

## UNLACED

By Kristina Cook

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014, Kristina Cook Hort

Original copyright 2004, Kristina Cook Hort

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Chapter 1

1817

Glenfield, Essex

"Veterinary arts?" Jane asked with a gasp. "Lucy, you must be mad."

"I assure you I've all my wits about me," Lucy Abbington answered with a frown. No, she wasn't mad, but her life was about to change—dramatically. She'd long since recognized this as the truth, ever since her father had packed her off to Essex in anticipation of her first London Season. But the frightful reality was only just beginning to set in on that dazzling April day as she swung down from her saddle and joined her dearest friend in the tall grass below. She shook her head, felt her unbound curls tickle her cheek, and sighed. If only she could make Jane understand.

"It's not as if I'd actually be studying at the college myself." Lucy huffed impatiently as she tossed her mare's reins across its neck. "I'm just hoping for some sort of..." She shrugged as she searched for the right word. "Well, tutelage, I suppose."

"But why? It's your first Season. Surely you can't mean to spend your time with your nose in a book, or out in the stables with the servants as you do here at Glenfield." Jane shook her head in disapproval but Lucy saw the corners of her friend's mouth flicker into a smile.

Lucy linked her arm through Jane's as the pair ambled aimlessly around the meadow that sloped down toward the river. Only the smallest trace of chill remained in the air, daffodils and crocuses ruffling in the tender breeze.

The green, gently rolling landscape surrounding Glenfield was so very different from the dramatic wood and heath of Lucy's Nottinghamshire home. She'd only been in Essex a fortnight and already her heart ached for home—the familiar, neat bricks of Ludlow House, the small but tidy barn that held her dearest treasures. She sighed wistfully as the sound of sheep bleating in the distance reached her ears.

"I must try, at least, to make good use of my time in London. I simply cannot let these months go to waste. I do so appreciate your parents' generosity, but truly I've no need of a Season." Despite the polite manners and her new, fancy frocks, Lucy knew her simple country background would betray her. "Besides, poor Susanna's forced to share my come-out. She's putting on a good face, but surely she resents it."

"Of course she doesn't." Jane reached down and absently brushed a stray blade of grass from the folds of her mint-green skirts. "Truly, she's delighted to have someone to share it with."

Lucy knew Jane was right, and her cheeks burned with shame. How uncharitable of her to suggest Susanna was anything but generous. "You must forgive me, Jane. I know I've been an odious creature of late, and I don't know how you've borne it with such good grace. I simply cannot help my mood, though. Papa's only sending me to London in hopes of marrying me off. It's positively dreadful."

"What's so dreadful about it? Your grandfather was a baron, and it's only fitting that you be introduced into society. In fact, it's high time. You're nearly one and twenty, after all."

"Not quite a spinster yet, though you'd never know it to hear Aunt Agatha talk."

"Your aunt just wants—"

"To see me married, and married well at that. I've heard it a dozen times. She's been like a mother to me in so many ways, for so many years, and I fear I'm such a disappointment to her."

"You could never disappoint her, Lucy. That woman adores you."

"Perhaps." Lucy toed a rock and kicked it toward a clump of yellow blossoms. "But you must know I'll never fit in with the _ton_."

"Why not? You fit in so well with Susanna and me, even Colin. You always have. You're like family."

It was true; the Rosemoors _were_ like family. Jane, Susanna, and Colin were more like siblings than friends. And while family might find her eccentricities amusing and endearing, Lucy knew the _ton_ would not be so indulgent.

"Besides, I'll wager you receive several proposals by the end of the Season," Jane added with a smile.

"I know I should be flattered to receive any proposals at all, but truly I..." She faltered, struggling to keep the maddening tears at bay. "I won't marry, not unless I find someone to love, someone who loves me so much in return that he gladly allows me to pursue my interests. You know as well as I that I won't find such a man in London amongst the fashionable set. He doesn't exist."

Hadn't she already learned that painful lesson? Her blood boiled at the memory of that dreadful business two years back with Edward Allerton, youngest son of the Earl of Sherbourne. "I could never marry a girl like you," he'd said, and she could still hear the scorn in his voice, see the contempt on his face.

Jane drew her from her dark thoughts with a gentle pat on the wrist. "I'm not so certain he doesn't exist. Besides, there is only one way to find out. Come with us to London. Enjoy your Season."

Lucy nodded. It wasn't as if she had any choice. Jane's parents had graciously offered to sponsor her, and her father had accepted Lord and Lady Rosemoor's invitation on her behalf. There'd been no room for arguments; even tears hadn't swayed Papa's firm resolve to send her away. He'd accused her of spending far too much time with Mr. Wilton, reminding her that she could never study at the Veterinary College as he was. She was a female, he'd repeated, and females her age read novels, painted landscapes...found suitable husbands.

No, she had no choice but to follow her father's dictates, but that didn't mean she couldn't formulate a plan of her own. She would prove to everyone that she didn't need a husband, that her ambitions were more than a passing fancy. Her father hoped, of course, that she would form a _tendre_ for some fancy gentleman and willingly abandon her aspirations. But she would show him—show them all—that Lucy Abbington was no fickle girl. She knew what she desired in life—independence, the freedom to learn, and maybe, just maybe, the opportunity to build her own informal veterinary practice.

The approaching sound of thundering hooves broke Lucy's reverie, and she raised one hand to shield her eyes from the glittering afternoon sun. "Colin," both women said in unison as Jane's brother rode into the clearing and reined in his bay.

"I was sent to fetch you girls," he called down to them. "It's growing late and I'm to remind you we're having a guest for dinner tonight."

Jane nudged Lucy's side and smiled slyly at her.

"Ah, yes," Lucy muttered. "How could I forget? The famous Lord Manderley."

"Mandeville," Jane corrected with a scowl. "He's mysterious and moody, especially after that scandal three years past. Nevertheless, Papa thinks highly of his character."

Lucy was intrigued. "A scandal, you say?"

"Oh, it was certainly the scandal of the Season. Lord Mandeville was betrothed to Miss Cecelia Layton, you see, and then mere weeks before the nuptials she was caught in a"—Jane shook her head and dropped her voice to a whisper—"most compromising position with Mr. Ridgeley." Her voice returned to its usual timbre. "A man far beneath the marquess' position, to be sure. Lord Mandeville's heart was broken, it's said. Anyway, he's quite the horseman, which is why I hoped you'd have the chance to meet him before we left for London. You shall have much to converse about, and I'm looking forward to seeing Mama squirm when the conversation inevitably turns to breeding."

Lucy suppressed a giggle.

"Besides," Jane added, "he's not so hard to look at, either."

"Ahem." Colin cleared his throat as he swung down from his mount.

"Sorry, Colin." Jane turned toward Lucy. "You see, my dear brother cannot bear to hear another man spoken of appreciatively in his presence."

Colin rolled his eyes. "I was only reminding you that it's rude to gossip about our illustrious neighbor."

"Were you, now?" Jane asked, her voice thick with sarcasm. "Anyway, I thought you liked Mandeville."

"I like him well enough. I just can't understand why it is that seemingly sensible young ladies turn silly in his presence."

"Now, Colin, don't be surly," his sister warned.

"Me, surly? Besides, I've told you before, Mandeville's not looking for a bride, and even if he were, well, er..." Colin broke off, scratching his head and looking most uncomfortable. "I say, he's an ambitious sort of fellow and he'd be looking for an earl's daughter at the very least. You'd do well to keep that in mind, Lucy, no matter what my matchmaking sister might whisper in your ear."

Lucy shrugged, smiling wryly. "I'll do my best to remember."

Colin nodded approvingly, but his blue-gray eyes narrowed as his gaze traveled from Lucy's uncovered head to her boys' breeches and finally down to her boot-clad feet. "Where the devil did you get those clothes?"

Lucy grinned in reply. "They're Nicholas's. My brother may be but twelve, but he's already as tall as I am. I managed to steal these into my trunks after Auntie packed them."

Colin shook his head. "Nothing you do should surprise me after all these years. But how did you manage to escape the house dressed like that?"

Lucy cocked her head toward her horse, the red folds of her cloak draped across the saddle. "My cloak. Where's Susanna?"

"At home. Resting for dinner as proper young ladies do."

Lucy threw her head back and laughed. "So I've only managed to corrupt one of your sisters. And I suppose you'll be tattling on me to Aunt Agatha, won't you, that I'm out riding in breeches?"

"And riding astride, no less, I'm sure."

"Of course," she said with a shrug. "Riding sidesaddle is not truly riding. It's ridiculous, is what it is. As if I couldn't properly sit a horse."

"Anyone who's seen you ride knows you can properly sit a horse, side-saddle or not," Jane suggested with a smile. "But you must admit it _is_ a bit more ladylike."

"It's very well to move your person from one point to the next in a ladylike fashion, but I enjoy a more...shall I say _vigorous_ ride."

Colin groaned and rolled his eyes heavenward. "God help us all if you go around London saying such things."

Lucy felt her cheeks burn.

"It _is_ getting late," Jane said. "We should get back to the house and prepare for dinner."

Lucy nodded as she sauntered to her mare, who was grazing lazily beneath a willow, munching the new spring grass. "You two go on ahead," she said, retrieving her cloak and fastening it around her neck. "I'll be along shortly. I promise," she added, seeing them both grimace.

The afternoon sun waned, and Lucy shivered as she watched Jane hurry to her own mount and ride off behind Colin. With a frown, she reached up and felt her tangled, windblown hair. Yes, she should return to the house to begin preparations for the evening meal, but not before she enjoyed one last ride. She mounted her horse with practiced precision and spurred the mare toward the river.

***

"Now, if you will excuse me, Mother, I am expected for dinner at Glenfield. The viscount and I have some matters to discuss, and I don't wish to keep him waiting." Henry Ashton, the sixth Marquess of Mandeville, hastened to leave. The sight of his mother sitting at his late father's mahogany desk made his stomach roil, and he wished to be finished with the discourse.

"Henry, I must insist you take this suggestion into consideration. It is time you put this nonsense with Miss Layton behind you, and Lady Charlotte is a lovely girl, quite appropriate. She would make a fine marchioness."

Henry flinched and stopped in his tracks. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before turning to face his mother once more. "This _nonsense_ , as you call it, with Miss Layton is most certainly behind me, dear mother. And allow me to remind you once more that I would not marry Lady Charlotte Haverford if she were the last maiden in all of bloody England."

"Do not swear at me." Disapproval darkened her face. "And do not be so hasty to judge. You are the Marquess of Mandeville, and with that title comes certain obligations. It is high time you settle down and take a wife. Produce an heir. It is what your father most desperately wanted." Her cold blue eyes narrowed as she surveyed him from head to toe with pursed lips. "With your poor health and weak constitution, I should think you would be more concerned with ensuring the marquessate."

He felt the blood rise in his face. Was she calling his manhood into question? Doubting his ability to produce an heir? He swallowed his rage, refusing to rise to her bait. When he returned his gaze to hers, he made sure his eyes were guarded, veiled of emotion. Empty.

"Besides," she said, "you were away nearly three years, and Lady Charlotte has matured considerably in that time."

Yes, matured into a spinster, he thought uncharitably. How interesting that no man had yet snatched her up, despite her wealth and breeding.

"I am well aware you do not love her, but love will come in due time." She rose from the chair with an exaggerated sigh and stood to gaze out the study's window, one gloved hand across her breast. "Not every marriage begins as a grand love affair. What your dear father and I had was quite rare."

He shuddered as she turned to face him with a disingenuous smile. She had been a remarkable beauty in her youth and was, Henry thought objectively, still a striking woman. Yet so unattractive in character. How had his father been so blind, so foolish?

