have done earlier. Before everything was ruined.

What had he done? He repeated the question in his head with every movement as he undressed. He'd not compromised Amelia, he hadn't even kissed her. But the whole situation had grown out of hand so quickly, like weeds in a spring garden. He tossed his clothes onto the chest of drawers and climbed into bed without bothering to find nightclothes.

It had been cork-brained to lie on the bed with her. But she'd needed comfort and he'd wanted to give it. Telling Mrs. Wisbech it was entirely platonic would never have been believable, even were it completely true. It might have been innocent on Amelia's part, but his stiffness had revealed his true impulses, even if he hadn't acted on them. Then he'd gone and said they were engaged, in some impulsive but misguided act of chivalry. If he didn't marry Amelia, she'd be shunned and he'd never see her again. But by claiming they were engaged to save Amelia's reputation he had damned her to a marriage without lovemaking or children.

Was this some sort of perverse joke of history repeating? The parallels were uncanny and he couldn't help but think of the events that had precipitated this, five years ago.

After his failed mistletoe kiss with Amelia, he'd stumbled unseeing to the punch table and downed a glass of tepid wine. Isabella had asked him to identify a plant in the orangery, it had been cool rain on his scorched heart. The plant had turned out to be an unusual species of erica, whose pale-bluey color was a far cry from its heather-type origins. He'd knelt down to examine the low-growing shrub and so had Isabella. The next thing he'd known her lips had been on his, his mouth had opened in shock, and the booming voice of her father had been asking him what was going on.

It was only later that a suspicion had itched at the center of his back. Honor demanded he come up to scratch and marry Isabella, but after the initial horror of the moment had passed, he'd argued. His father had brushed away Robert's suggestion that the incident had been premeditated. His mother had frowned when he'd admitted he held a tendre for Amelia. Mrs. Chilson hadn't given any indication that Amelia reciprocated his feelings. That, along with his father's capitulation about Robert wanting to live at and manage another estate, had decided him. It had been fate. Intense as his feelings for Amelia were, it had been time to put them aside.

Despite everything, his and Isabella's marriage had been good. He'd never asked Isabella about whether she'd set out to trap him. He hadn't been sure he'd like her answer or believe it if he did. He'd been determined to make it work, and he had. Until the moment that not only had he been unable to save her, _his_ child had been the reason for her death.

He found himself again approaching marriage after being caught not compromising a lady. To be trapped into marriage once was unlucky, but twice was... Well. It was a choice of sorts. He'd known the risk he was taking and he'd still wanted to be there for Amelia. But just like in 1812, he was unsure of Amelia's feelings for him. There were more hopeful signs than before and perhaps he could read them better now. He'd been a callow youth, but marriage, death, being the only parent for Edith, and the struggle of making profitable changes to the estate had forced him to grow over the last five years. It had also taught him that life was fragile.

He could lose Amelia if they consummated their marriage. It was only last month that Princess Charlotte had died after giving birth to a stillborn babe. He hadn't been able to bear all the lurid details in the newspapers. His stomach had churned after reading that the princess had suffered for more than two days. It had viscerally brought back the day that had brought him Edith and taken Isabella away.

The national mourning for Princess Charlotte, with black ribbons and armbands adorned by almost every person in the street, had been a daily reminder of his promise three years before: no sex. French letters were too unreliable, as was withdrawal. He'd sworn when Isabella died that he'd live the rest of his days chaste. He never wanted to put himself or his child through that agony again. If the future queen of England, with all the best physicians, had still died in childbirth, what hope did anyone else have? How else could he protect Amelia?

Guilt crept over his skin. They were in an impossible situation. He had to marry Amelia to protect her reputation. He couldn't marry her, because he couldn't allow them to consummate the marriage, not when she might die. If he told her, she'd reject him and be plagued by scandal. He couldn't let that happen, but neither could he make love to her.

He scowled into the darkness of the bedroom. The only way forward was to not tell her about his vow. An innocent like Amelia might never realize what she was missing.

Tomorrow he'd make a polite request for Amelia to be his wife. He might even convince her because it was better than disgrace. But amongst the warm satisfaction in his chest that Amelia would be his, he knew he couldn't make love to her as she deserved. And yet, like a plant that had begun to wilt in the heat, it was too late for action now. He ought to have cooled the situation earlier. The damage was done, and all that remained was to see if the flower of his determination would survive.

# Chapter 5

The first thing Amelia became aware of when she woke was that her head felt like a Manchester power loom, clattering away. Then there was the smell of tea and she opened her eyes to see her mother sitting at the foot of her bed. She opened her mouth. No sound came out.

"Here." Her mother held out a cup to her, her expression dark and her back straight. "You'll need this."

Sitting up, Amelia took the tea and sipped. Pieces of last night slotted into her mind between the throbbing ache. Playing Snapdragon. Robert lying with her on her bed. Him refusing to kiss her.

"When were you going to tell me about your engagement?" Her mother's voice could have sliced glass.

"What?" Her fluff-filled mind struggled to understand.

"Your engagement to Mr. Danbury."

"Engagement? No!" Her mother's statement roiled through her. For a second the feeling of otherworldliness was so great, she thought her head might be detached from her body.

Her mother reached out and took the cup of tea from her, which was tipping at a perilous angle.

She relinquished it. What had happened last night? She wracked her memory, but it all went cloudy after Robert had refused to kiss her.

"Mrs. Wisbech found you and Mr. Danbury in bed." Fury tinged her mother's words. "He said you were engaged."

"We're not engaged." A memory of Mrs. Wisbech at her bedroom door emerged from among the noise. "Mrs. Wisbech must think that because Robert accompanied me upstairs last night." How to put this tactfully. "I was feeling a bit out of sorts. There's no need for any of this." She tried to smile reassuringly but suspected it came out as a grimace. Panic wrapped around her arms like a too tight sleeve. She got out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown. This discussion might be about her whole future, so she probably ought to hold it somewhere more dignified than on her bed.

She sat on her sofa and the worn springs dipped beneath her. "Nothing happened."

"It doesn't matter." Sighing, her mother came over to Amelia, bringing the tea with her. She held out the cup again.

"Thank you." Amelia accepted the cup and took a mouthful of the warm, milky sweetness before putting it onto the side table.

"It doesn't matter because you were found together. He says you're engaged, and doubtless he'll follow that assertion with the actual proposal today."

It was probably the wine that made her feel so wretched. But Amelia couldn't help thinking it was the vague knowledge that last night Mrs. Wisbech had upended her life. After being so careful in London to ensure no-one, not even the servants, knew about her lovers, it was ironic to be caught and punished for an incident that was entirely innocent. It was a mess. What about Henrietta, who would lose her companion? How would she cope? Amelia put her head in her hands and stared at the swirling red patterns of the Aubusson carpet beneath her feet. This was a cursed fairy boon. She'd wished to marry Robert and now it was going to happen in the worst possible way.

"Nothing happened," Amelia grumpily repeated as if that would help. As if the truth would change anything. Though she had requested a kiss and been rebuffed. And there was the kiss under the mistletoe. That wasn't nothing. "Anyway, I'd have thought you'd be delighted. This is what you intended when you put Robert in the room opposite mine, isn't it? That's why you sent Mrs. Wisbech to check on me."

"I didn't send Mrs. Wisbech." Her mother huffed impatiently. "I would never have put you through this embarrassment. Or me. Or the Danburys. Or your father."

"But I've told you, nothing happened." With Robert, anyway. She studied the carpet. It must have been expensive at some point, but it was flattened by feet near the sofa, the glossy colors dulled. Time changed everything. She'd thought she'd live as a companion to Henrietta for years, and clandestine lovers would be as close to marriage as she got. Two past lovers were at least two too many for a young woman of good family and wealth.

"I thought you'd be a little more subtle in anticipating your marriage vows." Her mother's tone was acerbic.

"Mother." She looked up and the world, with all its depth and wideness returned. The harsh white of the winter morning was almost tangible after looking at the comforting warmth of the carpet. "We didn't." She wished her head would quieten. It was already difficult negotiating with her mother at the most pivotal epoch of her life, without feeling like her head was made of brittle ice.

"No, you invited him to your room." Her mother threw up her hands and little lines appeared at the corners of her mouth. "Then allowed Mrs. Wisbech to walk in on you. If you were going to do something so wanton and addle-brained, why didn't you lock the door?"

"Because we weren't doing anything!" Well, she'd wanted to kiss him. But moreover, she'd not thought of the door. "Then I was asleep." She risked meeting her mother's gaze.

"What are you going to do now?" She was watching her, face impassive, but perhaps tired.

"What option do I have?" How could she know what to say or do?

"Marry him." Her mother gave her a droll look. "Or don't."

"You wouldn't mind if I didn't marry him?" She hadn't expected her to be so compromising. Maybe she could still return to her life in London and not let Henrietta down. But then, what if Henrietta wanted to spend more time with Caroline now that lady was widowed? Perhaps Amelia would be superfluous. If she didn't marry, the scandal would seep out however much her mother might try to swear her friends to secrecy. The social consequences would be dire when it was heard. She'd been so careful to ensure no-one would ever know about her previous lovers precisely because it would place her beyond the pale. Her parents would probably be shunned too. But if she married Robert, she'd be giving over her life to a man who'd rejected her once before.

Her mother hummed. "I would prefer if you didn't have the embarrassment of Mrs. Wisbech spreading rumors about your virtue. The existence of that virtue is entirely irrelevant to this issue."

"Why did you invite the Wisbechs?" If it weren't for that woman's ill-timed intervention they could have avoided all of this. Besides, wasn't this sort of behavior what house parties were designed for? Mrs. Wisbech should have kept her nose out of it.

Although, maybe bed-hopping wasn't the thing at one's parents' party.

"They're my friends." Her mother gave her a sharp look. "They aren't perfect, but they're my friends."

There was no possible objection she could have to that. Though that didn't mean she didn't resent her right now. If Mrs. Wisbech hadn't been so interested in her world, she might not be in this situation.

"You should know," her mother continued, "when I discussed with my friends your scheme to charge ladies to pass-off your work as their own, I thought it was a horrid idea. I was inclined to think Great-Aunt Henrietta was inappropriate company for you, and force you home. Mrs. Wisbech persuaded me otherwise. She thought it was an enterprising scheme and she sent her daughter's friend, Miss Gaskin, to you."

The weight of her unfair judgment of Mrs. Wisbech settled into her stomach. Miss Gaskin had been amongst her earliest clients and one of the more lucrative and helpful. Mrs. Wisbech might have rigidly traditional views on women's virtue and marriage, and a propensity to talk, but it seemed she owed her a debt of gratitude.

"But most of all, I'd suggest you marry him because I think that you would be happy together."

It seemed doubtful they could get past the ugly reality that she'd loved him and he'd chosen another woman. A kiss and a cute child didn't make a happy marriage. In particular, a marriage made in impropriety was not auspicious.

"But it's not my choice. I'll continue to support you either way."

"Really?" Her stomach eased just a little. Maybe it would all work out well. Henrietta would see more of Caroline and not miss her. Amelia could be married to Robert. They could have a baby. The secret need for children and family seeped out from the place she'd carefully sealed inside herself.

"Of course." Her mother reached over and took her hand.

She looked at their clasped hands on the pink floral pattern of the sofa. Her mother's hand wasn't as solid as it used to be. Her skin was becoming papery, and she'd be fifty next year. At some point she would be looking after her parents, not the other way around.

"What are you going to say when he asks you to marry him?"

What else could she say? There was only one answer that wouldn't be a betrayal of her parents, her friends, and her eighteen-year-old self. "Yes."

She sorted her silk threads while she waited for him, feeling less ill than when she woke, but more like she was dreaming. The threads, usually so reassuring, were straw under her fingers after her conversation with her mother.

He stood stiffly after he entered, hands behind his back and shoulders braced. If only he would make an excuse and leave. They could defy everyone and continue as they had before their kiss, before last night. Before everything.

Except that was impossible. His sense of honor would force him to marry her now he'd claimed as much. What her sense of honor thought was unknown, as it had fled years since.