He'd been brilliant, after all. As a young earl, Henry's father had been poised to wed Lady Margaret Spencer, a baroness in her own right whose family connections and wealth were immeasurable. Yet he had been a slave to his traitorous heart, obeying his emotions instead of his honor, his duty. Instead of wedding Lady Spencer, he'd eloped with the vicar's beautiful daughter. His mother.

And for what? _Love_ , Henry thought with a sneer. Worse yet, the object of his father's misguided affection had been less than worthy. Henry coldly eyed his mother—a woman incapable of loving another, unable to grasp the meaning of fidelity; a woman who hated her own son from the moment he was born. Nevertheless, his father had loved her so desperately he'd been unable to see the truth. That error had cost him both power and influence—it had kept him from realizing his potential.

No, the current Marquess of Mandeville would not repeat his father's mistakes.

"I've spoken with Lord Hathorne and he's quite agreeable to the match," his mother was saying as she absently plucked at her gown's sleeves. "He has provided a sizeable dowry for her. You would do well to take that into consideration."

Henry choked back indignation. If and when he chose to marry, he would marry well. No doubt about it. Unlike his father, he wouldn't be led by his heart. Instead, he would select a woman of impeccable breeding, perfectly suited to the role of marchioness, wholly capable of furthering his own circumstance. Yes, Charlotte Haverford certainly fit the bill, but it would be a woman of his _own_ choosing, not his mother's. He would not give her the satisfaction.

"I am afraid that suggesting I would even consider wedding Lady Charlotte was a grievous error on your part, Mother," he said levelly. "One I recommend you rectify immediately. I bid you good night." With a curt bow, he turned and strode out of the study.

Minutes later, the groom had Phantom saddled and awaiting his master in the drive. "Thank you, McLaren," Henry called, swinging easily upon the back of his well-muscled stallion.

"Yes, my lord." McLaren bowed stiffly and handed up the reins. "Lord Mandeville?"

"Yes, McLaren, what is it?" He was impatient to be off.

"I only thought ye might wish to know that Medusa appears ready to foal. Perhaps by morning time."

"Is that so? Thank you, I'll check with you as soon as I return this evening, then." He dismissed the groom with a nod and swung Phantom's head around, digging his heels into the horse's sides.

Rather than take the road, he guided the stallion toward the southeast corner of his property. He could save time by cutting through the orchard and riding along the riverbank toward the Rosemoors' neighboring estate.

As they raced through the budding fruit trees, Henry's thoughts were unpleasantly drawn back to his mother and her ridiculous suggestion. _Damn her_. He was a grown man, and he certainly did not want nor need her playing matchmaker on his behalf. He prodded Phantom on as they reached the water's edge, seething all the while at his mother's poor taste. Charlotte Haverford? Her father, the Earl of Hathorne, was a cunning fop with loose morals, and Lady Hathorne was nothing short of simpleminded. Their eldest daughter was ambitious, high in the instep, and enough like his own mother to earn Henry's rancor. He disliked her immensely. Yes, she was certainly attractive, but in an icy way—not the sort to keep a man warm in bed at night.

As far as he was concerned, his sister was the single only lady whom he could unequivocally trust. Eleanor was a rare exception, her character above reproach. Of course, the many women of questionable repute who frequented Henry's bed were most definitely _not_ ladies, and therefore were exceptions, as well. They, at least, were honest in what they expected in return for his attentions. A night here, a trinket there. It was all very straightforward and businesslike. He looked forward to renewing several such acquaintances in London.

But the marriageable ladies, the ones from whom he was supposed to choose a bride...they were a different matter altogether. The debacle with Cecelia Layton had proven that to him. And Charlotte Haverford was perhaps the worst of the lot. He didn't care how large her dowry was or how well connected her father might be. Marry her? _Never_.

He felt the muscles in his jaw tighten as he tapped the horse's flanks with his crop. In no time they sailed over the unruly hedge marking the boundary between his and Lord Rosemoor's property, and galloped across a wide-open field toward the house.

Without warning Henry felt his horse's gait falter. He reined in the stallion with a curse, and Phantom slowed to a trot. Even from his seat he felt the pronounced limp, and his ire cooled abruptly as concern for his favorite mount supplanted it. He halted the horse and swung down from the saddle. With a frown, he gingerly examined each dark hoof, finding nothing amiss. Shaking his head, he reached for Phantom's reins and led the horse on foot through the park. Minutes later Glenfield rose up in the distance, the familiar gray stones weathered to a pleasing silvery patina. "Just a bit further," he told the horse as they approached, "and I will have the viscount's groom examine you."

"Sir, your horse!" a decidedly feminine voice called out from the shadows, startling him. "Please, stop at once. He is injured." Henry looked to see who was issuing the order and saw a small slip of a girl, not much more than five feet tall, striding purposefully toward him. She was wrapped in a scarlet cloak, and even in the fading light he was certain he had never laid eyes on her before.

"He has only just begun to limp," he called out through clenched teeth. "I will have him examined by the Rosemoors' groom, Miss... I am sorry, I don't believe I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance," he said, attempting a polite smile.

She threw off her cloak and hurried to Phantom's side. Henry's jaw dropped. The chit was wearing breeches! Fawn-colored wool clung to shapely legs, tapering down to black knee-boots. A loose-fitting, white linen tunic skimmed her hips. Golden hair, loose and uncovered, tumbled down her back in rippling waves. The fading sun cast a warm, orange glow upon her anything-but-girlish form. Obviously, she was not so young as he first supposed.

"Sir, I must insist you let me take a look. There," she said, "on the left foreleg, between the knee and fetlock. A tendon, I think."

He crouched down and looked where the girl pointed. He grimaced—it _did_ look swollen. However had he missed that? Silently, he cursed himself for his carelessness.

The girl pulled off her gloves and knelt to feel Phantom's leg. "It's warm. A bowed tendon, I'm sure of it." She stood and reached for the powerful animal's muzzle, offering her hand for the horse to smell. Phantom licked her palm and lowered his head to rest upon her shoulder. "You poor beast," she cooed, stroking his mane.

Henry blinked, certain his eyes were playing tricks on him. Phantom was wary of strangers, tremendously head shy. He'd never seen him behave this way, and it was more than a little unsettling. "However did you do that?"

"Do what?" she asked, dragging her gaze from Phantom to Henry with an irritated flash of impossibly green eyes.

Who was this odd girl who had so bewitched his horse, and what was she doing out near dark in boys' clothing? Perhaps one of the Rosemoors' servants, he thought, then shook his head. No, not a servant. She speaks like a lady. But she couldn't be, not dressed as she was.

"...some mud, and perhaps some peppermint oil," she was saying.

He realized she was still speaking to him. "I beg your pardon. What were you saying?"

"A poultice, sir," she said impatiently. "I was saying I need to ice the leg and then apply a poultice." She shook her head with a scowl. "I must ask Cook at once if she has any peppermint oil."

"Surely you realize what an odd situation this is?" he sputtered. "In case you have not noticed, you are a female, and females do not generally possess the ability to diagnose equine injuries—"

"In case _you_ have not noticed, sir, I just did."

"—much less the skills to treat them."

"Oh, but I do."

He raised a brow. "But you _are_ a female?"

"Undoubtedly."

"I thought so." The corners of his mouth twitched. "I just wanted to make sure _you_ knew it."

He saw her bite her lower lip, perhaps suppressing a smile?

"I can assure you I'm in possession of many years of informal training in veterinary arts, and if you'll allow me to lead your horse...what was his name?"

"Phantom."

"If you'll allow me lead Phantom to the stables, I'll see to his care with the utmost attention. If you doubt me, please feel free to inquire with Lord and Lady Rosemoor."

Henry's head was spinning. This was madness, and yet...he felt certain she _did_ know of what she spoke. Reluctantly, he nodded his assent and handed her the reins. "I accept your word, Miss...ahhh..."

"Do you, now? How lucky for me." This time her smile was evident and it lit her eyes like freshly polished gems. He couldn't help but grin foolishly in reply.

Without a backward glance, she led Phantom away, her own horse following docilely behind. Henry shrugged in bewilderment as he stared at her shapely backside, so clearly defined, swaying ever so enticingly with her feminine gait.

No, not a lady, but certainly comely enough.

He started to follow, but stopped to fish out his watch from his waistcoat. Checking the time, he saw that he was more than a half hour late for his engagement with the viscount. With a surprising certainty that Phantom was in capable hands, Henry hurried toward the house's wide front steps, taking two at a time, and promising himself he would return and check on the horse at the earliest opportunity.
Chapter 2

"We're in agreement on that count, Mandeville. It's glad I am to have young men like you on our side. It's an outrage, and I'll speak with Lord Grey as soon as we arrive in Town." Lord Rosemoor's gray brows were drawn into an angry line.

"As will I, Rosemoor. It's insupportable. I must say, I'm looking forward to taking my place in Parliament. I've spent these past few years in Scotland thinking about what needs to be accomplished. First and foremost is educational reform. Let us get the children off the streets, little thieves, and get them into schools, instead. It's the only hope we have for our future—educating England's children, no matter their station. 'But if you ask what is the good of education in general, the answer is easy; that education makes good men, and that good men act nobly.'"

"Ah, the wise words of Plato. You think like your father." Lord Rosemoor smiled as he set down his glass.

"Perhaps, but unlike my father, I will see the vision to fruition. We need to gain the ear of easily swayed men and win them to our side. The time is ripe for a Whig government, if we play our cards right."

"True. It does not bode well for our country if the damn Tories—ah, but here are the ladies, so our business must be concluded." Lord Rosemoor stood and snuffed out his cheroot. "Lord Mandeville, you must now properly meet our dear friend and guest. I present to you Miss Lucy Abbington."

Henry looked up from his sherry in surprise as Lady Rosemoor approached with a young lady on her arm. The girl wore a gown of pale-blue gauze trimmed in green. Her curls were piled atop her head, a ribbon the color of emeralds woven artfully through the arrangement. His indignation at the current political situation defused at once.

_Exquisite_. That was the only word Henry could think of to describe her.

"Good evening, Lord Mandeville," Lady Rosemoor said, gliding to his side with a polite smile.

"Lady Rosemoor." Henry bowed to his hostess and took the girl's proffered hand. "Miss Abbington, a pleasure."

"My lord," the girl murmured with a small curtsey, her eyes lowered. "I apologize for my conduct earlier. I didn't realize to whom I was speaking. I meant no disrespect."

Henry shook his head, confused. Earlier? This couldn't be... And then she raised her eyes, so unbelievably green, just like... His mind scrabbled to grasp the situation. Yes, the eyes were the same, but the rest of her was so very different.

She was every inch a lady, and a desirable one at that. However had she affected such a transformation in so short a time? And why was his heart suddenly hammering in his chest?

He struggled to regain his composure. "No apology is necessary, Miss Abbington. I fear I didn't offer proper thanks for your attentions toward Phantom. I'm most grateful for your assistance. Rest assured I've been properly chastised for doubting your abilities." He smiled sheepishly at Lord Rosemoor as his hand found his glass. He took another swig of the sweet liquid. This Miss Abbington smelled of lavender and saddle leather, and...was it peppermint? He involuntarily moved closer, breathing in her scent. It was intoxicating. Henry downed the rest of his drink in one swift motion, and set the glass down upon the sideboard.

"Have no fear, Mandeville," Lord Rosemoor said. "You would not be the first man surprised by Lucy's unusual skills. Her grandfather was a baron, you know. Lord Wexley, a fine man. But our Miss Abbington has quite the reputation as an animal healer." The viscount patted Miss Abbington's shoulder with a look that Henry thought an odd mixture of pride and amusement.