"I hoped you might join me for a walk," he asked with no enquiring inflection. It was a facade of a question, matching their indiscretion, his forthcoming proposal, and likely their entire marriage.

"Of course." She rose and put aside the comforting silks with a pang. "I'll change and return in a few minutes." Upstairs, she put on an elegant navy wool walking dress and sturdy half-boots, a bonnet, fur lined gloves, and a warm pelisse.

Outside, the gardens were covered in a sparkling layer of thin snow.

"We need to talk about last night." His hessian boots crunched the veneer of white and his great coat made her feel like he was a looming raven next to her.

"There's nothing to say." They were going to be married, against both of their wishes, because of her inability to not get drunk and her mother's nosey friend.

"There's quite a bit to say, actually." His voice was dry. "I have a proposal to make."

"We don't have to marry. We could have a long engagement." Maybe that would be enough for any scandal to blow over.

"No." He clasped his hands behind him. "A long engagement will cause all sorts of speculation."

He was so calm, just phlegmatically accepting a marriage as if it were of no more importance than a dinner which was not precisely what he'd ordered.

They left the formal gardens and started into the woods beyond where the field maples and elm trees had shaken off the snow. The beech trees stubbornly held onto some of their golden-brown leaves, topped with white. But most of the trees looked black, spindly and dead. Though they were just waiting for the warmth of spring to reawaken them.

"We should discuss what happened on Christmas Eve..." His voice was like a symphony, with layers of meaning and tone, as if one could listen to him say the same words a hundred times and hear a hundred interpretations.

Their kiss. Their heart-stopping kiss that had triggered this entire mess. The path was a bit overgrown as it went downhill towards the river, with brambles and ivy encroaching at the sides, threatening to catch at them.

"I think we'll get along well enough." He took a deep breath. "Given what you asked last night... I thought you might be happy."

Of all the arrogant, idiotic things he could say. He was fortunate she didn't push him into the freezing water. "You thought I'd enjoy being second choice."

It was probably unwise to talk about the past. They'd known each other forever as their parents were friends. But he was older and had been continually away at school or university. The summer of her coming-out in 1812 she'd wanted to see a particular regard in his attention to her. But she hadn't let herself be too hasty. He paid attention to other ladies too.

"That's not what I meant." His brows furrowed and he gave his head a little shake. "You asked yesterday evening why I married Isabella. And perhaps I'm inferring too much. But the truth is, it could easily have happened differently."

Cold air bit at her nose. She couldn't say anything. Through the bare trees, the pale winter sun lit the snowy plain on the other side of the river, making it bright white against the blue sky. She focused on the path beneath her feet.

"I asked you once whether you loved me."

"No." She glanced across at him. "You didn't."

"At the All Hallow's Eve ball in October."

They'd waltzed that night, just a few weeks before he'd announced his engagement to Isabella Garway. Amelia had been flush with the knowledge of his admiration. He'd fetched her a glass of punch and told her about his glasshouses. His serious expression when he'd talked about his passion for growing exotic plants always captivated her. He'd promised her a pineapple from his glasshouses.

A week afterward, a pineapple had arrived, nestled on wood shavings in a wooden box. With it had been a simple note, saying he hoped she enjoyed it. She still couldn't like the taste of pineapple. When she'd eaten it again, only the once since it was so expensive, all the exotic, juicy sweetness seemed to have gone. In its place was just the imprint of its prickly skin on her palms and her mouth and the metallic tang.

Late in the evening at the All Hallows' Eve ball, he'd taken her out onto the terrace for some air.

"No. You asked me what I thought about love," she said. At the time she'd answered cautiously, not wanting to come across as silly and idealistic. She'd replied that love was a good thing in life when one could have it.

"Well, that was what I meant." He huffed. "Any fool knows that's what a man means when he says that."

Amelia stopped abruptly and stared at him. He took one more pace then realized she wasn't with him and turned. It was as if a pattern was being filled in, the colored silks tracing out a sharp design. He'd thought she'd said she didn't love him? How could he have expected her to spontaneously declare herself? "You mean any fool woman?"

"Isabella knew what I meant." He shifted uncomfortably, his shoulders skewed to the side, like he realized how childish that sounded. With the sun behind him in his buttoned-up great coat he looked like one of the trees, a dark pillar surrounded by gold light.

"She played the game." Amelia continued towards the river and Robert fell in by her side. Miss Isabella Garway had danced with him twice that evening, only a month before they'd become engaged. What had he sent _her_ afterward? Red roses perhaps.

"I didn't want to be a fool who married a wife who only wanted a husband and didn't love him."

"Have you not read _Pride and Prejudice_?" He'd thought she hadn't loved him and therefore chosen elsewhere, like a Mr. Bingley guided by an internal Darcy.

"No." He looked confused by the change of topic. They reached the bottom of the hill and the path by the clear babbling water and paused by tacit agreement.

"There's a copy in the library. I recommend it." She didn't add, 'especially the bit where Jane is heartbroken because Mr. Bingley leaves her'.

"I just didn't want to be a love-struck fool." He seemed to find something compelling and frustrating about the water sliding past the tree roots on the other side of the river. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

"But..." Hadn't it been obvious? Did not wanting to be love-struck mean he'd loved her, or that he hadn't wanted to love her? His profile was unashamedly fine-looking, with his Roman nose and full lips. She took a step towards him, as if seeing him better would help her understand him. "I don't understand. That's not how I remember it."

"Naturally." He gave a puff of laughter that the cold made into a billow of white. "Combined with your later refusal to kiss me under the mistletoe at the Nevin's Christmas ball in November..." He shrugged as he turned towards her. "It didn't seem sensible to retain any hope of your affection."

The ice of the winter day suddenly penetrated through her pelisse, a claw that ripped her open to the heart. She'd loved him with a white-hot flame that she'd pretended was cool indifference, and so he'd had no hope of her affection. She turned away, almost slipping on the icy path. He was immediately there, his arm under hers, supporting her. They walked along in silence. A gap in the trees opened up and the pale sun streamed through.

She'd spent all this time thinking that she was the injured party when he withdrew his courtship and married Isabella. But from his perspective, she had left him with no choice. He'd been wrong and proud and stupid. But she'd been timorous, refusing to take any risk for him. Like Jane Bennet, she'd been so inward-looking and fearful of discomfiture, she'd not allowed him to see her feelings. Unease cooled the back of her neck. They were both partially at fault for his marrying Isabella rather than her. She glanced back towards the river, but the white sun obscured the view.

"There's something else." His expression was grim. "I wasn't planning to marry Isabella. There was an incident. She–" He shook his head briskly. "There was only one honorable solution. It doesn't feel right to discuss it fully, but I want you to know. It wasn't my plan. My intentions were always honorable."

Her head spun. There were so many strands of questions that she wanted to ask, but they formed only two relevant threads. He'd married Isabella out of a sense of duty because he'd been trapped in some way. And now he was going to marry her for the same reason. A poor start.

"What was your marriage like?" She'd been upset when he married. But she'd never given much thought to whether he'd been content. She knew now her nervousness might have been responsible for his happiness, or lack thereof, as well as her own.

"Companionable." He took a deep breath. "Pleasant. I can't pretend it was a terrible mistake and she made my life hell. It wasn't. She was bubbly, and a bit flighty sometimes. She was sweet. We cared for each other." His face shuttered. "I didn't want her to die."

It was a grim reminder that all this was happening because a little girl had lost her mother.

"Did you love her?" Why couldn't she ask the question she really wanted the answer to? Had he loved her, Amelia?

"Yes." A myriad of emotions played across his face. "Yes. I loved her. Not as I should have done, not passionately, not like..." He paused and his jaw clenched. "But I did love her."

"Do you regret marrying her?" She wasn't sure whether this was comfort or torture.

"No." He looked like he didn't want to have this conversation anymore.

Well, that was hard luck. She didn't want to be in this situation either. He'd been the one who wanted to talk. If they were going to be married, they had to clear away some of the debris of their past history. The footpath skirted inwards, away from the weedy ash and sycamore trees and into a section of older oaks, allowing dappled light through their protective umbrella-like branches.

"I... I regret not marrying you." His mouth twisted. "But I love my daughter, and there were good times before the bad. I can't honestly bring myself to wish it hadn't happened."

"Is that the sort of marriage we'll have?" She stopped under the trees, pushing the snow-covered oak leaves with her foot. "One that the compliment you pay it afterward will be that you don't wish it had never happened." Another marriage started to avoid scandal.

"No." He grabbed her upper arms firmly, as if he meant to shake the possibility out of her, eyes intent on her face. "Our marriage won't be like that."

"No?" That wasn't a declaration of love, but it was... Something. His gloved hands were warm on her arms and she looked up at him. The outline of the sun through the trees gave him a sort of halo.

"I won't let you go. I won't let anything happen to you." His fingers tightened for a second before he released her. "I'm sorry about my rash claim last night, but it was well-meant."

His protective certainty sent a flush of heat through her. She'd convinced herself his regard had been imaginary. This didn't sound like a waking dream. He was real and the set of his mouth was clear and determined.

"You're sure you want to marry again?" She searched his face for any uncertainty.

"Yes." He didn't hesitate.

She could kiss him right here and now to seal their agreement. It would be right. He stepped towards her, so he was mere inches away, and a thrill shot up her spine.

"Will you marry me?" His expression was a tangle of anticipation and hope.

Heat suffused her under his gaze. Awareness of her body flowed from his look, slipping down to her lips, breasts, and between her legs. "Yes."

He closed the short distance left between them and cupped her cheek with one big hand, holding her in place as his head came down to hers. She could feel the heat of his hand on her skin, even through his glove. His breath was warm against her lips. He moved with infinitesimal slowness, allowing her to move away if she wanted. Her stomach bounced at his nearness and the knowledge he was going to kiss her. A genuine kiss, not a mistletoe trick. She parted her lips and closed her eyes, hiding from the onslaught of his gaze even as she leaned into him.

Her dress thwacked against her legs. She jumped as a beating flutter sounded. Looking around, she saw a stray pheasant. It launched out of the undergrowth and flapped clumsily away, red and blue feathers stark against the snow.

She turned back to Robert.

He was watching her steadily, a funny half-smile in his face. "We'd better return and break the good news." His voice sounded a bit strangled. "And get our story straight for Mrs. Wisbech while we walk."

"Do you think we could have become engaged on Christmas Eve?" He offered her his hand. When she grasped it with her own, he knitted their fingers together tightly.

"Possibly." She and Robert were going to marry after all this time. She was going to have her husband as a lover. Their kiss could wait until they were married. Compared to this convoluted path to their being together, after the ceremony it would be easy. They wouldn't have to worry about pulling away or using a French letter. He would come deep inside her, and she'd know what it was to really be with a man, to be joined with him completely, as close as two people could be.

And it would be with Robert. When her heart bounced with joy, she didn't suppress it. Maybe this disaster was the best Christmas present.

The sight of Amelia in her red dress felt like a blow to his chest, a physical ache. She hesitated at the door to the church, her hand resting on her father's arm. Edith walked before them, a small posy of white camellia flowers clutched in both hands.

This was all happening so fast. They hadn't had to wait for the banns to be read since they were both from the parish, they'd signed declarations saying they were both free to marry and Robert had paid the exorbitant amount of a guinea to his father's friend the bishop, for a common license. Not as dear as a special license, but still a considerable amount to avoid the fortnight delay of calling the banns, during which Mrs. Wisbech might find herself unequal to keeping the tittle-tattle to herself.

He smiled reassuringly at his daughter before his gaze was pulled back up to Amelia. Her hair was swept back from her face, a blonde curl was laid across her cheekbone and her blue eyes sparkled. The scarlet fabric of the dress clung across her breasts, but the modest neckline was entirely modest. The top of her dress was embroidered in a swirling pattern of leaves. He gulped.

At that moment, he knew what he'd sworn was impossible. This marriage couldn't be entirely chaste. There was no way that he could stop himself from touching Amelia, or deny himself the indulgence of pleasuring her.