The girl's eyes twinkled as she met his gaze, a smile dancing upon her lips. "I do try to be helpful when called upon. But of course, as a woman, I lack the necessary education."

Henry couldn't possibly draw his gaze from hers, not even if the butler had run into the room screaming 'fire!' at the top of his lungs.

"She's being modest, Mandeville," Rosemoor said. "People travel some distance to seek her counsel and care. She has an uncanny affinity with the beasts. I'd never have believed it if I hadn't witnessed it myself on several occasions. Besides, I'll wager there isn't a horse anywhere she can't ride. You should see the way—"

"Charles, please," Lady Rosemoor hissed. "You are embarrassing Miss Abbington."

Miss Abbington didn't look the least bit embarrassed. "I'm afraid you make me sound like some sort of sorceress, Lord Rosemoor, which I assure you I am not."

"Of course not, dear." Lady Rosemoor patted her hand. "I wonder what's keeping my daughters? Dinner shall soon be announced."

Henry finally managed to drop his gaze. His stomach grumbled in anticipation as the savory aroma of mutton assaulted his senses. The Rosemoors' cook was exceptional; he could always count on an excellent meal at Glenfield, along with pleasant company. He found the Rosemoor girls amusing, and they struck Henry as more guileless than most. He couldn't resist another glance in Miss Abbington's direction. She looked up and their eyes met briefly before she looked away, but he felt her presence in every fiber of his body.

He raked a hand through his hair and wondered if she _did_ possess some mystical powers. First she had captivated his horse, and now he found himself inexplicably drawn to her, as well. Perhaps it was simply a result of his lengthy celibacy, he assured himself. The breeches she wore earlier had suggested sensual curves that the current fashions concealed so well. Yes, that was it. He was a man, after all.

And she was a woman. _Definitely_ a woman.

Lucy peered curiously at Lord Mandeville from across the room as he downed his sherry and slammed the empty glass on the sideboard with unnecessary force. Colin joined him, refilling the marquess' drink before pouring his own. She took a moment to study him while the two men engaged in conversation, their voices a low rumble. His eyes, which she first supposed to be almost black, were instead a deep shade of blue, startling against his sun-darkened skin. His hair, unfashionably short, was as black as a raven's wing. He was elegantly attired in a dark-blue riding jacket, its fit accentuating his muscular form. A neatly folded cravat lay atop crisp, white linen. He cut a fine form, indeed. Well over six feet, he was narrow in the waist but broad in the chest, and his arms appeared frighteningly powerful.

Jane was right. He certainly was not hard to look at. No wonder Colin had seen fit to warn her.

She reflected back on their meeting by the stables. He was a bit insufferable, but that was to be expected. He was a marquess, after all. Yet she had to concede he had made her smile, even as he insulted her. Now that they'd been properly introduced, he shied away from her like a nervous colt, keeping a safe distance while he eyed her cautiously—or was it curiously?—from across the room.

Lucy's attention was drawn away from him as her aunt rushed into the room, her lace cap askew atop gray curls.

"May I present Mrs. Stafford, Miss Abbington's aunt?" Lord Rosemoor was saying to the marquess. "She has accompanied her niece here from Nottinghamshire."

"A pleasure, Mrs. Stafford," Lord Mandeville said.

"Oh, the pleasure is all mine, my lord." Aunt Agatha bobbed a curtsey and readjusted her spectacles, her face a deep scarlet. "All mine," she added, breathlessly. Her faded eyes danced as she clasped her hands to her bosom, basking in the man's rakish smile.

_The kind of smile that made most women melt_ , Lucy thought, grateful for her own sensibility. She brushed her forehead with the back of one wrist and stared at the carpet beneath her feet. Its intricate pattern became nothing more than a blur. She was barely aware that Jane and Susanna had at last made their appearance and were now chatting easily with their distinguished guest.

A bell sounded in the doorway, and the hum of conversation ground to a halt as the butler announced the meal. Lucy followed her hosts to the warmly lit dining room, settling herself into her chair with a sigh.

Mercifully, she found herself seated beside Colin, more than half a table's distance from Lord Mandeville. She hated mutton, the evening's fare, but barely noticed the food she pushed about her plate, so engrossed was she in avoiding looking in the marquess' direction any more than was necessary. Instead, she focused on remembering everything she'd learned about bowed tendons and their treatment. It had been more than a year since she'd actually treated such an injury. She wanted to make certain she proved her skill as far as Phantom was concerned.

Yet she couldn't help but notice that her aunt's head was frequently bent toward Lord Mandeville's. Just what could Aunt Agatha possibly be discussing so intently with the man? She forced her thoughts back to the horse's injury with a scowl.

At last the sweets were laid before them, a mélange of tempting delicacies. Lucy's mouth watered in anticipation as she roused herself from her thoughts long enough to notice that, as Jane had predicted, Lord Mandeville had steered the conversation toward equine matters. He was animatedly discussing his current breeding plans with Lord Rosemoor.

"My groom informs me that Medusa appears ready to foal any moment now. This breeding was much anticipated," Lord Mandeville was saying, and Lucy's interest was instantly piqued, the sweets forgotten.

"Lord Mandeville," she said, endeavoring to make her voice as level as possible, "tell me about Medusa."

"I sent Medusa to Covington Hall from my estate in Scotland with orders for my groom to breed her to Phantom. She is from exceptional stock, and I wanted to introduce the bloodline into ours at Covington. She is from the Scottish Galloway lines, but"—he waved a hand—"of course you wouldn't know—"

"Of course I do," Lucy interjected, perhaps a touch defensively. _Maybe more than you do_ , she thought.

"Ah, yes." He scratched his head. "I forgot."

Lucy smiled weakly. "Is this the first time Medusa has been bred, then?"

"Ahem." Lady Rosemoor cleared her throat and twisted her napkin in her hands. Jane caught Lucy's eye and archly raised a brow with a sly smile. Lucy stifled a laugh, her mood briefly lightened.

Lord Mandeville didn't seem to notice his hostess' discomfort and continued enthusiastically. "It is indeed the first time she's been bred, but Phantom has sired a number of fine specimens. He has proven a fine stud by any standard."

The marquess' eyes met Lucy's, and her pulse quickened in response. She fidgeted with the neckline of her gown in discomfiture. "I should love to see Medusa," she said, as businesslike as possible. "And the foal, of course, when it chooses to arrive. But I'm afraid Phantom must remain here at Glenfield for a few days at least, before he will able to return and meet his progeny. And his leg shall take months to heal fully."

"Months? Really, so long?" Lord Mandeville leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "A bowed tendon, you said? Are you certain? That is quite serious."

"Quite serious, I'm afraid," Lucy said, "and yes, I'm certain. Fortunately, it appears to be a mid-line bow, not nearly as serious as it could have been. I wonder, should I go check on him now?" She started to rise from her seat.

"Lucy, dearest," Aunt Agatha interjected, "I must insist you first finish your meal."

"Your aunt is right." Lady Rosemoor nodded in agreement. "I am sure Simmons is taking good care of the marquess' horse. So, Lord Mandeville," she said, obviously anxious to change the subject. "Will your mother join you in Town for the Season?"

Lord Mandeville's eyes appeared to darken. "Yes, I believe she is taking residence with my sister in Grosvenor Square. I shall have Mandeville House to myself."

"I do hope you will find time to call upon us in St. James, as we are practically neighbors. We shall give a ball soon after our arrival to introduce Susanna and Miss Abbington. You shall expect an invitation, of course."

Lord Mandeville grimaced. "To be frank, Lady Rosemoor, I was hoping to avoid the social scene altogether. I have a duty to Parliament, but I confess I do not enjoy the social aspects of the Season."

"Humph. I second that." Lord Rosemoor raised his glass.

"Well, my lord," Susanna said, her cheeks flushed, "I do hope you will change your mind. Most gentlemen do manage to enjoy both aspects of the Season." She looked to Lord Rosemoor with an amused smile. "Even my father does, despite what he says."

"It's true," Jane added. "Besides, I believe as much politicking takes place in the ballroom as it does in the House of Lords."

"How right you are, Jane. Come, girls, let us leave the gentlemen to their port." Lady Rosemoor rose with a smile, and Lucy gratefully followed her hostess out.

A half hour later, she still had not yet had an opportunity to check on the injured horse. Instead, she found herself perched on the sofa in the drawing room, attempting to busy herself with needlework as they waited for the gentlemen to join them.

"Oh, Lucy, the invitation! You were out riding this afternoon when the post came and we forgot to tell you. What an exciting day it has been. I was just saying to Mama—"

"Do not keep me in suspense," Lucy interrupted. She knew Susanna would prattle on endlessly without ever getting to the point if allowed. "What invitation?"

"The Dowager Duchess of Warburton," Jane supplied as she took up her own needlework. "She is giving a party in three days' time. She thought to get everyone from the district together before we return to Town. I wonder if Lord Mandeville will be in attendance..."

Lucy shook her head. "I wouldn't think so. Didn't he say he avoids social functions? 'I do not enjoy the social aspects of the Season,'" she mocked in a deep timbre.

Jane laughed and looked to her sister with raised brows. "We shall have to wait and see if he has suddenly changed his mind on the matter, will we not?"

Susanna nodded in agreement.

Lucy set aside her untouched needlework. "Lady Rosemoor, I must excuse myself to check on the horse."

"Really, dear, must you?" her hostess asked.

"Yes, Lucy. Can it not wait until after the Rosemoors' guest has left?" Aunt Agatha looked at her pointedly. "The gentlemen should be joining us presently."

That was exactly why she wanted to get out to the stables as quickly as possible. "I shall hurry back, I promise," Lucy lied, then scurried out before she was met with more protests.

"There ye are, miss." Lucy looked up in surprise as Simmons stepped out of Phantom's stall, rubbing his shin. "Our patient is not taking kindly to my attentions. I hope ye'll be having better luck with the cantankerous beast."

"Phantom, you naughty boy," Lucy scolded with a chuckle as she went to the horse and knelt to feel its leg. Still warm. She stood and stroked the horse's mane several times before the animal lowered its chin to rest on her shoulder with a contented whinny.

Simmons shook his head in wonderment. "I'll leave ye to his care, miss. I've just got fresh ice over on the shelf 'ere. Cook's gettin' angry, though. Don't appreciate you wastin' her precious ice, she says."

"Thank you, Simmons," she called to his back as he shuffled out, shaking his head.

"Simmons, how is Phantom... Oh, Miss Abbington." Lord Mandeville strode briskly into the stables then stopped short. "I beg your pardon. I was just coming to check on my horse."

"The tendon is still warm and swollen," she said. "The ice does seem to be helping somewhat, and I shall make a better poultice tomorrow. But again, I'm afraid he must remain here with us for a few days."

"I suppose you're right, although I shall miss my favorite mount." Lord Mandeville folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the frame of the stall, eyeing Lucy appraisingly as she went to the shelf the groom had indicated. She took the small chunk of ice that was wrapped in cheesecloth, and returned to the horse's side. "However did you learn of such injuries? If you don't mind my inquiring?"

Lucy arranged herself on a stool and gingerly pressed the ice to the horse's foreleg. "I've learned to treat many equine illnesses and injuries I've come across, to some success." She paused for a breath. "I know _this_ "—she waved a hand to indicate herself tending the horse—"must seem most unusual to a gentleman such as yourself."

"Unusual? More like revolutionary," he said with a chuckle. "But however did you learn the proper treatments?"

"Simple trial and error, for the most part." She shrugged. "I simply cannot bear to see any creature in pain and leave it to suffer."

"So, it's not just horses, then?"

"Oh, no. I've set a bird's broken wing, tended stray dogs and cats, treated infected wounds on sheep. I know it must sound silly." She eyed him cautiously.