He watched helplessly as she advanced towards him, her gaze lowered. In the pews to either side, there were coos and smiles from hastily invited guests. When his desire for her was so ferocious in a church, he had no way of leaving her alone on their wedding night. When she looked so enticingly beautiful to him here, what would she look like in bed? The thought of her being his wife and not running his fingers through her golden hair or kissing her pink lips was inconceivable.

Edith reached him first and he squeezed her shoulder, whispering that she'd done a good job as a bridesmaid while Amelia hugged her father. Then Amelia was standing next to him, the hem of her dress almost touching his boots. The priest smiled at them and began his welcome, but Robert couldn't help but look at Amelia's profile.

He loved her. He loved her so utterly, he couldn't pretend this marriage was just a duty. There were hundreds of ways to please and pleasure her and he intended to do them all, with just one exception. Consummating their marriage was the only limit. He wouldn't risk her life. Control of himself would be critical, but there was too much at stake to lapse.

The sun had set by the time they arrived at Robert's house in the village of Loudwater. They'd left after the wedding breakfast, at Robert's suggestion. When she'd proposed delaying their journey because of the threat of more snow, his mouth had creased before he'd asked if she wanted to have their wedding night under her parents' roof. There'd been no arguing with that.

The coach journey had been a quiet affair between the two of them. Edith had chattered away in her excitement, reliving the wedding several times before falling asleep. She and Robert hadn't talked, nominally not to wake Edith. But also because silence better befitted the enormity of what they'd just done. Amelia stared out at the rolling white fields crossed by spindly brown and green hedges. Thankfully, where the roads weren't so good, it was cold and the mud was almost frozen under the coach wheels, so they didn't get stuck. Though the unyielding surface made for a bumpy, uncomfortable ride.

She glimpsed rough old red bricks and a heavy wooden door before Robert ushered her into his house, carrying a sleeping Edith. Emerging from the arches of a partition, the imposing main hall stretched before her. There was a blaze in the enormous stone fireplace and the walls were paneled with dark wood. Heavy wool curtains obscured the dark outside, but it hardly seemed warm. The table and chairs were so old the wood was almost black. There were paintings of severe men in gilt frames high on the wall, and the polished floor echoed underfoot. Robert carefully transferred his daughter to the footman who followed the nursemaid upstairs to put Edith to bed.

"You can stay with Edith," Amelia protested when Robert strode over to her.

He shook his head. "She's lived here her whole life. I'll see her later. You're here for the first time."

This wasn't her home. It wasn't at all like Henrietta's airy, modern house in London, with its pretty landscapes rather than scowling ancestors on the walls. The town house's walls were papered, not paneled with hardwood. She'd never imagined when she left before Christmas that she wouldn't return. If she had known, she wasn't sure her past self would have come.

But Robert caught her eye and smiled, offering her his arm. Heat rushed through her. Perhaps it hadn't worked out so badly. She was with the man she never thought she'd have.

Her hand rested on his arm naturally as they walked upstairs,

"I sent word yesterday to the staff to prepare a couple of rooms for your consideration. Have a look at these first." He led her to the left to a door and pushed it open. "They adjoin mine."

The rooms were decorated in cream with highlights of reddish taupe. It was elegant and understated but warm and comfortable, with a pair of chairs on either side of the fireplace. The bed had drapes that matched the curtains. Amelia couldn't help but like it. She stepped in and it felt like a snug pelisse.

"Isabella didn't like the red I'd chosen. She took rooms on the other side of the hall. Her rooms were redecorated a couple of years ago." He'd moved behind her. "I'll show you those next if you're not sure about these."

"It's beautiful." He'd decorated these and other rooms. She imagined him frowning over paint colors and fabric swatches before efficiently picking the combination here. Taking in the room, it was as if it had been waiting for her. She glanced over at him. She couldn't help but think of when he'd brought his previous bride to this house and to these rooms and she'd rejected them. By the bleak line of tension in his shoulders, he was thinking of the same thing.

"There are only two other bedrooms for you to choose from." He rubbed his neck. "It's not a big house."

"I live in my great-aunt's townhouse." She smiled wryly. "I'm used to a smaller house than either of our parents live in. And I like this room."

"Well." He clasped his hands behind his back. "We'll probably have to get used to one of those houses at some point. You'll inherit, and so will I."

They would have to choose whether to sleep in the largest rooms, currently occupied by their parents. They'd have to decide whether to keep the furniture their parents had used. Now they were married, dealing with the past and the future would be something they'd do again and again.

"I'm a little tired." The enormity of the past few days was suddenly overwhelming. "From the journey. I think I might rest."

"Of course you are." He looked down. "If you're sure you're happy with these rooms, I'll ask Tom to bring up your trunks and Sally will unpack for you later. Dinner is at eight. If you need anything at all, please ask me immediately. The servants will know to find me in the glasshouse."

For a moment, she thought he would approach and kiss her, but after a brief hesitation, he nodded and left, leaving her alone.

# Chapter 6

Instead of sleeping or thinking, she asked Tom the footman to bring up her embroidery trunk and had it placed in her bedroom near the fire. Then she snuggled into one of the chairs and worked on the red roses. It was almost complete. The repetitive action pacified her jagged nerves but failed to clear her mind.

Robert was her husband and this was still their wedding day. She'd sent him away, scared of what had happened and what she was. Now she was alone and instead of feeling happy and cocooned in her work, her avoidance of the fact she was married was evident in the imperfect stitches of the embroidery. Robert and she ought to talk and spend time together. Returning to her embroidery was avoidance, as it had been when she was a child. Her hand stopped moving, half-way through a stitch. She wasn't safe in London with her Great-Aunt Henrietta anymore. She wasn't a shy child. A wife had to face up to reality. If she wanted this to be a good marriage, with love and laughter and children, she must take action to ensure it was. The stitch unfinished, she put aside the embroidery. Wrapping a shawl around her shoulders and sliding her feet into slippers, she picked up a candle and ventured downstairs.

The glasshouse was a modern addition to the older, she guessed Elizabethan, house. It was attached to the side, with the entrance through a pair of French doors in the drawing room. The metal handle was damp and cool in her hand as she opened the door. As she entered, she was hit by a cloud of heat. She stopped. She could see the outline of leaves, and through the glass the white of the snow made the night light.

"Close the door, please." Robert's voice came from somewhere off to the left. "It'll let the heat out."

She came fully into the glasshouse and the door shut with a click. The dark humidity enveloped her, despite the candle she'd brought with her lighting a small circle. "Where are you?"

There was a brief silence. "I'm over here." His tone was softer, as if he hadn't realized at first it was her. "Watch your dress on the pineapples; they're a bit spiky."

She still couldn't see him, presumably obscured by a large bush with unnaturally pink flowers like a bell peeled open to expose the clapper. The long, barbed leaves of the pineapple plants draped over the paving stones that made a path leading around to the left.

"I know." She picked her way through the plants. "You sent me one of the fruit." Years ago, so perhaps he'd forgotten.

Behind a large palm, its enormous leaves drooping down, there he was. The path opened out into a small paved area with a bench where he sat, leaning back with his legs pushed out and crossed at the ankle. He'd discarded his coat and cravat and was sitting in his shirt, breeches, and hessians. The top button of his shirt was undone, revealing a smattering of dark hair over the little dip in his neck between his collar bones.

"I remember." He slid to the side, exposing a section of bench, and indicated it with his hand.

She sat carefully, but even so, her dress brushed against his thigh and she felt it as if it were her own skin.

"Did you enjoy the pineapple?"

"It was sweet." Even if the memory was bitter. "It was unlike anything I've eaten before."

His lips curled slightly. "It was the pick of my crop. I've never had one so large that ripened so well. I imagine it was golden-yellow inside."

"Yes." She hadn't appreciated he'd given her anything of any note. "It was." She followed his gaze to his lap. A black leather covered notebook and pencil lay across his knee. But his thighs, covered in soft looking creamy buckskin breeches, were what caught her attention. As well as what was above, hidden by the fall of fabric. She could see the outline of a bulge, just to the left. Her quim pulsed.

She was staring at his member. Her head snapped up and her gaze met his. He knew she'd been gawking. Her face heated instantly, her cheeks burning that she'd been caught speculating what it would be like to have him inside her.

He didn't speak, just looked back at her, his eyes big and dark.

"It's hot in here," she blurted out.

He swallowed and looked away towards the banana plant. "It's hot in the tropics where the pineapples come from. I have a new orchidaceae to keep warm and humid. I'm also experimenting with whether the camellia prefer the heat, though most of them are in an unheated glasshouse." His voice was strained and he picked up his pencil, moving it between his fingers. "It costs a small fortune to heat this glasshouse to the temperature of a balmy summer day, all day and all night, all year around."

"How is it heated?" It was just the warmth that was making her feel this way, like her breasts were rubbing against the inside of her laces and her flowing dress was too restrictive.

"There's a boiler." He was stroking the pencil with his fingers in quick short strokes, almost flicks. "Then the hot air comes via a series of pipes and is fed up through these grates." He indicated the wrought iron grills with a curling pattern beneath their feet and the pencil sprang out of his fingers onto the floor, then rolled towards the grate.

He dropped to his knees, spilling the notebook onto the floor with a thud and grasping for the pencil. Before he could grab it, the pencil rolled away and tipped into the grate, hanging for a second before dropping down into the dark.

"Damn." His head dropped in despair.

"Don't worry." On compulsion, she bent and touched his shoulder. "There are plenty more."

He was so motionless, after a few seconds a shot of concern went through her. But then he shifted around so he was knelt at her feet. His arm unfurled and his fingers hovered by her foot before they brushed her ankle. The move was so gentle, it was barely more than the warm air from the vent. Was it an accident? She wanted to ask, but her throat was clogged by the sensations that had skittered up her body from his mere touch.

"Amelia..." His voice was deep with longing, drawing out her name into a prayer.

"Yes." She didn't know if that was a response to her name, his implied question, or something else. An acknowledgment that she wanted him, perhaps.

His hand cupped her ankle, fingers stroking gently. He slid his hand up, caressing her through her stockings.

Her breath caught in her throat. That wasn't accidental.

He leaned forward and the next thing she knew, he pressed a hot kiss to her calf, sending shivers up her leg to the juncture between her thighs and a tiny sound of need from her mouth. His hands caressed her legs, smoothing upwards as his mouth teased across her skin where her stocking ended. She only appreciated she'd allowed her legs to fall apart when he took advantage, lifting her skirt and licking the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, sending tingles through her.

Gripping her shin, he guided it upwards, and she lifted her leg in response. Leaving a sweet kiss on the ball of her ankle, he guided her foot up until it rested on the bench.

"There. Now the other one, so I can see you." His voice was deep and hoarse.

She was helpless to deny him. He grasped her other ankle and she allowed him to nudge her leg up, so she was sitting on the bench with both feet tucked almost to her bottom, her knees bent leaving her exposed to the humid air of the glasshouse. Her legs were spread, her skirts and chemise bunched over her lap. It was shameful, but she couldn't bring herself to care when he was looking at her like he coveted her.

"I can't wait to taste you." He lifted his head. "You're going to be delicious, I know. I can see how wet you are." As if to prove it to her, he ran his finger over her pussy and across her thigh, leaving a slick trail. "Soaked." His tongue ran down, barely enough to feel.

But it made her moan and it wasn't enough. She wanted to scream at him to hurry up. A moment later, she couldn't see his face over her skirts. Then his lips were on her, pressing at her most sensitive flesh, his tongue flicking around her inner bud. Then he shifted, kissing his way to the edge of her thigh, away from her needy core.

She made an incoherent sound of distress.

He moved back, trailing his tongue up and down her inner lips, darting only occasionally to press his wet tongue onto where she wanted him. The pressure was building behind her opening. The expectation, waiting for the moment when he'd brush against her nub was unbearable.

"I need..." Her lungs wouldn't work properly; her breathing was shallow.

He chuckled and put his mouth over her, and she felt the warmth of his breath before he licked her, firm and wild. He slipped a finger over, circling over her opening, caressing the sensitive skin there. When he dipped into her opening, her hips jolted with the feeling.