"No, I believe it sounds sensible, Miss Abbington." He reached for a curry comb and began stroking the horse's flanks. "I've often felt much the same, but I'm afraid I don't possess the skills that you so obviously do."

Lucy swelled with pride and continued, emboldened by his approval. "A friend of Papa's is studying at the Veterinary College in London, and when he is home he indulges me in sharing much of what he learns. I'm not as educated as Mr. Wilton, to be sure, but in his absence I do try to be helpful. There are those who find my pursuits unseemly, of course, and I fear I'm a bit of a bluestocking." She decided it was better to say aloud what he must be thinking. "But I do enjoy a great deal of latitude in the countryside, as we're quite removed from the constraints of Town."

"I'm a great deal peculiar in my belief that the idleness and lack of academic pursuits generally enjoyed by today's young ladies produces weak character." He stopped currying the horse and turned to face her. "I admit it is taking some getting used to, but it seems you've found your passion. I cannot help but admire that."

She flustered at his compliment. Her father had indulged her pursuits and many had come to accept what she did, albeit reluctantly, but never before had anyone expressed admiration. She swallowed a lump in her throat and rose to her feet awkwardly. Her shawl dropped to the ground in a heap of lace, and Lord Mandeville bent to retrieve it, brushing off bits of straw as he handed it to her. She shivered involuntarily as their fingers met and then lingered, perhaps a moment too long. Stumbling back, she felt her slipper catch on the stool, and Lord Mandeville reached out to steady her. Finding her balance, Lucy looked up and her eyes met his. Time seemed momentarily suspended as she returned his gaze with her own questioning one, not daring to breathe.

Her eyes widened as he reached up and tenderly brushed her burning cheek with his knuckles. His touch, unexpectedly gentle, sent chills down her spine and made gooseflesh rise on her skin.

And then he released her. He stepped back, a puzzled expression darkening his face, and studied his hands with a scowl.

Lucy stood transfixed, unable to speak.

"Ah, yer lordship," the groom said, interrupting the charged silence with his return. "No need to check on yer horse. As you can see, the miss is taking fine care of 'im."

"Yes, Simmons, I see that she is." Lord Mandeville's voice was cold and his eyes had lost their previous warmth, as if a curtain had been drawn over them. "I should return to my hosts," he said gruffly. "Miss Abbington, good night." With a curt bow, he turned and stalked out.

Lucy stood rooted to the spot, her eyes fixed on his retreating form. Her heart beat wildly and her breath came fast, as if she'd run a distance. He'd only touched his hand to her face, nothing more, she reminded herself. Her own reaction, so physical, frightened her. Yes, he was handsome, uncommonly so, but that was no excuse.

With a start, she realized Simmons was speaking to her. She turned to the groom in confusion.

"Everything okay, miss?" he was asking.

"Oh, yes, everything is fine." She sank inelegantly back down upon the stool. "I suppose I was dizzy for a moment there."

"Should I go and fetch a vinaigrette for ye?" The groom's brow knitted in concern.

Lucy shook her head. She'd never in all her life fainted, and she certainly wasn't going to start now. She'd been gone from the house far too long. Her aunt would be cross for certain. She took a deep, fortifying breath. "That's not necessary. Thank you, Simmons, but I should return to the house at once."
Chapter 3

Lucy's restless slumber was interrupted by an insistent pounding upon her door. She sat up, disoriented. Was it morning? She blinked and saw the first light of day casting hazy shadows across the coverlet. "Yes?" she called out sleepily. "Come in." Susanna's lady's maid rushed in, looking as if she, too, had just been awakened.

"Miss Abbington, Lord Mandeville has sent for you at Covington Hall. His valet is downstairs in the front hall with the housekeeper."

"Lord Mandeville? Whatever for?" For a moment Lucy thought she was dreaming. She blinked a few times. With a blush she foggily remembered her encounter with the marquess the night before. Thank goodness he had unexpectedly departed before she had returned to the house.

"His valet says the marquess' horse is due to foal and he fears complications. I told him it is impossible for you—"

"Mary, please help me dress, and quickly." Lucy sprang from the bed and began shrugging off her nightclothes in earnest.

"But, miss, this is quite irregular. You cannot go—"

"Of course I can, and I must." Lucy slipped into a shift, and hastily pulled on serviceable stockings. "Just find my old yellow morning gown and pelisse and help me fasten this corset. There, thank you, Mary. And please tell Lady Rosemoor where I have gone when she awakens." It would not be for several hours yet. Lady Rosemoor and her daughters were notoriously late risers.

"You cannot suggest you are going to Covington Hall unchaperoned?" the maid gasped, her voice rising a full pitch.

"Mary, this is not a social call." This was business, of course. She did not drag along a chaperone at home when her services were needed. Lucy buttoned her pelisse and pulled on her half-boots, lacing them with quick precision. She stood and studied her reflection in the looking glass. "Oh, dear. My hair." She reached up and pushed back the unruly waves spilling across her cheeks. "Can you plait it? There, that will do. Thank you, Mary." On her way out the door, she remembered her bonnet and gloves. She ran back to retrieve them, and hurried out again.

Lucy closed her eyes and leaned her head against the smooth leather squabs, hoping to catch a moment's more rest as the stylish barouche rolled toward Covington Hall. Her stomach grumbled, and she realized she had eaten nothing in her haste to depart.

She dozed for a moment, awakening with a start as the carriage slowed. She rubbed her eyes and sat forward in her seat, peering anxiously out the glass as they turned down a narrow, shady lane. At last Covington Hall appeared around the bend. It was a graceful structure of aged yellow stone, its corners traced by wisteria. Lucy sucked in her breath. It was immense, imposing—yet utterly enchanting. The carriage proceeded through iron gates, which opened to a wide drive flanked by tall, manicured shrubs.

The house's grand façade was reflected in the shimmering water of long, rectangular fountains set at either side of the sweeping front stairs. She could only shake her head in amazement. Why, Covington Hall was perhaps three times the size of Glenfield. In comparison, her own home back in Nottinghamshire seemed almost... No, there was no means for comparison. After the carriage rolled to a stop, she took the footman's proffered hand and alighted with a concerned frown.

The marquess' valet, who introduced himself as Philbin, clambered down. "This way, miss, to the stables," he said as he hastily led her away from the house. As Lucy followed him, she couldn't help but glance one last time over her shoulder. She'd never seen such a magnificent house in all her life. She shook her head once more, a knot of anticipation forming in her stomach.

"Yer lordship, I do not know why you felt the need to summon 'er here. There's nothing here that I cannot handle." The groom was obviously insulted. His face was mottled, his rheumy eyes bulging. "And besides," he sputtered, "yer tellin' me that a lass—"

"That's exactly what I'm telling you, MacLaren." Henry was distractedly peering over the man's shoulder, anticipating the carriage's arrival with Miss Abbington. "I know it's odd—I could hardly believe it myself at first. But Lord Rosemoor assures me she is well informed and quite competent. Besides, if what her aunt tells me is true, then her skills are exceptional."

"If ye say so, milord." The groom made no attempt to mask his skepticism.

The heaving mare got to her feet and began pacing a circuit in her stall. Both Henry and MacLaren turned their attention to her, anxious looks upon their faces. Abruptly, the horse lay down upon the ground and began to roll on her back from side to side.

"Lord Mandeville, how long has she been rolling like that?"

Henry turned and saw Miss Abbington there, unfastening her pelisse and pulling off her bonnet as she hurried into the laboring mare's stall.

"Only a few minutes," Henry said with relief. "Miss Abbington, I apologize for summoning you here at such an hour, but I wanted you here for the foaling. I'm afraid something isn't right."

MacLaren shuffled his feet and offered a "harrumph."

"A few minutes, you say? Oh, if only I had gotten here sooner. Has her sac of waters broken?"

"Aye, no more'n a quarter hour ago." MacLaren took off his hat and scratched his head. "Last night she seemed a bit colicky, so I was surprised there warn't a foal by daybreak. Still don't know why he summoned ye' here." He looked to his master with narrowed eyes. "Name's MacLaren, by the way."

"Well, MacLaren, the rolling is usually an attempt to reposition the foal." Miss Abbington shook her head. "I think your instincts were correct, Lord Mandeville. Something is indeed not right."

Three pairs of worried eyes turned toward the mare as she became more agitated and violent in her behavior.

"Can the two of you force her to stand and hold her steady? I'll check her progress." Miss Abbington glanced down at her clean, butter-colored frock. "Perhaps I should keep my pelisse on, after all," she said, refastening her overcoat.

The next few moments were a blur of frenzied activity as Miss Abbington issued orders and requested supplies. Henry and the groom did as they were told in silence, as she ably took control of the situation. In light of her obvious competency, all of Henry's remaining doubts vanished. He only wished he were as knowledgeable himself. Hell, that his head groom was as knowledgeable, for that matter.

He watched in fascination as she peeled off her gloves, pushed up her sleeves and... _Good God, she actually reached inside the horse!_

"The foal is breech. I feel its tail. Let's get her against the wall—keep her standing. I need to tear the membrane. This foal must come out, and now!"

In stunned silence, Henry watched as she tugged and pulled, explaining as she worked that she was tearing a hole in the membrane and turning each of the foal's hind legs. Soon both legs were visible. Errant locks of the girl's hair fell in her face, and she looked at her own blood-covered hands with a helpless shrug.

"Here," Henry said awkwardly, "let me try to, well...let me see if I can get this off your face." He clumsily pushed her hair away from her eyes, tucking it back as best he could.

"Thank you, my lord," she said, barely acknowledging him. "MacLaren, I need your assistance." A rivulet of perspiration ran down the side of her face, and her eyes appeared to glow with intensity.

"Miss Abbington, do you think I might..." Henry trailed off, embarrassed at his own eagerness.

She looked to the groom, who nodded his assent. "Of course, my lord. We must each grab a leg here, and when the mare next contracts, pull as forcefully as possible. It is imperative that we get the foal out in one contraction. Do you understand?"

Henry nodded dumbly.

After a brief pause, she called out, "Now!" Henry joined in pulling with all his might, the pair working in silent cooperation. In less than a minute's time, the foal was entirely delivered with a gush of fluid. Henry stared in amazement at the new creature. Miss Abbington set to work immediately clearing the foal's nose and cleaning it with towels supplied by MacLaren, who then set about disposing of the placenta. Medusa came over and nuzzled her offspring, who responded immediately by lifting its own small nose to hers.

"A filly, my lord," Miss Abbington said, her voice full of pride. "Is she not beautiful?"

Henry looked from the foal to the girl, whose bloodstained pelisse clung wetly to her frock. Her hair had again escaped its binding, and shimmering golden locks fell in disarray around her flushed face.

"Beautiful," he murmured.

An hour later, the foal finally stood on spindly legs and wobbled about, nosing its dam. At last it found the teat and began suckling noisily. She _was_ a little beauty, Henry mused proudly. As dark as her sire but with a white blaze and stockings, where Phantom was solidly black as night.

Henry glanced at Miss Abbington, who was sitting by his side watching the pair of horses with a weary smile. She had cleaned up as best she could and restored her hair to an orderly fashion once MacLaren had fetched a washbasin and soap. Her ruined pelisse sat in a bloody heap beside her bonnet.

Yet she looked perfectly at ease. He tried to picture other young ladies of his acquaintance perched upon a square of hay as naturally as she was, clothing in soiled disarray. He shook his head—it was impossible. No, he'd never met anyone like her. And yet, with the sole exception of his sister, he had never felt as comfortable with a woman before. There were no games, no pretenses, and no false manners. He felt an inexplicable bond with her.

"I must say, Miss Abbington, I've never seen anyone so capable, man or woman. I'm duly impressed."

The smile she rewarded him with set his heart thumping against his ribs.

"Thank you, Lord Mandeville. It's just..." She shrugged. "What I do. As you said, it's my passion."

"Whatever made you take up such an odd pursuit? Have you much support from your family?"

"I thought I did, as my papa has always been indulgent. You see, I was only seven when my mother died and Aunt Agatha came to live with us, to care for my newborn brother. I was feeling sad and at loose ends, more often than not in the way, and I sought solace in the stables. Papa was relieved to find me so happily occupied, and he encouraged my interests. I'm grateful for the freedoms he's allowed me."

"Indeed," he replied. So what was she doing here, he wondered? Had she finally grown weary of her independence and decided she needed a high-born husband, instead? "Rosemoor tells me he is sponsoring your debut into society next month," Henry remarked. "You're going to London with them, then?"

She sighed as she nodded. "It's true. It was a most generous offer on behalf of Lord and Lady Rosemoor, one I am afraid my papa felt he couldn't refuse."

He found it hard to imagine her in Town, going to balls and routs, gadding about Mayfair drawing rooms. _This_ was her element, here in the country. "You are not enthusiastic about the prospect?"

"I confess I am not." She leaned forward, resting her chin in the palm of one hand, her features hard. "I feel betrayed, forced to play the role of empty-headed girl, just so my father can marry me off."

"Marry you off? You would give all this up, then?" He gestured toward the horses.

"Of course not," she snapped, looking at him sharply.

Henry was confused. "But you cannot expect a husband to allow you to—"

"It's not as if I've hung out a shingle, my lord. I don't accept payment for my services." Her color rose, and he realized he had insulted her. He hadn't meant to, but unless she was truly naïve she must know that if she married into the _ton_ , her days of treating animals would be over. No, she was much better suited to the gentry. And even then she might have a hard time finding a husband who'd allow it.

"Be that as it may," Henry said softly, "I am afraid you will nevertheless encounter resistance from a husband."

"I realize that. But you see, I have no intention of taking a husband."

"Then why go to London?" he asked.

"I'm going because my father wishes it, because I have no say in the matter." A sly smile crept across her countenance as she brushed a piece of straw from her frock. "I have another purpose in mind, as well."

"Is that so?" He was intrigued. "Now you have my attention. Are you going to tell me, or must I guess?"

"I spoke of Mr. Wilton, who studies at the Veterinary College?"

He nodded.

"Well, you see, I'm hopeful he can facilitate some training for me while I'm in London, something more substantial than reading old textbooks." Her eyes were positively luminous.

Henry wasn't certain how to respond.

Suddenly the foal ceased it strident suckling and tottered about awkwardly on unsteady legs. Both Henry and Miss Abbington sprang to their feet and hurried to peer into the stall.

"She _is_ beautiful. What shall you call her?" she asked.

"Hmmm, I haven't yet decided. Perhaps you should have that privilege."

"I would be honored." Miss Abbington closed her eyes and sighed deeply, the swell of her breasts rising and then falling perceptibly above the neckline of her gown. "It was incredible, was it not, my lord?"

It _had_ been an incredible experience. He was practically drunk upon it. It suddenly struck him as ludicrous that she still addressed him so formally after the intimate experience they had just shared—and _was_ there a more intimate experience than bringing forth life together? Damn the social conventions.

"Please, no more of this 'my lord' nonsense." He reached fervently for her bare hand. "Call me Henry."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Henry," she repeated, as if testing it upon her lips.

He felt a heat rise in his loins. The girl's tongue darted out to moisten her lips and Henry knew with certainty that he was going to kiss her. That he _had_ to kiss her. He leaned toward her and took her chin in his hand, tipping her head up to meet his gaze. He'd never seen eyes such a clear green, like twin moss-lined pools reflecting the sunlight. He saw her swallow convulsively as he traced her lower lip—so soft, so full—with his fingertip.

_Dear Lord, is he going to kiss me_? Lucy wondered, knowing she shouldn't allow it, that she should pull away from his grasp before it was too late. But she found herself paralyzed, unable to move, unwilling to break the spell. Instead, she held her breath as he leaned toward her and pressed his lips against hers, gently at first, but growing more insistent. Her senses reeled and the ground seemed to sway beneath her feet as she felt his warm breath caress her cheek, his teeth lightly nipping at her lower lip. Her own breathing grew ragged in reply, and with a reckless abandon, she parted her lips, opening her mouth against his. She gasped as he retreated, his mouth leaving hers only for an instant before he pulled her roughly against him, plunging his tongue into her eager mouth.

She melted against his well-muscled body, savoring the masculine taste of him as his tongue explored hers, teasing it. She shuddered as his hands moved down her sides, brushing softly against the curve of her breasts before moving to her lower back, his powerful fingers massaging the sensitive skin at the base of her spine. An unfamiliar warmth pooled in her belly, radiating down to her thighs. Fearing her knees would buckle, she clung to his neck, drawing him closer, her heart beating in rhythm to his. Almost involuntarily, her fingers tangled in his hair, eliciting a groan from him as his hands moved up to clutch her shoulders.

Without warning, the sound of shuffling feet and voices invaded her awareness, dragging her attention from the sinful sensations that had all but overcome her sensibilities.

"Mornin', m'lady," Lucy heard just outside the stables.

"Have you seen my son?" a crisp, feminine voice replied.

Lucy's eyes flew open, and she saw her own surprise mirrored in Lord Mandeville's eyes as he drew his mouth from hers. She gazed up at him in sheer, wide-eyed panic as she attempted to smooth down her gown with shaking hands. Her lower lip began to tremble as the full realization of what she'd done hit her, knocking the breath from her lungs.

She heard Lord Mandeville mutter an oath as he raked a hand through his hair.

"Ah, there you are, Henry." A tall, handsome woman strode in, elegantly attired in dove-gray silk. "I'm lunching with Lady Hathorne and thought perhaps you'd wish to accompany—" The woman's cold blue eyes settled upon Lucy with evident disdain. "I see you have a guest."

"Miss Abbington, my mother, the Marchioness of Mandeville. Mother, may I present Miss Lucy Abbington?" His voice was cool, controlled, tinged with a hint of boredom. "She is a guest of the Rosemoors," he added. "She'll be joining them in London for the Season."

"Your ladyship." Lucy executed a small curtsey, relieved that her limbs obeyed her command.

"Good morning." Lady Mandeville's narrowed eyes surveyed her from head to toe. Lucy flinched at the close inspection—she knew she must look a mess. With a frown, the woman exaggeratedly looked over her shoulder. "I do not see your chaperone, Miss Abbington."

"This isn't a social call," Lord Mandeville said sharply, and Lucy suppressed the urge to smile. Hadn't she said just the same thing to Mary only hours before? "I summoned Miss Abbington here at an early hour to aid in Medusa's foaling. She is up to the rigs in such matters."

Lucy straightened her spine at the compliment.

"I see." Lady Mandeville cleared her throat. "How, ahem, _charming_. I suppose that explains the condition of your dress, then."

"I really should be getting back to Glenfield," Lucy interjected, anxious to remove herself from this woman's obvious disapproval. "They'll be worrying over me, I'm sure."

"Of course," Lord Mandeville said. "I shall have one of the carriages ready at once. Mother, if you will excuse us, I will see Miss Abbington off."

"Yes, yes, of course," Lady Mandeville said. "Miss Abbington, please give my regards to your hosts. I hold Lord and Lady Rosemoor in high esteem. I hope I shall see them at the Warburton party."

"Yes, your ladyship." Lucy attempted a weak smile. "I hope—"

"Good day, miss." Lady Mandeville dismissed her with a nod. "Henry, we shall talk later," she said with a scowl, and then swept out haughtily.

Lord Mandeville stood there silently for a moment before speaking. "I must apologize for my mother's rudeness. She is angry with me, but she should not have taken it out on you."

"I suppose my presence here must look peculiar to her. I sometimes forget that I'm not at home, where people have grown accustomed to me and my odd activities."

His eyes slid across her form, and she shivered in response when his gaze lingered on her face, her mouth. His eyes burned with intensity, clouded with something Lucy didn't recognize. Her hand rose to her mouth, trembling fingers upon her lips as the memory of his kiss came rushing back to her. Good God, what had she done? Why had she allowed something so dreadfully improper, so terribly inappropriate? Terror laced with disappointment—disappointment with herself—raced through her veins. What if they'd been caught?

Henry's eyes lingered on the girl's face, flushed a soft pink, as her expression shifted discernibly from self-deprecation to something else altogether. There was something in her eyes...was it disappointment? _Good God, had she expected a marriage proposal_? Certainly well-bred young ladies didn't go about kissing men they hardly knew without expecting an offer of marriage. But Miss Abbington was, well...she was a country physician's daughter, after all, no matter how well connected. No matter how exquisite her kiss felt.

He moved away from her abruptly, retreating to the far stall and leaning indolently against the dusty wooden gate. "And do those odd activities of yours generally include allowing men you barely know to kiss you senseless?"

Her green eyes glittered as she haughtily set her chin in the air. "They most assuredly do not."

"I don't know what you expected after that"—he waved a hand dismissively—"that _indiscretion_ , but let me assure you here and now that I will not be forced to marry you."

"Whatever would make you say such a thing?" she sputtered.

"You certainly seemed eager enough for my kiss."

"Are you suggesting I was attempting to entrap you?" The color in her cheeks deepened, and her hands clenched into angry fists. "First you take advantage of me, and then you insult me? Why did you bring me here today if you have so little respect for me, you arrogant, insufferable, conceited—"

"I believe I get your point. Wait here," he spit out. "I'll go summon the carriage and we shall return you to Glenfield at once." He bowed stiffly and strode out with a scowl, cursing himself as he went.

Minutes later he returned to find Miss Abbington hastily shoving her hands into her gloves, her eyes stormy. He waited silently as she donned her bonnet and tied the ribbons with jerky motions, her unconcealed anger charging the air around her. Without a word between them, he led her to the carriage, offering his arm to hand her up. With a jerk of her head, she rebuked him, climbing in unassisted without a backward glance.

He signaled to the driver, and the carriage set off with a lurch. The high midday sun glinted off the shiny exterior as it clattered down the drive and through the gates in a cloud of dust.

As soon as the carriage turned into the lane and disappeared from sight, Henry returned to the stables with long, angry strides. The little filly was resting comfortably at Medusa's side, her dark body curled against the mare. There was nothing more for him to do, so he stalked out restlessly, heading toward the house to clean up.

Into the great hall he stormed, his boots tapping loudly against the marble and up the wide, sweeping stairs. _What a bloody fool I am_ , he thought, nearly kicking in the door to his bedchamber. Whatever was he doing, kissing an innocent like that? And then to go and accuse her of entrapment... He shook his head, sure he was losing his senses. It was his mother's fault, damn her. Being in her company once more was addling his brain, and what with all her talk about marriage and producing heirs, it was no wonder.

He couldn't explain his own behavior, nor justify it—not even to himself. He didn't like the feelings Miss Abbington stirred in him. Yet, he liked _her_. He couldn't deny that he truly liked her.

He exhaled slowly, deliberately, trying to force away the tide of self-loathing. He'd treated her abominably. He would apologize, of course. At the Warburton party. He would accept the dowager duchess' invitation, and he would try to make it right with Miss Abbington before she left for London. She deserved nothing less. Something about the girl reminded him of Eleanor, after all. They were nothing alike, nothing at all, but the way he felt in their presence was the same—comfortable.

With a groan, he sprawled onto a worn leather chair and reached up to squeeze the taut muscles bunched behind his neck. _Damn_. Her Grace's parties were intolerable.
Chapter 4

Never in her life had Lucy eaten a meal with so many courses—she had lost count at eight. By the time dessert and champagne were served she was so full she could barely swallow. The gentleman to her left, a Mr. Cogglesworth, was quite the conversationalist and she found herself breathless as well as mentally exhausted from attempting to follow the seemingly unconnected vein of his discourse.