"Yes, yes. Yes."

He withdrew and she keened with frustration.

He returned and licked her gently, sending sensation all the way up to her nipples. She grasped his dark hair, silky strands between her fingers. But he continued to ignore her needy place, kissing and nuzzling at her everywhere but where she needed him.

"Robert." He wasn't trying to make her beg, was he? It might work. She had to have release. It was so close and the tumble off the edge was more necessary than her next breath.

"You're so vibrant here, so lush." His breath was hot on her slit. His palm caressed the join between her bottom and thighs. The feel of his skin on hers and his words made their way deep into her, reaching half-forgotten parts of her insides. Between her legs, but also her heart. His breath covered her core again, his tongue spiraling and building on every teasing motion. Her body spasmed and his hands gripped her thighs, his tongue relentless, steady upon her. Another circle of his tongue and she was tumbling through pleasure.

As the sensations dissipated she realized her eyes were closed. She opened them and saw the stars above her through the small panes of glass, bright white in the dark sky. Her hands were wrapped in silk. No. She looked down and saw the top of his head, his hair meshed with her fingers.

"Sorry." She unfurled her hands.

He leaned back and tilted up his chin, a satisfied smirk on his face. "Don't be sorry." He gathered her skirts over her knees, smoothing the fabric. Standing, he held out his hand. "Come, my love, let's go to dinner."

"You don't mean that." Her heart lifted. She took his hand and he held it tight as she stood.

"I definitely want to have some dinner." Keeping her hand in his, he led her through the plants to the door of the glasshouse.

"I meant the other thing." The drawing room felt like an ice-house compared to the warmth, and she shivered.

He didn't relinquish her hand, walking faster to the hall and into the dining room. At the door, he turned her into his arms so they were face to face. "I meant that too."

Her heart swelled, the happiness too much for the meager confines of her chest. He loved her. He just said he loved her. Tonight they'd consummate their marriage. If the preliminaries were anything to go by, she was going to enjoy being Robert's wife very much.

Her hand was in his for most of dinner. The servants saw and she didn't care. He hardly took his gaze from her and they ate the simple meal without any consideration for anything but each other. There was no past anymore, just them and the future and a heart too full to express. She asked about his plans for the estate and he told her of the sale of tulips in the spring, and roses in the summer. He talked about the paper mill and the issues of whether to buy machines to make quality papers with linen or continue with the labor-intensive ways of the past. She smiled and nodded and asked about the return on investment, thinking all the time that she was the luckiest woman alive. A clever, principled man loved her and through the meddling of Mrs. Wisbech, they'd somehow overcome their mistakes.

After they'd made an effort to do justice to the excellent apple pie and cream provided for dessert, Robert leaned towards her, bringing her hand to his lips. Kissing each of her knuckles in turn, he looked at her from under lowered eyelids, eyes sparkling. "Would you like to come to my bed tonight?"

Excitement streaked through her. A grin spread across her mouth and she knew was shameless. "Yes."

Her husband loved and wanted her, and she returned all of that. That knowledge broke through all the threads she'd used to tie it down for so many years. They'd make love every day and night. There would be a houseful of brothers and sisters for Edith.

They sneaked out of the dining room, rushing up the stairs to burst through into his room. When he kicked the door closed behind them he undid any subtlety they might have had. He grabbed her by the waist, pulling her into a deep kiss. His body was flush with hers, every hard plane evident through her skirts. Too many clothes, but she plunged her hands into his hair to hold his mouth to hers, their tongues stroking a give and take. He was hard, pressing into her stomach and she couldn't wait. There was time for slow exploration later, tonight she needed him in her as they both came. She tore at his clothes and hers. In between kisses, he was murmuring about how beautiful she was, his hands skillfully disrobing her. They were laughing, their happiness spilling out as they undressed each other, uncaring of her stays or his waistcoat.

Tumbling onto the bed, she pulled her chemise over her head and then tugged at his shirt to see the full glory of his nakedness. He took her breath away, his body strong and muscled. When he moved over her, she knew he was going to plunge himself straight into her. She lay back as she pulled him down on top of her, her legs open in welcome. She was wet, her lips heavy and needy.

"Now," she whispered.

But he ignored her, settling himself lower so his hands and mouth had perfect access to her breasts and his member was hot and hard against her thigh. He rolled one nipple between his finger and thumb as he alternately licked and grazed his teeth on the other.

She arched as the sensations ricocheted through her, sending need between her legs. She ran her hands down the muscle of his back. She was panting but she had to have more. She wasn't as patient as him.

One of his hands smoothed down her body to her core, then slipped easily in. "Oh, you're soaking, darling." He punctuated his comment with a bite to her nipple and his fingers pushing inside her as he rubbed against the sensitive skin of her clitoris.

He was everywhere except where she most needed him. She wanted him inside her, his chest pressed to her breasts and his legs between hers. "Make love to me." She reached between them and found his hardness, so thick she could barely wrap her fingers all the way around, and hot, so hot. "I want us to be man and wife."

He growled, a guttural noise in the back of his throat.

She would have him. The strength of his erection in her hand was testament to his desire and his self-discipline. She wanted to break his composure and feel him come apart inside her. He groaned when she rotated her palm over the head of his staff, so she did it again. When she stroked him, he thrust into her hand.

"You feel so good." It was just a shift down the bed and her entrance brushed his staff. It was a simple matter to bring them closer.

"Amelia. Don't." His breathing was ragged. "Let me pleasure you first."

"You already have." And it had been superlative. It was his time now. Theirs. He tried to withdraw, but she couldn't let him, stroking him harder and luring him with her body. She writhed against him.

"Amelia." His plea was desperate, and she knew he wanted her too. He was just such a gentleman and didn't want to scare her with his desire. She rolled beside him, his hardness still in her hand, her wetness covering them both.

"Love." He grasped her hips and held her down and away from him, trying to move her up the bed.

"Robert, please." She'd better just say it. "There's no need to be gentle. I want you. Please." She tilted her hips upwards and struggled against him to bring them together.

He shifted away. He looked as if he was in pain but didn't release her.

"Amelia." His tone was anguished and he held firmly, not allowing the contact where she wanted it.

Her stomach dropped. She was offering herself and he was rejecting her. The past reappeared like an apparition, sending frigid air across her skin.

She pulled away. He let her go.

"You don't want me." She disgusted him. Her forwardness and everything about her. He'd not wanted to marry her years ago when she was shy and he didn't want her now she was older, wiser, and braver. Her stomach churned with the realization. "You don't want to make love with me."

She scrambled to sit up and he pushed onto all fours, then onto his heels.

"I do." He reached for her hand and she snatched it away. "I do want you." His cock was still high and large, evidence of their activities.

"Liar." How acutely must she disgust him for him to not act on it? She scooted away from him, tucking her calves beneath her.

"I just don't want to have children." He leaned towards her and the candle illuminated his wild eyes and golden skin.

"What?" She rocked back as if he'd punched her. He wanted to take the chance of a family away from her and it was the physical loss of an internal organ she'd never sensed before.

"I'm trying." His voice rose and deepened, gravelly with emotion. "To protect you."

"You're trying to protect _you_." It was her body that would carry a child. He couldn't dictate to her. Except, he could. He was her husband and he could do whatever he wanted. Her choice of marriage had been taken away from her, and now the choice of children. But she wasn't young and pliable anymore.

His gaze lowered and his fists clenched. "I know this is difficult to accept, but it's better than being ruined. Your reaction shows why I couldn't have told you before we married."

"Told me?" she spat. "No, you ought to have discussed it with me. You ought to have asked." The pain of his betrayal was going to rip her apart at the seams. She'd always meekly accepted her lot, but this was too far, too much to accept as her due when only minutes before she'd been overflowing with hope.

He looked away and seemed to restrain himself. When he turned back, his mouth was a serious line, the frustration gone. "We can have a wonderful marriage without the marital act." He reached out again.

"You want to deny me the pleasures of marriage." She flinched from his hands.

"No, I want to gratify–"

"Thankfully for you," she interrupted him. "I'm not a virgin. Else, I would never have known what I was missing. Or perhaps that was your plan?"

"You're not a virgin?" His mouth went slack with shock.

"What, does that upset you?" She felt a surge of resentful triumph that she'd hurt him like he'd hurt her and rose from the bed. Anger was holding her together, each stitch red and rough. "You want your wife to be as pure as driven snow and never even defile her yourself? I misjudged you."

"I just don't want you to die in childbirth." His tousled hair made him look reckless. "We were all in black, mourning the loss of Princess Charlotte, only last month. Have you forgotten that so quickly?"

Uncertainty skittered down her spine. Like everyone else, she'd mourned the loss of the nation's Princess. The details the press had reported about Princess Charlotte's ordeal in the last two days of life came back to her in a rush of horror.

"Princess Charlotte would have been the Queen of England." His voice rose towards a frustrated shout. "The Prince Regent couldn't protect his daughter. I couldn't protect my last wife. My mother is dying. Edith could take ill at any time. There are so many things I cannot do to protect those I love. The one thing I can do is protect you from dying in childbirth."

He was breathing heavily, jaw clenched. Under his fervor, his fear sounded so reasonable. She didn't want to die in childbirth, and the death of Princess Charlotte had shaken him. He was right, it was a terrible risk. But he'd taken the choice away from her as if she were a mere vassal.

"There are lots of things we can do together." His gaze skittered up and down her body.

They'd been having this whole argument completely naked. She snatched up her dress from the floor and held it in front of her. "If you won't consummate this marriage, I'm leaving. For London. Tomorrow."

"Amelia, please." He swept the sheets off himself and leaped to block her path, still naked. "Don't. I love you."

"Love me?" This was the last thing, the worst. "You don't love me. Love isn't a little, limited thing. It isn't a corner or a concession. Someone who loves, truly, cannot put so many fences around their heart. They can't put provisos on what they'll do. Love is generous or it is nothing."

She strode into her room and slammed the door.

# Chapter 7

Robert gave up lying in bed at five. By the time the sun rose at eight he was galloping through the woods at the edges of the estate. The physicality soothed his jagged edges, even as he knew it was hopeless. He couldn't risk hurting Amelia and the price he'd pay was losing her. But Amelia safe in London without him was preferable to the risk of her not being here at all. Even if the thought of her not being with him was thousands of spines tearing at his body.

Eventually, weariness and his horse's sweat forced him back to the house. The smell of coffee drew him into the breakfast room.

"Papa!" Edith was sitting at the table, her nanny beside her.

His little girl, pretty, innocent, and happy. "Good morning." His smile wasn't genuine and probably wasn't even convincing. He went to the sideboard and poured a cup of coffee.

"Can Miss Chilson and me and you play adventures again this afternoon?"

His heart dropped and smashed. His daughter was asking about the three of them playing. Because of him, Edith wouldn't get to play with Amelia. "Mrs. Danbury, you and me," he corrected her in a faint voice.

"Mrs. Danbury, you and me," Edith echoed, then bit into a piece of toast.

That was correct now, but for how much longer? Amelia said she was going to leave and the wrath he'd felt emanating from her last night convinced him she meant it. Their marriage was over before it had even begun.

"She's very lovely." Edith's voice was full of awe. "Don't you think so, Papa?"

The remaining shards of his heart crumbled. This was a paradox, a riddle, a conundrum with no answer. Edith was already attached to Amelia, as was inevitable. What could a little girl do in the face of a beautiful lady who her father adored? It wasn't just him who would be heartbroken when Amelia left, Edith would be too. His daughter, whom he cared for and protected, would be hurt. A little girl without a mother, yet again.

A thought scratched at him. He loved his daughter and for all the pain of the last years, he wouldn't change it if it meant giving her up. The risk was always worth the paternal love. Love was greater than fear, and Amelia wouldn't have that. He'd made that judgment for her, taking away her choice and power.

The thought flitted away before he could catch it and examine it fully. He put down the coffee he'd been about to drink and kissed Edith on the head, before quitting the room. Protecting Amelia and Edith was essential. He had to do something. Whatever it took to persuade Amelia to stay, he had to do it.

He found Amelia in her bedroom, head bent over the same piece of red embroidery as she'd been working on over Christmas. She hadn't left yet. His shoulders relaxed fractionally. This was a good sign.

"I wanted to talk to you about last night." He drew up the chair on the opposite side of the fire and sat.

"Again? You're making rather a habit of this." She didn't look up.

He was making a tremendous muddle of talking to her already. There was no good way to say that he was sorry for last night but he wouldn't risk killing her. He owed her a better explanation, but her manner made him want to talk to her and pretend for some minutes that they were just a newly married couple who weren't quite familiar with each other yet. Or perhaps he wanted to just delay renewing her wrath.

"You're still working on your embroidery, I see." Was that really the best he could come up with?

"I can't go home to London until tomorrow when Great-Aunt Henrietta returns." She shrugged. "There's nothing better for me to do and I like embroidery."

"You don't have to go." He didn't want her to leave.

"What is there for me to stay for?" Her fingers clenched on the embroidered fabric for a second.

He couldn't help an intake of breath against the cut of pain. _Him_. She could stay for him. _Stay for Edith and for love_ , he wanted to shout. He didn't say anything. There was a large leather trunk overflowing with silks next to her. Moving to it, he picked up a bolt of green thread on the top.

"Please leave that alone." Her hand darted out and shut the lid with a bang, only just missing his fingers.

There was an awkward pause.

"I'll provide a generous allowance for you to buy the materials you need." It was scant compensation for his not making love to her, but he'd do whatever he could to make her happy. Well, except what might kill her, he wouldn't risk that. He'd read after Isabella's death that one in five women died in childbirth. That wasn't good enough odds for anyone he loved.

"I have no need of your money." Her words were clipped. "My customers pay."

"You sell your work?"

"Believe it or not, many ladies admire my embroidery."

He could do that. "Could I have a look at some of your work?" Complimenting her work was definitely within his capabilities.

Her mouth twisted in apparent indecision. Reluctantly, she put down her work and opened the trunk. She rifled through pieces and he saw the corners of intricate designs. There were chrysanthemum flowers so detailed they looked real, landscapes, trees. And names. _Henry_. _George_. Greetings of _Happy Christmas_. That was... Odd. "You take special commissions?"

"You could say that." She pulled out a green and blue embroidery and handed it to him.

"It's fine work." It was a pretty landscape in the Capability Brown style, with a meandering river and elegant trees. The sky was made up of a dozen shades of blue and grey and each of the trees was subtly different from the way she'd stitched them. "Exceptional."

"Thank you," she replied in a monotone.

"I don't understand why you have these if they're commissions." That was what was odd. She ought to have given the commission to the purchaser. Surely she couldn't have so many that the commissioner didn't like?

"I don't normally tell gentlemen, or allow them to see my work." Her smile was sly as she took the embroidered landscape from him, tucked it back amongst the others and closed the trunk. "I suppose you'll find out eventually. I specialize in a particular type of work. My customers like to keep up the facade that they made the items themselves. They lack the time, skills, or inclination to make pieces of embroidery, but require the appearance of the accomplishment.

"I make two. I start one, then give it to the lady. She does some half-hearted sewing in-front of people. I progress mine. Then we meet and swap. She takes mine that is further on, I progress hers. And on and on, until the whole piece is completed."

An amazed laugh bubbled out of him. "Really?"

"I'm glad you find my vocation so amusing." She looked at the floor, jaw set.

"No," he said. "That is inspired. Would you make one for me?"

Her head jerked up, and for a moment there was so much pain in her look it was like she'd punched him, or he'd punched her.

"Maybe a design with pineapples." He didn't know why she was so upset by his request, but he could heal it. "I love pineapples."

"I know," she muttered, her gaze flitting around his face and chest.

His heart constricted.

She didn't meet his gaze, her expression unhappy and almost...

A notion appeared in his mind, like an unexpected thorn catching his sleeve. "You've already made one for me. Haven't you?"

She didn't say anything, eyes lowered and focused on her unmoving hands.

With knowledge that came from nowhere, he grabbed the trunk lid and yanked it open.

"No!" She sprang up and tried to grab the trunk, and they tussled. But he was stronger. With a wrench, he overturned the trunk. Silks and samplers of all kinds scattered across the floor.

He grabbed the top of the pile, the one that had been at the bottom. They both stilled as he looked at it.

His name, _Robert Danbury_ , was embroidered in the style of a commemorative sampler. Pineapple plants with drooping leaves surrounded the words. And where there was usually a sugary sentiment about the virtues of the deceased person, there was embroidered in large letters: _Flapdoodle. Coxcomb. Ugly Ratbag._

A man who couldn't use his staff properly. A vain dandy. And a bag of rats. That's what she thought he was. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Or hit something. He kept looking at the embroidery, as though something about it might soften the harshness of the words. At the bottom of the picture was a neatly triangular evergreen tree, with a pineapple on the top, and several more scattered amongst its branches. Adorning the edges was a pattern of pineapples, and... In between the pineapples, as if they'd been added later, was something flesh colored... Pricks. Erect pricks. Small erect pricks, or large pineapples.

"What's this?" He pointed at the pineapples in the tree.

She raised her eyebrows. "Everything in that picture, and that's what you ask?"

"It seems like a good question." Better than, why was she inferring he had a small cock and couldn't get it up?

"You don't remember?" She shifted and stepped back, blond curls bouncing.

"No." He frowned. "Not at all."

Crossing her arms in front of her. "Apparently my embarrassment is more memorable to me."

He shook his head in confusion.

"You were telling me about your pineapples at the Harris' soiree. I revealed that I'd thought pineapples grew in pine trees. You laughed so hard, but I..." She pursed her lips.

"Oh. I see." Tendrils of the memory crept into his mind. He'd laughed in delight and mirth. But she'd taken offense, thinking he was laughing at her, rather than with her. "It's not the least bit funny?"

A smile caught at the edge of her mouth and she looked over his shoulder towards the window. "No."

"You proved me wrong." He held up the sampler, with its pine tree, complete with pineapples and pricks.

"Hardly." She shot him a wry look while her hands folded and unfolded at her waist.

There was another burning question, whilst they were somehow on good terms again. "How did you know about what a..."

"What a man's appendage looks like?" Her hands stilled. She shook her head and her gaze flicked upwards. "You men, you think if we're unmarried that we're sitting in a box, just waiting for you to come along. I told you last night. I'm not a green girl."

"You had a lover?" He'd thought she'd said that last night to make him feel inadequate and force him to give in to her demand. But now she said it in the light of day, it was obvious it was the truth. The jealousy he was feeling was wholly inappropriate and unfair. Probably a little like she felt when she thought of his late wife.

"Yes. I had lovers."

Plural, though past tense. He'd only ever been with one woman. Amelia'd had _lovers_. Handsome, rakish men who drove curricles and wore their cravats in complicated knots. Whereas he just tied himself in knots.

"And children?" That could solve all their problems so easily.

"No." Her brows darkened. "We were careful. And lucky. Many of the ladies who pay for my services are married. They don't want their husband to know that they're not the paragon of accomplishment that they appeared to be when they were courting. They were happy enough to help me with wifely tricks to avoid complications."

"I see." That was good. Because it would be unworthy of him to wish that she couldn't get pregnant.

She turned away and went to the window, unconsciously framing herself against the white outside. "You needn't think I've been pining after you all this time. I made the sampler five years ago."

After he'd become engaged to Isabella. She didn't need to say that, it was quite evident. He stared at her back and the bleak pale snow that surrounded her like a glow. As if this mess wasn't complicated enough, he'd broken her heart five years ago. He didn't know what to say to fix this. It wasn't at all certain their marriage was fixable.

"I'll let you get on." It was only when he'd walked out of the room that he realized the lewd sampler was still in his hand. Accusing him of all the things he knew to be true.

Sitting in his study, for a long time Robert just stared at the sampler. He took in every carefully crafted, intricate, insulting detail. Each part was stunningly done, with care and a steady hand. The pineapple plants had tiny barbs and you could see the hexagonal pattern on the pineapple fruit. He'd seen botanical drawings less accurate than her embroidery. This had been made with passion. Utter hate, definitely. But also, brokenhearted passion. And under that had to be love in the fine stitches that made up his name and the evenness of the letters in coxcomb.

He wasn't especially vain, but the insult stung. Flapdoodle hurt more, perhaps because it was truer. He couldn't have intercourse with her. He'd made a terrible hash of everything. In his intent to protect himself, he'd been callous of how he'd hurt Amelia.

He'd tried to get her to reveal her feelings before he'd revealed his. He'd gone with Isabella to the orangery to soothe his pride, rather than risk continuing to woo Amelia. This Christmas he'd used mistletoe as an excuse to get the kiss he wanted. He had gone to her room to look after her, knowing it might lead to her being compromised and force them to marry, rather than calling her mother immediately. Refusing to make love to her because he was scared to risk her in childbirth was just the last in a line of actions he was ashamed of.

She had missed the truth on that sampler. He was a coward.

The realization made him nauseous, as if he could expel his cowardice like a bad meal. Hands on the desk, he felt his stomach roil. He tried to keep himself still with his grip and hold onto his delusion about himself. He couldn't.

He wasn't a coward. He'd held Isabella's hand as she gave birth and embraced her as she died when most men stayed away, smoking and drinking while their wives were confined. But in other ways, he'd been weak. Amelia deserved his courage, his consideration, and his love.

He had to tell her he'd changed and he understood how terribly he'd let her down. He must say how he would continue to make up for his shortfalls for the rest of his life. And the answer was right in front of him. Jerking open a drawer, he took out a piece of paper. In his haste, he made an ink spot with the pen, but it didn't matter. He wrote down everything he thought he might need then blotted the ink rather than wait for it to dry.

He didn't have long to wait after pressing the bell. And thankfully, with some canny instinct, Mrs. Lane the housekeeper came herself rather than sending a maid.

"I was wondering if you could help me. I need the items on this list." He held out the folded paper.

"Yes, sir." His housekeeper looked puzzled. She read the list and her expression turned to practically alarm.

It was a reasonable response. He normally asked her for cups of tea, not several yards of red velvet and a tree.

"Sir, I can find these things, but are you sure I can't be of more assistance? If there's a repair to be made, one of the maids can do it. Sally is very proficient–"

"No, thank you. This is a repair I must do myself."

# Chapter 8

When Tom the footman brought the letter to her, Amelia recognized her mother's loopy handwriting in the address. The letter was thicker than usual and when she opened it another letter flopped into her lap. She dutifully read her mother's good wishes for her health and happiness and a note saying this letter had arrived for her after she'd left. Breaking the seal, she checked the signature at the bottom. Miss Geraldine Bains.

* * *

_I do hope you will forgive me, but I shall not be needing the rose pattern cushion you're making. I will pay you for it, of course. I wanted to let you know as soon as possible, so as to save you the labor of finishing the piece, as it will be in vain._

_My fiancé visited before Christmas, and I shall not bore you with the story, but my deception was discovered. It was a touch awkward, but that's all forgotten now and he's sworn to secrecy. He has even requested I ask if you'll make a beautifully embroidered christening gown for the child he's convinced we shall have once we're married._

_I hope you can forgive..._

* * *

Amelia stopped reading. The hand holding the letter was numb. Her whole body felt like it belonged to another person and she'd just landed in it, with no idea of how any part worked. First Robert and now this. Just as her new life had crumbled, her old life was fading away. All that work for nothing. It wasn't that she was proud of the roses. Her frustration was evident in every twisted thread, uneven stitch spacing, and uninspired color choice. But she'd spent hours of her Christmas dutifully sewing red roses while her own life unraveled, leaving her married, but heartbroken.

Now she'd have to spend hours embroidering a christening gown, while she had no prospect of having children herself.

Amelia picked out the embroidery of roses and examined it. Only three small petals on the inner heart of two roses remained to do. Even with commissions like this, if the client was passing it off as her own work, she liked for them to have done a small part.

It wasn't good work. She ought to be happy. She didn't have to show that poor embroidery to anyone. All her fears and disappointment had ended up in those roses.