Lucy looked around the candlelit dining room. _Such a fashionable gathering_. She felt out of place, and she couldn't help but notice that her dinner partner was the lowest ranked gentleman in the assemblage. Clearly, her hostess was of the same opinion.

She looked up as the sound of Susanna's laughter floated down the length of the table. Susanna was seated to the left of Lord Mandeville, who had—to everyone's surprise—arrived just as they were going in to dinner. Susanna's cheeks were flushed a pleasant pink and her pale eyes were lit with obvious delight as she bent her head toward his, basking in his presence. Lucy's eyes moved guiltily away from Lord Mandeville and to his right and the tall, willowy girl whom had been introduced as Lady Charlotte Haverford, eldest daughter of the Earl of Hathorne. Her sleek hair was as dark as her skin was fair, and her features rather ordinary. Yet she was somehow striking. She certainly seemed familiar with Lord Mandeville. Lucy had counted three times in the past half hour when the girl had laid her hand upon his sleeve in a proprietary manner, obviously doing her best to distract him from Susanna's company.

With a heavy sigh, Lucy returned her attention to her plate, trying her best to avoid looking in the marquess' direction. He did nothing but confuse her sensibilities—she was angry at him, yet somehow drawn to him at the same time. She had felt a strangely surprising, comfortable camaraderie with him, right up until the moment he accused her of entrapment. She had told him things about herself—about her aspirations—that she'd never confessed to anyone, save Jane. It had felt as if she'd known him for years, not days. And then he'd gone and ruined it.

She'd lain in bed last night for hours, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Over and over she'd cursed herself for allowing his kiss. Every time she closed her eyes she could feel his lips upon hers, his tongue teasing her mouth, her insides quivering in response. It was as if he'd awakened some desires she had no idea existed there, dormant inside her, waiting to be explored. She dropped her gaze to her lap, her cheeks burning at the memory. Dear Lord, no wonder he accused her of playing such despicable games. What kind of wanton was she, allowing him to kiss her like that without the slightest protestation?

A part of her wanted to run back to Nottinghamshire, back to Papa and Nicholas, to her horses and animals—the life with which she was comfortable. She'd already made a mess of things here in Essex, and they were likely to get worse in London under the scrutiny of the _ton_. But running would be the cowardly thing to do, and Lucy was no coward. No. She said she would go to London, and go she would. It was only a few months, after all. She'd make Papa proud—make him see that she could be a proper young lady if she had to be. And then she could go home and live her life, follow her dreams. Perhaps then her father and aunt would abandon their dreams of seeing her married well.

"Miss Abbington?" Cogglesworth was saying, tapping a silver spoon to his goblet.

"Oh, pardon me, Mr. Cogglesworth. You were saying?" Lucy reluctantly dragged her attention back to the man seated beside her. Judging by his portly dimensions, she knew he must occasionally stop talking long enough to eat _something_.

"Yes, well, I was just saying it looks as if we might have ourselves a warm summer, don't you think?" he asked.

"Yes, yes, of course," Lucy said vaguely. She wondered yet again what Lady Charlotte and Lord Mandeville were discussing. It could not possibly be as banal as the conversation she herself was so painfully engaged in.

"And how are you finding our humble village?" Cogglesworth asked with an eager smile, his jowls straining with the effort. "Pleasant, I hope?"

"Oh, yes, quite pleasant as always. I've spent time at Glenfield most every year of my life. It's like a second home to me."

"Is that so? Every year, you say, and yet I have only now made your acquaintance?"

"Hmmm, yes." Lucy reached for a custard-filled pastry and nibbled absently. Would this interminable meal never end? She almost wept with relief when the dowager duchess at last rose and invited the ladies to the drawing room.

"Jane, dearest," Lucy pleaded, "promise me you will not leave my side when the gentlemen join us. You must think of some emergency to drag me away if Mr. Cogglesworth approaches. A sudden onset of typhus, perhaps. Anything!"

"Poor Lucy," Jane said with a sympathetic laugh. "Cogglesworth is tedious, is he not?"

"Tedious? Why, I would rather tread barefoot across broken glass than listen to him prattle on. By the way, where is Colin tonight?"

"He refuses to attend Her Grace's parties. She offended him once and he's never forgotten. I'm sure he's out gambling away his fortune instead."

"Really? Colin?" Lucy was shocked.

"Oh, don't tell me you've been taken in by his 'man-of-no-vices' pretense. Lucy, don't look now, but Lord Mandeville is headed our way."

"Lord Mandeville?" Lucy's heart began to race. She reached for Jane's arm. "We must go find Susanna right now—"

"Lucy, whatever is the matter with you?" Jane pulled her arm from Lucy's grasp with a questioning scowl.

"Miss Rosemoor, Miss Abbington," Lord Mandeville interrupted, thwarting Lucy's attempt to flee with a polite bow. "I trust you are having a pleasant evening?"

"Yes, my lord," Jane said. "Quite pleasant. Her Grace is a delightful hostess. I expect it won't be long before she convinces some unsuspecting miss to entertain us on the pianoforte."

"Yes, well, you'd best be thinking of an excuse because I hear she's relentless," he said with an easy smile.

Lucy's first instinct was to turn and walk away, but that was certain to further pique Jane's curiosity. She could not let Jane see her distress. She would simply feign polite indifference. "I suppose I'm safe, then, because I'm inept at the pianoforte," she said with a shrug, refusing to meet Lord Mandeville's eyes. "Perhaps my reputation precedes me."

"Don't be so sure, Miss Abbington. I think our hostess takes great pleasure in inflicting those with the least abilities upon her guests." Lord Mandeville and Jane laughed, and Lucy forced herself to join in.

"Miss Abbington, I meant to inquire about Phantom. How is the tendon?"

"Much better. I'm still applying a poultice, but I do think he can safely return to Covington Hall, so long as he is kept at a walk. Your groom should be able to handle his care from here."

"I'm much relieved to hear it. I shall send MacLaren tomorrow to retrieve him. And have you thought of a name for the filly yet?" he asked.

"The filly? Oh yes, the foal." She assumed that after...well, that she would not be choosing the name after all. "No, I'm afraid I have not."

"Well, then, the poor horse remains nameless for now. The responsibility remains yours."

"And how is she doing?" Jane asked politely. "The nameless filly? I heard her delivery was most dramatic. No problems, I hope?"

"No, none at all, Miss Rosemoor. Healthy and strong. I'm afraid I didn't thank Miss Abbington properly for her assistance." He turned to Lucy. "I'm a great deal indebted to you, and I owe you an apology, as well."

"An apology?" Jane asked.

Lucy's cheeks burned. He certainly _did_ owe her an apology, but not here.

A movement across the room caught Lucy's eye, and she was grateful for the timely distraction. "Oh dear, Her Grace is leading Susanna to the pianoforte."

"Poor Susanna," Jane said with a frown. "Well, at least she plays beautifully. I don't know where she got the courage, though."

For the next forty-five minutes, Lucy sat as a procession of reluctant young ladies entertained with varying degrees of competency. Susanna was among the most talented. The worst was Miss Rathbone, a jolly looking girl who hit the wrong notes more often than the right ones with great aplomb. At least she was not embarrassed—it made witnessing it so much more bearable.

_Dramatic Delivery_. The name popped into Lucy's head as Miss Rathbone plunked her final notes. It was perfect. She would have to thank Jane for the inspiration.

"Miss Rosemoor, Miss Abbington, won't you lend your talents to the evening?" Lucy jumped at the sound of her hostess' voice.

"I'm afraid, Your Grace, that we must both demur your kind offer. You see, my friend and I took a chill this afternoon and I fear our voices would not do justice to the lovely evening." Jane coughed feebly, and Lucy joined in with an exaggerated clearing of her throat.

"Very well," the dowager said with a disbelieving scowl. "Perhaps Miss Holt, then?"

Lucy sighed with relief as the woman moved on.

It seemed Her Grace could no longer find any willing volunteers. The pianoforte was closed and everyone returned to their tea with evident relief.

"There is Susanna with Miss Ellsworth," Jane said. "Come, I'd like to introduce you."

Before replying, Lucy quickly scanned the room, her eyes seeking Lord Mandeville. She found him, standing alone with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing up at a landscape on the wall. "Go on ahead," she said. "I'll refresh my tea and join you presently." Lucy sighed in exasperation as her friend looked to Lord Mandeville and smiled knowingly before hurrying off.

Lucy was anxious to tell him the name she had settled upon and be done with it. She set down her cup and strode purposefully across the room to his side.

"Lord Mandeville," she said, "might I have a word with you?"

He turned and smiled. "Yes, Miss Abbington, of course. I meant what I said. I _do_ owe you an apology."

"You certainly do, but not in the presence of Miss Rosemoor." She hoped he would be quick about it.

"I've no idea why I behaved so abominably, but I sincerely hope you'll forgive me. I was anything but a gentleman." He winced at the words.

Lucy cleared her throat uncomfortably. He _did_ look truly repentant, and she supposed she should be gracious. She _was_ to act the proper lady, after all. Not that he deserved it. "Your apology is accepted, my lord."

"Thank you." He nodded and reached for her hand. She hesitated for a moment before allowing him to take it. He placed a very formal kiss on her knuckles, his eyes never leaving her face. When he released her, Lucy clasped her hands in front of herself, hoping to quell their trembling.

"I do hope we can be friends," he said at last. "Helping you deliver the foal...well, I _am_ grateful—"

"Oh, the foal," she interrupted. She was surely letting him off too easily but she was anxious to change the subject. "That is what I wished to speak to you about. I thought of the perfect name for the filly."

He leaned toward her, a warm smile softening those bottomless indigo eyes of his. "Really?" he said. "Tell me."

"Dramatic Delivery," she said with a flourish. "Something Jane just said inspired it."

"Dramatic Delivery." He tested the name. "Hmmm, I shall call her Drama."

"Drama," she repeated, her head tilted to one side. "It's perfect, Henry."

Lucy heard an audible gasp, and Lady Charlotte, who had sidled up to the marquess' side, turned sharply to face her.

"How dare you!" Lady Charlotte hissed, her cheeks flushed. "How dare you address him so informally. He is 'Lord Mandeville' to you." There was stone silence as several pairs of eyes turned toward Lucy.

Her heart skipped a beat. Had she called him 'Henry'? However did she make such a blunder? Yes, in a moment of camaraderie he had asked her to call him by his given name but she had not presumed to do so. It just wasn't done. No, even in her innermost thoughts she referred to him as 'Lord Mandeville'. Her stunned gaze traveled from Lady Charlotte's stormy countenance to Lord Mandeville's shocked one.

"I...I apologize, Lord Mandeville," Lucy sputtered. "I did not realize...I do not know why..." She stumbled back, tears of humiliation threatening her eyes.

Lord Mandeville stood motionless, mute as a statue.

Seeing Lucy's distress from across the room, Jane hurried to her friend's side, inadvertently blocking her escape.

"Lucy, whatever is the matter?"

She looked to Jane, too stunned to move or speak.

"My goodness," Lady Charlotte said with a sneer. "Quite above oneself, isn't she?" She turned toward her companions and added, "I hear she is nothing but a physician's daughter from the midlands who fancies herself an animal healer."

Lord Mandeville turned to Lucy and mercifully found his voice. "Miss Abbington, you owe me no apology." His face was blank, unreadable. "When we last met, I asked you to address me as such, did I not?"

Lucy could only nod.