It was hers now. It was the story of this Christmas and all the agony and wonder therein. She cast the letters aside into her trunk and picked out a deep red thread that matched the rose petals she'd already stitched. It was more of the same. She put down the red. Green, blue, purple, yellow, pink. All the colors of the rainbow were there. She picked out a vibrant royal blue and began to sew.

The steady rhythm and pattern of completing the embroidery cleared her mind. It was unusual these days for her to finish a piece herself. And when she knotted the lock stitch and turned it over, she felt a thrill of satisfaction.

The three blue rose petals transformed the whole picture. They were neat and right, popping in the middle. She took the fabric off the hoop and stroked it between her fingers.

Turning it over, she snipped off the hanging threads and crossed the room to throw them into the smoldering fire. A yellow flame jumped up, reigniting the wood it was on. For a moment, she saw the roar she'd cause if she threw in the whole thing, romantic silk rose pattern and all.

But she folded it and placed it in her trunk instead. At the bottom where her Robert sampler used to be.

Then she went to the tallboy to get her navy walking dress. Perhaps she'd see if Edith wanted to join her for a walk. The little girl's company would be nice, even though Amelia would be leaving tomorrow.

It was four o'clock and the sun was setting by the time Edith and Amelia finished their ramble around the garden. Edith had shown her all her favorite hiding places and explained which parts of the garden were hers, and which were her Papa's. They'd visited the paper mill, its enormous wheel powered by a diversion of the River Wye, and Edith had given a garbled explanation of how paper was made.

The first thing Amelia saw as she walked into the house was an enormous pine tree. At about fifteen feet tall, it dominated the hall, its tip inches from the ceiling and its furthermost branches brushing the back of one of the chairs. What was a tree doing in the house?

Then she saw the pineapples in it. Several large ones were in lower branches, sitting like unstable toddlers. On the upper branches, there were pineapples no bigger than oranges, weighing down the branches heavily.

She stared. This was evidently why pineapples grew on shrubs, not pine trees.

"What's that?" Edith asked, her little hand still in Amelia's. "Why is there a tree in the hall?"

And why were there pineapples in it?

"A little extreme compared to the usual fir boughs." Mrs. Lane came up next to her and smiled with beneficence at the tree. "My sister works at the palace in London. She says the Royal family have a whole tree in the drawing room. A German tradition, she says. I'm not sure why Mr. Danbury has chosen pineapples to decorate the tree. Apparently, Queen Charlotte uses sweets and presents." She sounded a little bewildered. "But he likes pineapples, and it does look pretty."

It looked extraordinary. Amelia couldn't decide whether she thought it looked exactly right, or utterly unnatural. Though to be fair, there was a certain resemblance between the little pine cones and the large pineapples tied onto the branches with green ribbon. The pattern was similar. Not the color. Or spiky green bits. Or anything else. But the shape and the pattern made sense.

"It's perfect." It was a huge, impossible tree and he'd made it for her. She had no idea whether it was an apology. What was the symbolic meaning of a tree full of pineapples? A lady's education in flower meanings and fan etiquette didn't encompass a pineapple tree. But it was something. It was a fearless, foolish gesture and it made her throat threaten to close.

"I'm glad you think so, madam. Mr. Danbury spent a good amount of time organizing it. I know he'd be happy if he thought you liked it."

"I do like it." It made her heart thump with perilous hope. It was a blue rose. It was the impossible made possible.

"There's something else you might like to see." Robert's voice came from above.

She whipped her gaze up to the top of the stairs, where Robert stood, uncertainty and wary hope shadowing his eyes. For a moment, she just took him in. His unfussy cravat in a Mathematical knot, his broad shoulders encased in superfine wool, short dark hair and strong jaw.

There was only one thing to do and it made fear loop in her stomach. But she opened her mouth and sang. "On the last day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, a pineapple in a pine tree."

His face broke into a grin. "Come upstairs and see your other present."

"Edith, would you like to come with me and see if Cook has some gingerbread men, fresh from the oven?" The housekeeper's smile was scheming.

Edith nodded and relinquished Amelia's hand.

"Thank you, Mrs. Lane." She had to see her impossible husband and discuss his impossible tree.

Robert watched her as she walked up the stairs, his hand held out for her. One tree did not solve all their problems. It was dangerous to become too close to him. If he wouldn't change his mind, she might still return to London, even more heartbroken than the first time. But hope was intoxicating and Amelia took his hand.

His fingers enclosed hers, warm and firm. "This way." He led her to his bedroom and nodded towards the bed.

On the cream quilt was a pillow. Amelia approached and Robert released her hand. Her sampler with his name had been turned into a cushion. It was edged with gold ribbon and red and gold tassels were attached to each corner. It must have been stuffed with sheep's wool, as it was heavy when she lifted it. The back had been covered with velvet, except her fingertips touched the edge of something. She turned it over. Inexpertly embroidered onto the red velvet on the other side were four words in gold thread.

_But he loves you._

Her heart squeezed. He'd taken something she'd made in furious anguish and made it into a celebration of his baffling love for her.

"I thought I'd turn it into a cushion for the bed."

She turned. He was just behind her, having approached as she did.

"To remind me." His smile was self-deprecating. "I think it looks rather good there, don't you?"

"It's a pillow that calls you a ratbag."

He shrugged.

"I'll have to neaten this up for you. It's untidy." She traced her finger over the embroidery. It must have taken him hours, little enough though he'd done by her standards. He'd made a huge effort with this pillow and the tree downstairs. It was charming, but it wasn't enough.

"Maybe." He took half a step towards her. "Or maybe you'll make me another one. A wedding gift."

She put the pillow down. "Only you could take a sampler calling you a coxcomb and make it into a pillow." He'd embraced their conflict and put his feelings on the line. Her heart was going to beat right out of her chest. "I suppose that's why I love you."

"Don't forget flapdoodle." He took another half step towards her. "Or ugly."

"You're not ugly." Her face heated. That had been unfair and untrue.

He huffed with laughter. "I wasn't a flapdoodle either. At the time." He reached forward. Taking her hand in his, he cradled it as if it were a precious, delicate flower. "Though, perhaps it's a fair comment in light of recent events."

It was. He wouldn't make love to her. They hadn't consummated their marriage. He didn't want to have any children with her. That still hurt and she couldn't accept it, however much she loved him.

"I don't want you to get pregnant. I don't want to lose you to childbirth." He took her other hand in his, cupping them protectively. "But I accept it's not my decision. Or, not entirely."

"What are you saying?" She couldn't breathe for the hope that had bloomed in her chest.

"I'm saying, I want to make love to you." He stroked his thumb over hers. "That pillow will stay on my bed to tell me about my duties to you."

She made an instinctive sound of dissent. Passion, not duty, was what she wanted from him.

"The duty my heart owes you," he amended quickly. "The husbandly duty of the soul. I made a mistake. A terrible thing happened to me. But it's not fair that you should pay for that sad event. I always wanted more children. But I was – am – scared. I'm terrified of losing you. It would break me because I love you entirely. But if you want to have our child, risking your life, I can risk my heart."

The resentment she'd been holding melted. He was compromising on the one thing keeping them apart. They could be together. Warmth skittered down her back.

"And you are incredibly beautiful." He paused, his mouth twisting wryly as he ran his fingers over her wrist and up her arm. "I don't know if I could hold out indefinitely." His hand paused at her shoulder then slid along her collarbone. His fingers left tingles of sensation across her skin and she let go of the breath she'd been unconsciously holding. He drifted his hand down and cupped her breast, stroking her nipple with his thumb.

"You're not going to tease me." It was an ultimatum rather than a question.

He reached across her body and grasped her shoulder, pulling her into his embrace. His hand came up and cupped her jaw, his thumb sweeping over her cheek. His expression was solemn, though full of lusty intent. "I might tease you. But I'll never deny you again. I promise. If it's within my power to give you anything you want, I'll do it."

"A baby?" She held her breath.

He leaned in and brought his mouth to hers. His tongue thrust against hers in a move so blatantly suggestive of intercourse that she gasped as sensation needled her heart. This kiss was unremitting, unhesitating, leaving no space for uncertainty. It was a kiss that demanded, not asking but saying, _I want you and I know you want me_.

He broke off their kiss. "Yes." His eyes were wild and his breath quick and uneven. "If that's what you want. Always yes."

They took their time removing their clothes this time, leaving kisses in the wake of linen. He dragged his lips over her neck while he unlaced the back of her dress. Had removing a woman's dress ever been as exciting as this? He wanted to see the planes of her back and the sweet curve of her bottom.

Now he'd released himself from his vow, he'd unleashed all his desires too. He wanted her immediately, fiercely. But he forced himself into patience. Pulling down her chemise to reveal her nipple, he tongued it, holding her as she leaned back into the sensation. Her breasts were perfect orbs. "You like that, mm?"

"Ah. Yes." Her voice was breathy like she couldn't get the words out.

He put one arm behind her knees and swept her off her feet as she squeaked and held onto the back of his neck. Lowering them both onto the bed, he kissed her, indulging in the feel of her soft skin over her hips and thighs. He wanted her naked. Dragging her chemise over her head, he sat back to admire her while he stripped off his breeches and shirt.

She was making mischief with her hands as he undressed, fondling his balls and her nails gripping his buttocks, making him want to pin her down to try and keep his sanity. It was futile, he'd accept whatever she did to him. He didn't deserve her, but he'd try.

Her smirk was desire itself, but he wanted to see and feel her. Taking her hands, he pushed her away so she lay on the bed, head resting on the embroidered pillow.

"You're so lovely, spread beneath me like this." He paused to take her in, wantonly naked and wide, her breasts bared, her legs open. Her hair was spread out, the candlelight making gold highlights in it. Her body was divine.

This moment was unique. It would never be their first time like this again. So instead of driving his cock straight into her as every nerve in him was demanding, he took it in hand and slid the tip over her slick entrance, rubbing on her clitoris and teasing at the dip between her inner lips.

"Robert." She grabbed at his shoulders and dug her nails into his back. "You said you wouldn't deny me." Her voice wavered like she was scared he'd decided not to make love to her after all.

"I'm not going to stop now." He circled his tip around her clitoris then stroked straight over the top.

She jerked under him and cried out, her head thrown back with the jolt of pleasure.

He stroked himself over her again and was gratified by her little sob of need. She was as close as him, wanting and demanding with her hands that tried to drag him down to her.

They were just so close, on the edge. Sinking his hips, he would be enveloped by her wet heat. She was so slippery, so ready for him, it would take no effort at all to take her and make her his. The thought sent a possessive thrill down his spine. He'd be hers, worshipping her as he'd always wanted to, being a part of her as he'd dreamed.

The way she felt against his staff, he had to bite his tongue to keep from spilling too soon. His muscles were braced to keep them apart, but she was strong too and he was weak from fighting to resist her. He wanted to draw out the moment further, but the temptation of her and her demands was too much.

He allowed himself to ease down into her, a quarter of an inch only.

She moaned, her mouth under his. "Yes. More." There was triumph as well as need in her voice.

It was even better than he'd imagined. Giving her what she wanted, giving in to what he desperately needed, was potent. The next half inch was hotter and tighter and his arms began to shake with the effort of holding himself back. The feeling of her was unbearably sweet.

"Robert." She spoke into his mouth. "Please. I need you inside me."

He broke. All his resolve shattered and he thrust the rest of the way into her, easily going to the limit. He didn't know who made the sob. The sensations were overwhelming him, from his pelvis all the way up his back. She was sheathed so tight around him, he couldn't move. They were joined inexorably. Then under him, Amelia started to rock her hips up and down, sending shocks of pleasure through him.

She must have loosened her hold on him, as there was no resistance as he began to move with her, their bodies timed together as if brought up and down on a tide. She was intoxicating. The scent of her arousal, the feel of her mouth open under his, the perfume on her wrists as her fingers tugged at his hair, the softness of her breasts, and the way her soaked quim gripped his cock. Each perfect aspect of her was more than he deserved. As a whole, living breathing woman who miraculously loved him, she would burst his heart.