"Lord Mandeville," Lady Charlotte said sweetly, her face pinched, "I am ready to leave and I do not see Papa. Could you escort me to my carriage?" She reached for his arm, but he sidestepped her grasp.

Ignoring Lady Charlotte's request, he turned to her companions and bowed. "Miss Rhodes, Mr. Spencer." Returning his attention to Lucy and Jane, he offered a tight smile. "Ladies, might I offer you some refreshments?"

Lucy heard Lady Charlotte's sharp intake of breath as Jane wordlessly nodded acceptance. She reached for Jane's elbow and allowed her to steer her away from the gaping group.

"I cannot believe it," Jane whispered breathlessly as they reached the far side of the room. "He gave her the cut-direct."

Lucy rubbed her temples. She was shaking terribly.

"Whatever did you do to incur such wrath from Lady Charlotte?" Jane asked. "What was Mandeville speaking of, 'you addressing him such?'"

"Jane, you wouldn't believe it. I'm ever so humiliated. I..." She swallowed convulsively. "I called him 'Henry'," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"You did what?" Jane's eyes grew round as saucers.

"I called him 'Henry'. I addressed Lord Mandeville by his given name." Lucy pressed a hand to her mouth.

"Oh my." For once, Jane was nearly speechless.

Just then Lord Mandeville returned proffering two glasses of sherry. "I thought perhaps you might need something stronger than tea."

Lucy cleared her throat and found her voice, however small. "Lord Mandeville, I truly must apologize. I had no right—"

"You had every right," he said levelly. "It was Lady Charlotte who had no right to speak as she did."

The blood rose in Lucy's face, but she wasn't sure if it was from anger or humiliation. She wasn't sure of any of her emotions when she was in Lord Mandeville's presence.

Susanna appeared at Lucy's side, practically panting. The news was surely spreading fast.

"Lucy, dearest, I heard what happened. Oh, that girl is despicable," Susanna said, casting a scowl in Lady Charlotte's direction. She clasped Lucy's hand and turned to the marquess, her pale eyes shining. "Lord Mandeville, what you did was nothing short of heroic."

"There is nothing heroic about doing what is right, Miss Susanna. By the way, your turn at the pianoforte was lovely. Your voice is extraordinary." Susanna beamed in response. "Now if you will excuse me, I must bid you all a good night." He bowed and turned to leave. He took no more than three steps before he stopped short and turned toward them once more. "Oh, and Miss Abbington, thank you for the name."

"The...the what?" Lucy stuttered.

"Dramatic Delivery. I like it." With a broad smile, he turned and strode out.
Chapter 5

_Rosemoor House, London_

Lucy set down her quill and glanced out the window at the bright moon. She shivered as a light breeze rippled the curtains, and she reached down to tighten the belt of her dressing gown. Moving the candle closer to the page, she read the letter she'd just finished to Papa and Nicholas. She was having a difficult time putting into words her impressions of London thus far, but she knew Nicholas would relish her descriptions so she tried her best to capture the atmosphere of the bustling city.

Yet the past two weeks were nothing but a blur in her mind, making accurate description difficult. The first few afternoons were filled with rounds of calls to leave crisp, white cards on shining silver salvers. Lucy was amazed at the number of cards they collected themselves in Rosemoor House's own front hall those first hectic days. She had underestimated her hosts' popularity.

She had written her papa that her first fortnight in Town passed quite pleasantly, and it was unexpectedly true. Rosemoor House, situated in the fashionable St. James district, was comfortable and charming. Her own bedchamber, done in tranquil shades of sage and rose, overlooked the small, square garden out back. Each night Lucy drifted to sleep breathing in warm air redolent with the heady fragrance of the blossoms below. She glanced around at her pleasing surroundings, the bedchamber aglow with the flickering light of her candle, and thought with a shrug how surprising it was that, given their long acquaintance, she'd never before visited the Rosemoors in London.

She had to admit she was enjoying her stay. She had settled into a comfortable routine since her arrival. Before breakfast each day she enjoyed a brisk morning ride in Hyde Park down the Ladies' Mile, and she was surprised to find that she actually took pleasure in accompanying Jane and Susanna on shopping trips to Bond and Regent Streets. It was amazing what a variety of goods could be had for a shilling or two, and Lucy was grateful for the generous pin money supplied by her papa. New ribbons and gloves, brooches and shawls, bits of lace and lavender water—all amassed in such a short time. She glanced guiltily at the stack of novels sitting neatly upon her bedside table. She could barely wait to delve in.

Hastily, she folded the letter and sealed it. She would ask Penwick to post it for her later.

Yes, perhaps she had done too much shopping, but it was best to escape the hectic frenzy of preparations for the Rosemoors' ball. Lady Rosemoor was in a dither, holed up with the housekeeper most of the time worrying over flowers and decorations, the menu, and entertainments.

Tomorrow she and Susanna would go to St. James's Palace and be presented to the aging queen, but the prospect of her formal introduction to the crown worried her far less than the ball being held in her honor the following night. Her stomach lurched every time she imagined the scrutiny she would be under. She spent hours with Lady Rosemoor going over the prescribed etiquette a proper young lady of the _ton_ was expected to follow at all times. There were so many rules to remember. She would lie in bed at night, ticking them off mentally. Never dance more than three dances with the same partner; never remain in the company of a man without a proper chaperone; always acknowledge a gentleman of acquaintance with a nod before he may address you; and her personal favorite, never wear diamonds or pearls in the morning—as if she even owned such jewels! The bothersome list went on and on.

Worse yet, Lord Mandeville might be at the ball. She did not dare ask Lady Rosemoor how he had responded to the invitation, no matter how curious she was. She would find out soon enough. She was vaguely aware that his accommodations were perhaps a quarter mile at most from Rosemoor House, but mercifully she had managed to avoid him thus far. Her mind was involuntarily drawn to the memory of his kiss. _I must forget that kiss_ , she reminded herself with a scowl. Forget the kiss and all the intoxicating feelings it stirred in her. It hadn't meant anything, couldn't mean anything. Her spine straightened as her wavering resolve strengthened.

If only she could settle on what to wear. She knew she was meant to wear white, perhaps a pastel, but she _was_ past her twentieth birthday—debutante or not—and she was much better suited to a richer hue. She threw open the doors to her wardrobe and idly fingered the neatly hanging gowns, grateful for the Rosemoors' modiste. The woman worked wonders in a short time, and with such limited funds. The emerald-green silk, perhaps, or the lilac trimmed with gold? She would ask Jane. Jane would know what was appropriate. Everything must be perfect for the ball, after all. _Perfect_. Lucy's heart fluttered nervously.

She dropped her gaze to the floor and saw a crumpled pile at the foot of the wardrobe. Curious, she bent to retrieve the bundle. It was Nicholas's breeches and tunic, the riding clothes she'd snuck into her trunks before leaving home. A smile slowly spread across her face. She'd near enough forgotten these. Suddenly she thought of Mr. Wilton. This whole debutante business would be worth it if only Mr. Wilton would come through for her.

It was all so unfair. Lucy's hands balled into fists. It was bad enough she couldn't study veterinary arts at the college herself. She was as smart as Mr. Wilton, and just as skilled. But no—all they expected from her was marriage and children, nothing more. If only she could remain at home with Papa and Nicholas and continue doing what she loved best. But someday Nicholas would marry and inherit Ludlow House, and then where would she be? The only respectable occupation for a spinster was that of governess, and being a governess was about as bad as being a gentleman's wife.

But with some formal training in veterinary arts, she could start her own practice, as unconventional as that would be, and begin accepting payment for her services. She could set up her own modest household. An ambitious plan, yes, but she knew she could do it. She'd been so busy these past weeks, shopping and preparing for her debut, that she'd lost sight of her true goal.

Perhaps once the faculty saw how natural her abilities were and how serious and earnest she was...well, that was likely too much to hope for, after all. But then again, maybe it was not.

Now it was time to put her plan into action. She padded barefoot across the floorboards of her bedchamber, back to the escritoire, and again took out quill and paper. She began a letter to Mr. Wilton, directed to the Veterinary College, Camden Town, London. She scribbled hastily, fearing interruption at every creak and shuffle outside her door. With a triumphant smile, she folded the paper, sealed it, and pulled the cord by her bed. No use putting it off. She would get both letters to Penwick now, before she lost her courage.

Minutes later, she handed the letters over with a trembling hand. She could only hope that Mr. Wilton would be able to aid her cause. If not, these months here would be nothing short of time wasted.

She yawned, stretching her arms up to the ceiling. She was tired, and there was much to do in the next two days. She blew out her candle and hurried to bed, guided by the light of the moon. As she settled herself under the crisp, cool bedclothes, she said a silent, hopeful prayer.

***

Henry wielded his paperboard sword with as much ferocity as he could muster, one eye covered by a makeshift eye patch made from a folded napkin and a tied handkerchief. "Aaarghh, matey. Give me your gold or walk the plank!"

"Never, you rogue," young Katherine replied boldly, jabbing him in the shoulder with her own pretend sword.

"I shall save you, Katie." Little Freddie jumped into the fray, his pirate hat askew.

"Traitor," Henry said with a grimace.

"I do not need saving, anyhow," Katherine said. "I can take care of myself." Henry knew with certainty that she could. She was a formidable force at the age of ten. She jabbed at him again, and he fell to the ground and writhed in mock agony. "Emily, check to see if he is dead yet," Katherine ordered imperiously.

Henry lay very still as Katherine's younger sister crouched by his side. "Yes, he is really, truly dead," Emily said, nodding her head gravely and sending her dark curls flying about her flushed face. Henry reached out a hand to tickle her, and she fell to the ground in a giggling heap. Katherine and Freddie piled on, and the motley group laughed until they were breathless. Henry could not remember the last time he had such fun.

"Uncle Henry," Emily said with a giggle, "you are terribly silly."

"So I've been told." Henry reached up and removed his eye patch.

"I'm hungry," Freddie said, for the third time in a half hour. Did they not feed the child?

"Yes, where has your governess gone off to?" Henry stood and peered down the hallway but he did not see the girl anywhere.

"Oh, she has taken herself away so she will not be tempted to swoon in your presence," Emily said, her face all seriousness. "At least, that is what I heard her tell Mrs. Proctor."

"Emily," Katherine said sternly, "you are not supposed to eavesdrop. Now poor Miss Rawlings will be most embarrassed."

"I promise I will not tell Miss Rawlings it was repeated." Henry tried to look solemn but he could not hide his amused grin.

"Well, Henry, I see you have properly worn out the children. Your duty here is done." Eleanor stood in the doorway of the nursery, beaming at her brother.

He attempted to return his clothing to some semblance of order. "Yes, well, I'm glad to be of service, then."

With their mother's prodding, the children scampered off to find the missing Miss Rawlings.

"They've missed you, Henry," Eleanor said. "I'm so happy Scotland's charms finally faded and brought you home to us at last."

"I'm glad to be home," Henry said. "The children are delightful. Freddie has grown so much in three years. He was just an infant when I left." What a stubborn fool he'd been, staying away so long. Freddie hadn't even remembered his uncle.

"And where is Frederick? I haven't seen him since I came to Town."

"He was called away to Cornwall. I suppose he shall remain there a few days more. So Mama tells me—"

"I have no wish to speak of Mother." Henry held up one hand in protest. "Please. Let me enjoy my day." He felt a familiar tightness in his chest.

"I was only going to warn you that Mama has taken the notion you should marry Lady Charlotte Haverford. Can you imagine?" Eleanor widened her eyes in mock horror.

"No, I cannot imagine. And I have no idea wherever she got such a ludicrous idea. Perhaps she is sharing a bed with Hathorne and the two are plotting—"

"Do not say such things about our mother. I do not wish to hear them."