They sped up together and he used the change of pace to grapple back some of his self-control. He lifted his head away from their kiss to look into her deep blue eyes while he thrust into her. Her irises seemed to become navy as the black dilated. She was panting unevenly, writhing under him. _Close, she must be close_.

He kept his gaze on her eyes and lifted one hand, shifting his weight so he didn't crush her and could keep the rhythm between them. He cupped her breast, stroking his thumb over her nipple.

Her eyelids flickered closed for a second and she moaned. "Oh, yes."

He took her demand in every way, pinching her nipple and sinking into her more, her skin on his, with nothing between them, exposed to each other at last.

He felt her orgasm as much as he saw it. He felt her tense, saw the surprise and pleasure in her eyes as it overtook her, and felt her throb around him. He didn't stop, thrusting hard into her as she'd asked. Seeing her, taking in the details of her pleasure through his lust-haze, shattered him. It welled up in him and he came, a river thundering and sweeping away everything. Time after time he quaked, his seed pushing deep into her. He didn't allow his eyes to close. He looked at her beautiful, sated countenance as he spilled into her in excessive reams. It was like his body had been waiting for this moment, holding back to give her everything.

"I love you," she whispered.

He brought his head down and kissed her. Then, still inside her, he wrapped his arms tight around her waist, and rolled to the side, taking her with him. Even kissing her, joined with her, he wanted to be closer still. The sort of close that only years of familiarity would give. The closeness they would gain in their marriage.

He drew back just far enough to focus on her eyes. "I love you too. And I am very much looking forward to loving you for the rest of my life."

# Epilogue

_28 th September 1818_

_Miss Henrietta Chilson_

_12 Bolsover street_

_London_

* * *

_Dear Great-Aunt Henrietta,_

_I'm pleased to tell you that Andrew was born three days ago. He's enormous and beautiful, and I'm exhausted. Robert is, as might be expected, terribly relieved and a doting father. Combined with Robert's mother recovering and doing so much better since the summer, we're feeling very blessed this year._

_I do hope you and Caroline will be able to attend the christening in a few weeks' time. As for the embroidery on Andrew's christening robe, you will have to wait and see, and possibly look carefully. I am so glad that Caroline was persuaded to live with you now that I've had to leave you. I was so worried about you being alone._

_I have finished the blanket for Mrs. Stanton, nee Bains. Do you remember her? The lady for whom I was embroidering the red roses cushion, whose fiancé discovered the ruse. Thankfully they have continued to order commissions, as Mr. Stanton likes the embroidery even if it wasn't done by his love. The many-colored roses on the blanket look beautiful; I think she'll be pleased._

_And of course, I shall still have time to embroider and can provide my 'ghost' embroidery service for Caroline's niece, if she feels the accomplishment will increase her likelihood of marrying well. If the young lady would like to visit me, either here in Berkshire or when we are in London for the season, we can make arrangements._

_Yours,_

_Amelia Danbury_

# Author's Note

Thank you for reading _The Mistletoe Trap_ , I hope you enjoyed it. This story was first published in the limited edition 2018 charity anthology, _Love Rekindled at Christmas_ with the original title, _A Pineapple in a Pine Tree_. (If you now have that song in your head, you're welcome.)

If you have a moment, I'd really appreciate it if you'd leave a review wherever you like to talk about books. Reviews, however brief, help readers find stories they'll love.

Sign up for my new release email list at www.evependle.com. and you'll be sent an email when my next book is out. As a bonus, you'll receive a free sexy short story, _On His Knees_ , when you subscribe.

Read on for a sample of _Falling for a Rake_.

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# Also by Eve Pendle

Falling for a Rake - Fallen Book 1

He's the most notorious rake in England. She's a Perfect Lady. Neither are what they seem.

Lady Emily can't afford a scandal. Her sister's debut is just weeks away and she has her pteridology group to safeguard. It's bad enough to be stuck in a hole overnight with Lord Markshall, and worse to have kissed him. Marriage is unthinkable. But newspaper hearsay on their "frolics and fernication" after a fern hunting accident puts everything she's worked for in jeopardy.

Lord Markshall's whole political career is based on manipulation and disguise. Lady Emily's polite insults are just the thing to prove to himself, and everyone else, that he's still an unworthy rake. He wants her desperately, but even a fake engagement is too good for him.

With Emily's sister's debut and a major political vote coming up, their reputations–good and bad–have never been more critical. The newspaper gossip is edging toward the truth, threatening to incinerate everything they hold dear. Can they understand, accept, and love each other, before it's too late?

* * *

Once a Fallen Lady - Fallen Book 2

Lydia Taylor's roof is leaking, her chickens are out of control, and she can't afford the rent. When her daughter falls ill, the last person she wants knocking at her door is gorgeous school teacher Alfred Lowe. His scowl makes her feel like he can see through her façade of a respectable widow and judge all her secrets.

To achieve his dream of his own school, Alfred Lowe needs to marry a wealthy lady. But from the moment Lydia Taylor fell at his feet, he's been awkwardly attracted to her. What begins as duty to support one of his pupil's mother soon becomes much more complicated. Maybe even... love?

But amongst kisses, tears, and savory pies, the past creeps into the present, casting a long shadow. If they risk love, they could lose everything they've ever wanted.

* * *

Six Weeks with a Lord

Grace Alnott's dowry comes with a condition: she must marry a lord. Desperate for money to rescue her little brother from his abusive but aristocratic guardian, she offers half her dowry in return for a marriage of convenience.

Everett, Lord Westbury, needs money for his brother's debtors just as cattle plague threatens to destroy his estate. Grace's bargain is a perfect solution, until he is committed and realizes gossip exaggerated her wealth. So he makes his own terms. She must live with him for six weeks, long enough to seduce her into staying and surrendering her half of the dowry. But their deal means he can't claim any husbandly rights. He must tempt her into seducing him.

Their marriage is peppered with prejudices, attraction, and secrets that will change everything.

# Excerpt: Falling for a Rake

_A rake and a duke's daughter fall into a mine shaft whilst fern hunting. They couldn't be more different, or so they think..._

# Chapter 1

_20 March 1875, Devon_

Lady Emily Ravensthorpe inwardly ground her teeth as she searched between stones. She had been looking for the elusive fern, _Dryopteris affinis_ , for weeks now. It was a point of honor to add it to her collection. But Lord Markshall was watching her, so she was on her guard instead of concentrating properly.

"Lady Emily." Lord Markshall's voice was like brandy cream. "Let me help you."

"Oh, that's not necessary, my lord. And as a new pteridologist," Emily pasted a smile to her face as she turned, "I suggest you limit yourself to attending Mrs. Burnham." Utterly polite. No-one ever suspected any indiscretion of a lady who was beautifully polite.

Even the reputation of a duke's daughter was in danger with a man–she wouldn't call him a gentleman–such as Lord Markshall. And Emily's reputation couldn't stand any taint. Walking deliberately into a copse of ash trees, she pushed aside the branches.

She searched crevices and nooks. _Dryopteris affinis_ , or the affy fern as she'd decided to call it, was delicately fronded like a piece of expensive Honiton lace. She'd only seen it once, in a fellow collector's centerpiece of a stone arch scene, its unprepossessing beauty in deep green leaves setting off the moss-covered stones perfectly. She had just three more days to look before they had to leave for the London season. Some idle lord's whim must not derail her search.

"Lady Emily." His voice was closer now. She pressed deeper into the undergrowth. At the back of the thicket was a small rock face that looked promising. She might find the affy fern there. And escape Lord Markshall.

"I'm terribly sorry, my lord, but I'm rather busy right at this moment. Perhaps we might speak later," she said in her society darling voice. If she could show him she was not going to fall for his rakish charms, he would leave her and rejoin the rest of the group. It would be preferable if he remained with Mrs. Burnham whose status as a widowed crone precluded the likelihood of amorous intent on his part.

Though the broadness of his shoulders did send a little thrill down her neck.

She pushed on through the undergrowth, detaching the brambles that caught to her skirts. Her dress was hardwearing tartan wool for these outings, the bustle at the back the only allowance to fashion, but it was still a struggle.

"I was wondering if you might include me in your search," Lord Markshall persisted. "I've recently become very interested in pteridology."

Recently interested, her arse. When they'd met at a dinner a week ago, he'd raised one eyebrow and asked what was wrong with hunting normal things like partridge or foxes. Just because she had hunted in the past didn't mean she couldn't see the error of her ways now. Fern hunting was much more genteel and suitable for ladies; that was what was good about it and wrong about fox hunting. So much so, she had formed _The Ladies' Association of Fern Enthusiasts and Hunters_. This year their annual trip to search for unusual ferns was in Devon, far south of their native Cumbria.

"I think you are confused, my lord, about this group." She kept her voice calm and low. "Ladies are the subject, not the object, of the hunting pursuit." Men did seem to find it difficult to understand women as active rather than passive. She pushed a branch out of the way.

"The Lady Hunters."

His voice came from right behind her and she leaped in surprise. Cautiously, she turned her head, and this time, her heart jolted. He really was dreadfully handsome. Blond curly hair cropped short, as though he were some demonic cherub, blue eyes glinting with mischief. He was much taller than her, forcing her to look up at him. His chest, in a well-cut checked lounge suit, was wide. If she reached out and put her hands on his shoulders, she would have to reach both up and out to encompass him.

He smirked. "The hunter and the hunted are not mutually exclusive, Lady Emily. You have been avoiding me."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, my lord." She faced him down with an innocuous smile. His eyes were the dark blue of a storm over water. The moment stretched, their gazes locked, staring. She looked away abruptly.

_Ferns_. She should look for the affy fern.

"But you said yourself that men were able to come on your expeditions."

"I did also mention that single men were not encouraged." Not by Emily, anyway. "It is a ladies' group."

In name only, it was a ladies' group. When one of their members had become too frail to do without the support of her husband, they'd bent the rule about no men. It had only taken that, a marriage, and Miss Green insisting that it was inequitable for membership by single gentlemen to be prohibited, for the rules to be changed. If she'd known this would be the result, she would have fought harder.

There was a tuft of maidenhair spleenwort fern just over to the left. She made a move towards it. Where there was one fern, they could be others.

"Why are you so against me?" he murmured.

She gulped and incautiously looked around. The way he said _against_ , his eyes guileless and faux sad, but his mouth curving, made Emily think of other ways of being against him, chest to chest. She could reach up and press her lips against his. He would be warm and delicious. And forbidden. And dangerous.

This was why one did not talk to handsome degenerates. They could incite improper thoughts in the most determinedly appropriate ladies. Perhaps she ought to arrange for one of the group's free pamphlets to be on identifying and avoiding the wrong type of man.

She took a step back into the undergrowth, a scrubby not-quite hedge surrounding an inland cliff face. This was why she wasn't going near him. He was treacherous to her and her reputation, and very hazardous for her family's veneer of respectability. He made her want things that were finished for her.

"I do prefer to search alone. May I ask you to respect that wish?" She took another step back. But she couldn't help looking at his face as she said it. Her sister, Connie, was coming out in just a few weeks. Now, more than ever, was the time to keep scandal at arm's length.

"Careful, the ground might be uneven." He reached out toward her. "There are caves and old mine workings around here."

"I know that," she bit out. "And if you'd please rejoin the rest of the party." She took another step, the stones, ivy, and sticks crunching under her boot. "I would be able to look where I was going, instead of trying to negotiate with you."

Connie. She couldn't spoil everything for Connie with any tittle-tattle. The fear of scrutiny was a constant, because if gossips noticed her, they might start to query other parts her past. She had to keep away from him.

"I'm just curious to discover new...ferns with you." Lord Markshall moved toward her, closing the small gap she'd created.

Emily took a panicky step. Her heel sank and didn't stop. The unexpected dip caught her off balance and her back-heavy skirts suddenly were pulling her. She grasped out, but she was dropping. Desperate, she threw herself forward, reaching.

"Lady–" Lord Markshall thrust his hand toward her and she clutched onto it.

"Oh!" Where they ought to have felt the ground, the long strings of bramble and ivy gave way and parted. She tumbled awkwardly, Lord Markshall with her, scraping and scrambling on ledges. Something caught on Emily's shoulder and the pain ripped a cry from her. The impact turned her and so she was on top of Markshall when they finally landed with a thud and a snap. Pain shot across her body.

It took a moment for Emily to see where they were. She was laid across Markshall, in darkness punctuated by dappled light from above. The stone around them was wet and beneath her hand was hard and gravelly. She tried to push herself up, but as she put pressure on her hand, her shoulder ripped with pain and she unintentionally let out a noise of incoherent protest.

Markshall was silent as she managed to sit up, pushing herself with her other arm. She looked down at him, shadowy in the dark. He was still. _Dead still_.

Her blood pounded against her skin. _Not again. Please lord, not again._ She couldn't stand it.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out, terror numbing her vocal cords. She'd killed him. Her fern hunting trip had killed him. People would talk about her as...

"Markshall," she whispered. Her heart was thundering like a horse galloping in her chest.

He didn't move.

"Markshall." This time her voice quavered, even in an undertone. She searched his face for signs of life.

Still, he gave no response.

Why was she whispering? Just because they were in a cave, or mine shaft, or something. There might be anything down here. _Or not_ , her rational-self insisted.

"Markshall," she said at normal volume. But yes, there was a shrill note of panic in her voice. "Wake up."

He groaned, and his perfectly proportioned face scrunched into an expression of discomfort.

_Thank god_.

"I'm all right. I'm all right. I got bumped a bit on the way down." He eased himself up into a sitting position with a wince and rubbed his head. "Are you hurt?"

Emily was suddenly aware of cold rock on her legs. Her skirts had ridden up. She desperately tugged at the hem with both hands. "I'm fine," she croaked. Her pain in her shoulder was already easing.

"You're not fine, you silly girl." He scowled. "What hurts?"

That was rich. "I am fine and I'm not silly." She couldn't summon her usual serenity. "You're the foolish one, for following me and pushing me into this situation."

"I did not push you. I warned you," he growled.

"I didn't need a warning. I needed you to go away." She felt around her gingerly. Cold, uneven stone caught at her gloves. Then her fingers caught on something. For a second, she thought it was something that could help them get out. Through her leather gloves she couldn't recognize it. Smoother than the rock, and rounded. She puckered her forehead as she thought.

Ah, yes. She picked up the item and held it out to him. "Your hat, my lord."

"My what? Oh, thank you." He reached for it and jammed it onto his head.

He looked slightly more civilized, even if it was a bowler hat rather than a proper top hat, his curls spilling out from the edges. It was suitable attire for the countryside, but a little informal for her liking.

Had she–? Her hand shot up to her head and touched hair. She needed her bonnet. Bareheaded with a man, in a hole, practically in the dark. Her heart began to thud again. This was the antithesis of everything she'd styled her life into.

"It was a good thing I was here, as otherwise, you'd be on your own." Markshall moved around their little prison.

That would be preferable to being trapped with him. She groped around again, her breath shallow and fast in the quiet. When her exploration revealed her bonnet, she held it tight. She didn't put it on, keeping it on her lap, worrying at the ribbons by smoothing and folding them as she regulated her breath. It focused her mind as she stared up at the light at the top the of hole and the tangle of plants at the top. Her panic receded and was replaced by seeping trepidation. When they were found, her reputation would be in a pit as deep and black as they were currently in.

She could hear him more than see him moving, though as her eyes adjusted, the outline of his body was clear. "What are you doing?"

He was feeling around the rocky space that they were in. "Getting us out."

"Oh really." She indicated upwards with a jerk of her chin. It was at least forty feet of sheer rock. There were bits jutting out that had broken their fall, but there was no way out by their own efforts.

"Yes." He went to stand up and was a little awkward as he did so, leaning against the rock for support. Looking around, he felt the stone and craned his neck to see.

"Help." A burst of impatience ripped through her. "We have to call for help." They had to escape as quickly as possible.

"We are not calling for assistance yet." He didn't turn, continuing to assess the sides of their prison. He stretched his arms across the hole, not quite able to touch on both sides.

"Help!" It echoed through the small space, her voice unfamiliar as it repeated.

"Ah." His fingers went to his temple. He slid back down into a seated position, slumped against the rock wall of the pit. "All right, all right. Don't do that."

"How else are we going to get out of here?" She shouted again.

"Not from anyone hearing your tepid little cry. And definitely not by scrabbling at the walls. Maybe like this." He gave a bellowing shout for help that made her ears ring.

By tacit agreement, they took it in turns to shout. But to no avail. The fern hunting party must have moved on and apparently not noticed their absence. Because no friendly call came back.

"This is pointless." After scores of shouts, she admitted defeat. Her throat was getting sore. What were they going to do? The enormity of the calamity was a miasma around her, making her fuzzy and unable to think straight.

"Well," he said tightly, "We'd better give up and die."

"I am not going to die yet." _Ridiculous man._ It was barely an hour since they'd fallen. Someone would find them soon enough. The alternative was unthinkable. "We're just taking a break on shouting."

"No? Not willing to die a spinster?" he goaded her.

"Twenty-four is not a spinster." His mocking had worked; where was her renowned politeness? It had slipped away with the fall and the day. There would be no time for more fern hunting when they got out of this ridiculous situation.

"Yes, it is." His teeth flashed white in a grin.

She wasn't listening to him. There was just the merest sound. "Help!" Emily yelled again, shriller this time.

"Only dogs communicate at that pitch–"

"Shh! I can hear something." Above them, there was the sound of a voice and her heart lifted.

"Emily!" The cry was faint, but she was sure it was there.

"Over here!" she shouted, standing up. "Careful not to fall in. The edge is slippery. I think we're in an old mine shaft."

There was a little flump and a shadow of a head dimmed their little hole.

"Lady Emily, thank goodness, we were so worried," said Miss Green. Naturally, it would be Miss Green.

"I'm sorry to have caused you any concern. We're quite well, though a little stuck right now," Emily called up. She wished yet again that her friend Mrs. Beatrix Anderson had been able to join them on this trip, rather than being in London because of her husband's work.

"We've been looking for you. Golly, it's a long way down there. Is Lord Markshall with you?" asked Miss Green, as though that were the pertinent fact of the situation.

"Yes." His deeper voice reverberated past her up the hole.

"Oh, well, you'll be fine." Miss Green giggled. "If you have Lord Markshall to protect you."

Thankful for the dark that wouldn't allow Miss Green to see her properly, Emily indulged in rolling her eyes. She wasn't sure who or what needed defending from whom.

"I definitely shielded you on the way down into this damned hole," muttered Markshall.

"We're going to need some help." Emily ignored both Miss Green's and Lord Markshall's comments. "Can someone go to the village and ask for ropes to get us out?"

"Oh, yes. I'll see if Mr. Wiltshire will run. Just stay here." Her head popped back.

She and Markshall exchanged a sardonic look. They would definitely be staying here until Mr. Wiltshire returned.

"Hullo." The shadow of Mrs. Burnham appeared above them. "What happened?"

"What shall we say?" Markshall asked in an undertone. "That you pulled me down on top of you?"

"Lord Markshall slipped," Emily replied loudly. "I tried to catch him, but he'd already gone too far for me to prevent disaster."

"You're a little liar," he said under his breath, but he didn't contradict her to Mrs. Burnham.

"Very understandable." Mrs. Burnham's voice intoned faux jollity. "Absolute disgrace to have these dangerous holes. Could have happened to anyone. I think we ought to write to..."

There was a jumble of voices above that mercifully drowned out who Mrs. Burnham thought they ought to write to. Then Miss Green was back, chatting away as though they were taking tea, speculating that Mr. Wiltshire was a very fast runner and would be back very soon.

While they waited members of the _Lady Hunters_ took turns to inquire about their wellbeing, reassure them, and tell Emily about ferns they'd found. No affy fern, thankfully, or she'd have been even more frustrated. There were questions about what the substrate was and endless clarifications to Markshall of who her companions were.

Lord Markshall requested a message to be sent to his house to cancel a meeting he had that evening. Apparently, he was concerned with his social engagements even when they were having a crisis. Emily couldn't decide if he showed frivolous preoccupation on his social engagements or admirable consideration of his friends.

"Oooh," said Miss Green eventually. "Mr. Wiltshire is back. You'll be out in a moment!"

"Thank god," Lord Markshall said.

"My sentiments exactly." She'd thought this day was a disaster when she'd been failing to find the affy fern or anything else of consequence to add to her collection. But at least she wouldn't have to spend any more time with a degenerate pretending to take an interest in pteridology for his own self-serving reasons.

"We have a rope!" squealed Miss Green, waving it over the hole.

Emily scrambled to her feet, her heart jumping in her chest. This was their way to freedom and everything would go on as usual. She'd avoid the irritating and hazardous company of Lord Markshall and find the affy fern before going to London and arranging Connie's debut to be a triumph of good taste and civility.

"Good. Make sure you tie it firmly." Lord Markshall didn't rise from his seated position.

"We'll hold on to it," replied Miss Green.

"No!" Both Markshall and Emily exclaimed together.

"I'll tie it onto this tree." Mrs. Burnham's voice came from out of sight.

"Good thing someone has some sense." Markshall rolled his shoulders as if he were on his own and limbering up for some exercise. Boxing, perhaps. Her addled mind brought forth the image of Lord Markshall, stripped to the waist with his muscles gleaming with sweat, circling his opponent.

She really needed to get out of this hole.

"Ready?" called Miss Green. "Here you go."

A rope fell towards them.

Emily held her breath. They were being rescued. This ordeal was over. She would be out of this hole, away from Lord Markshall, and would never have to speak to him again. She'd be safe.

* * *

... Continue reading Falling for a Rake

# Excerpt: On His Knees

_A Sunday afternoon walk becomes an erotic trial when Jasper's marriage proposal lures Rosina to test just how biddable he is._

# On His Knees

Apart from the marriage proposal, it was an entirely usual Sunday afternoon.

"Be your wife?" Rosina echoed incredulously as they walked towards the cliffs of Lyme Regis. There hadn't been any ceremony in his question. It was as though he viewed it as normal, like querying whether she wanted the plain edge of a fossil chipped off, or informing her of mud on her wide petticoat hem, before he knelt to brush it.

His gaze lowered and he didn't reply, instead adjusting her bag of trowels, hammers and other fossil hunting accruements on his back. The movement drew her gaze to his large, muscular frame underneath his clothes. He looked particularly handsome today in a navy frock coat, starched white cravat and top hat, all tailored to fit him perfectly.

Still wearing his Sunday best, she suddenly realized. Usually he changed into rougher, working clothes in order to accompany her after morning service.

"What made you wish to marry at this time, Mr. Hamilton?" She evaded the real issue. The idea of a marriage between them was fanciful. He was her hired man and she was the respectable widow of a gentleman.

It had been two years since her mourning had ended and she'd approached him, the foreman of the local quarry. She'd asked if one of his men needed a little money and would accompany her on fossil hunting trips. He'd looked her up and down and said that he wasn't so well paid that he would say no to extra.

Every Sunday afternoon since, he had obediently carried her rocks and tools. Watching him always set her pulse racing, an instinctive response to a gorgeous male carrying heavy objects for her.

"I've been promoted to quarry overseer." When he glanced across at her, she could see in his eyes all the pride of that statement. "It was announced on Friday."

"Congratulations," she said, her voice faint. Her legs suddenly felt heavy. A manager's wage meant he definitely did not need the few pennies she paid him to be her hired brawn on his day off. And he couldn't be her husband. The space between minor gentry and working-class was a sheer, crumbling cliff face. But beyond that, her need to dominate was a padlocked steel door.

All week she anticipated having Jasper's strength at her command, his capable hands there to catch her and clever blue eyes watching. His amiability at being led while they worked naturally encouraged illicit thoughts of bidding him to do other tasks. But she'd always known it was as likely as bringing a fossil dinosaur back to life that he would accept her controlling him intimately.

* * *

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