"Why not, Eleanor? You know as I well as I do that our mother is no saint. You're the one who insisted on speaking of her, anyway," he said sullenly.

"So I did, but I will not listen to scandalous tales from your crude imagination. Besides, Mama is a widow and you cannot expect her to remain alone forever."

"Yes, a widow she is now, but she could not keep her skirts down even when Father was alive, could she?" His light mood was gone and he suddenly felt the same sense of disgust he'd felt as a boy of twelve when he first spied his mother in the arms of a lover. The first of many, Henry would later discover. He shuddered at the memory.

"Why must you say these things?" she asked, her color rising. "You know I don't wish to hear them."

"But you've known all along. How can you close your eyes to her faults, just like Father—"

"Enough." Eleanor's eyes flashed. "Whatever her weaknesses—her flaws—she is our mother and my children's grandmama. She loves those children, and they love her. You must appreciate that, at least."

Henry attempted to swallow the lump of rage in his throat.

"Let us change the subject to something more pleasant." She attempted a weak smile. "I assume you were invited to the Rosemoors' ball tomorrow?"

"Invited, yes," he answered. "Attending, no."

"Henry!" she scolded, her hands planted on her hips. He couldn't resist a chuckle. She looked just like Katherine. "You must show yourself at some point. Besides, parties are not as much fun without you. Say you'll go," she begged.

"Absolutely, positively not." This ball was the come-out for Miss Abbington. He had apologized to her at the Warburton party and told her he hoped they could be friends, but the more he thought about her—and he _had_ thought about her a lot in these past weeks—the more prudent it seemed to avoid her at all costs.

Maybe he had, for just one second, allowed himself to believe that Miss Abbington was different from the rest, a rare gem among the baubles. But she was a _lady_ , he reminded himself, and surely there was more to her seemingly innocent candor than he was recognizing. No, he had been thinking with his manhood and not his mind. He couldn't help it. She was so alluring, so voluptuous and sensual that she clouded his sensibilities with her mere presence.

Yet he could not help but wish to see her once more.

"In all seriousness, Henry, you must come. Are you listening to me?" she demanded with a frown, pulling him back from his thoughts. "With Frederick away I will be without an escort. Say you will?"

"Oh, all right. I will arrive late and leave early, however. And I shall be most unpleasant." Whatever was he doing, agreeing to go? Courting disaster, for sure.

"Very well, then." Her smile was triumphant. "Shall I send my carriage for you?"

"No need. Mandeville House is not two blocks from the Rosemoors. I think I can find my way." _After several hours and several drinks at White's, that is_.

"Thank you, Henry." She patted his cheek.

"I love you, Eleanor."

"I know. Now go home." She surveyed her disheveled brother from head to toe. "You're a mess."

***

Henry had fortified himself with more than a few whiskies at White's before heading to Rosemoor House for the ball. He had been reluctant to go; all those ambitious mamas angling for titled husbands for their simpleminded, vacuous daughters were enough to sicken him. Yet he could not resist the sharp pull of curiosity that had drawn him there against his will. Besides, he had promised Eleanor he would come, hadn't he? His memory was vaguely clouded from the drink.

"Mandeville? I heard you were back. I cannot believe you are gracing us with your presence tonight." Lord Thomas Sinclair, third son of the Duke of Eston, clapped Henry on the back. They had gone to Eton and Oxford together. Sinclair was a confirmed bachelor like Henry and a reputed first-rate rake.

"Sinclair." Henry returned the friendly clap on the back. "I promised Eleanor I would come. At least I think I did. Frederick is away, you see, and...why am I explaining myself to you? What are you doing here, anyway? I did not realize you were so well acquainted with the Rosemoors."

"Look around," Sinclair said. "Half of London is here tonight. Do you think I would pass up an opportunity to get a first perusal of the newest offerings on the marriage mart? Did you want all the debutantes for yourself? I heard Miss Susanna Rosemoor is quite the little beauty." Sinclair leered as he elbowed Henry suggestively in the ribs.

"May God save poor Susanna Rosemoor from the likes of you, Sinclair," Henry said, scowling.

"Oh, don't worry, Mandeville. You can have the Rosemoor chit all to yourself. I've already picked out the newest target of my, er, affections, if you will."

"Is that right? And who is the lucky lady? Or should I say 'unlucky' since we both know your intentions are anything but honorable?"

"Right there." He cocked his head to the left. "The lush curves in lilac. I'm told the Rosemoors are sponsoring her as their guest for the Season but I have yet to be introduced. Miss Abbington is her name. Miss Lucy Abbington."

Henry's eyes followed the direction of Sinclair's lustful gaze. There was Miss Abbington, indeed looking quite luscious in a lilac gown that exposed a goodly portion of her full bosom. Her hair was gathered into some sort of severe-looking arrangement in front, with golden waves spilling down her back. She was standing in front of a gleaming marble pillar, flanked by Colin Rosemoor and the Viscount Trollington. Henry couldn't help but stare as she leaned toward the young lord and then tilted her head back, laughing merrily.

As if she sensed his presence, she turned toward Henry. From across the room their eyes met and held for no more than a few seconds before she dropped her gaze and returned her attention to her companions. Yet Henry could feel her heat across the distance separating them. His stomach lurched. He should not have come. Damn his curiosity.

"Sorry, Mandeville. I saw her first," Sinclair said. "Now I just need to wrest an introduction."

Anger rose swiftly like bile in Henry's throat, and he jabbed at Sinclair's chest menacingly with a gloved finger. "You stay away from her. Don't lay a hand on that one or you will answer to me. Understood?"

"I see you have already met the young lady in question, then." Sinclair backed away, rubbing his chest.

"Henry!" Eleanor called out, hurrying to his side. "You did come. I was afraid I should have sent my carriage for you. Good evening, Lord Thomas." She nodded politely.

"Lady Worthington. I do not know how you manage with such a brute for a brother. I will leave you two." Sinclair's smug grin irked Henry. "Mandeville, consider your warning heard loud and clear." He paused and raised one brow. "But not necessarily heeded." He laughed as he strode off toward the refreshment table.

"Warning? What was that all about, Henry?" his sister asked with a scowl.

"Nothing," he said. "That man is a scoundrel. He should not be allowed in polite society."

"Dear brother, the same is probably said of you. After all, you used to frequent his company, did you not?"

"Perhaps, but that was years ago." He did not wish to discuss Sinclair any longer. "You do look lovely, Eleanor." He planted a kiss on her rosy cheek.

"You look quite dashing yourself," she said, wrinkling her nose. "And smell awfully of spirits. Goodness, how many years has it been since I've seen you at such a function?"

"It's been a long time, hasn't it?" He couldn't help but sneak another furtive glance in Miss Abbington's direction. She'd moved away, but he finally found her dancing a country dance with Colin Rosemoor. She moved gracefully through the figures, and Henry could see admiring glances being cast her way from the line of gentlemen.

Eleanor interrupted his thoughts. "Henry, who is that girl you cannot take your eyes from?"

"What?" He looked away reluctantly. "I have no idea what you mean." He brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his sleeve.

"Of course you do. Do not play games with me, little brother. I know you too well. The very beautiful, very _young_ girl in lilac. With Colin Rosemoor."

"Little brother?" he said indignantly, trying to change the subject. "I am, what, all of five minutes younger than you?"

"Eight. And don't change the subject." Her eyes, the same indigo-blue as his own, were narrowed suspiciously.

"Her name is Miss Lucy Abbington, if you must know. A family friend of the Rosemoors, who are sponsoring her. This is her come-out. I met her in Essex."

"Indeed? Go on," Eleanor said, her smile full of hope.

"There is nothing more to say." He watched as Miss Abbington and Colin Rosemoor briefly joined hands and then cast off, progressing down the line of dancers. As she passed by Sir Thomas Minton, Henry distinctly saw her smile up at the dandy with those big green eyes. Was she actually batting her lashes at Lord Wemberly? "She helped me a bit with my horses," he said through clenched teeth.

"Helped you with your horses? Whatever do you mean?"

"But look at her now." He nodded in Miss Abbington's direction. She had finally rejoined Rosemoor and her head was bent toward his as if he were telling her something most fascinating. "She is no different from the rest."

"I have no idea what you mean by that, but I think perhaps you have had one too many whiskies. Come, let's get you a lemonade." Eleanor led him into the refreshment room, toward a long table covered in red silk. Henry felt scores of eyes follow him curiously as he made his way through the thick crowd. Several eager mamas puffed up, smoothed their daughters' frocks, and pushed them out in front of themselves as he passed.

"Quite a crush tonight," Eleanor said cheerfully. "It appears the Season is officially in full swing." A plump woman dressed in shades of blue and looking much like a peacock strutted over to them. Two fresh-faced, eager-looking daughters trailed behind her.

"Baroness Worthington, what a delight. And Lord Mandeville, what a surprise to see you back in Town," the woman said.

"Good evening, Mrs. Butler," Eleanor said with a smile. Henry remained silent. Eleanor nudged him sharply in the side, but he refused to budge.

"Might I introduce my daughters, Lord Mandeville? This is Gertrude." The girl, obviously the eldest and wearing a disagreeable shade of puce, stepped forward and curtseyed politely. "And this is Portia. This is Portia's first Season." Portia, wearing the requisite white, stepped forward and curtseyed awkwardly.

Henry said nothing.

"It is indeed a pleasure to see you again, Miss Butler, and to meet you, Miss Portia," Eleanor said, again nudging Henry's side.

"Yes, yes, a pleasure," he muttered finally.

"A lovely party, isn't it?" Mrs. Butler said. "Everyone is speaking of this Miss Abbington. Have you met her?"

"No, I haven't yet had the opportunity. But Lord Mandeville has had the pleasure, I believe. Is that not right?"

"Yes, that's correct," Henry spat out. Eleanor was taking great pleasure in this, he was sure, but he could not contain his curiosity. "And just what are they saying of her?"

"Oh, that she's lovely and charming. Quite a hit. The gentlemen seem terribly besotted. Her dance card filled up immediately, it is being said. Oh, there's the Duke of Colne. I can hardly believe it. Why, Lord Rosemoor must have considerably more influence than I imagined. I must go pay my regards." Away Mrs. Butler tottered, the two girls following dutifully behind.

"Henry," Eleanor said, tugging on his sleeve to gain his attention. "Here comes Mother."

He swung his head around with narrowed eyes and saw his mother, her hand resting on the arm of a balding, silver-whiskered man in a shockingly bright purple coat.

"Who is that gentleman with her?" Eleanor asked with a scowl. "I don't believe I've ever seen him before."

Henry had no idea who the man was, but the pair was headed their way. He groaned. "Please make my excuses, Eleanor. I need a _real_ drink." He left his sister standing there staring after him, her mouth agape.

He needed to clear his head and get some air. His eyes scanned the room once more, this time seeking escape. He reached for a glass of champagne from a silver tray and then nimbly picked his way through the crowd. He headed to the far end of the dance floor, where a pair of doors opened to a small terrace.

No one was braving the unseasonably warm and humid night except Henry, who found himself mercifully alone as he stepped outside and quietly closed the doors. He took a long draught of the sweet, bubbly liquid in his glass and shuddered. Crossing the flagstones in several strides, he leaned against the stone railing, gazing at the shadowed shrubbery below. In the distance, a nightingale warbled plaintively.

Henry expelled the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He had been right about Miss Abbington all along. She _was_ no different from the rest, batting her eyelashes at every man with a title. In Essex she had seemed so unlike the other girls her age, so unconventional. Untarnished by the _ton_. He had felt she saw beyond his title, past his purse. He had thought her perfectly in her element in the country. But it had all been an illusion, hadn't it? It had to have been, for now it appeared she was wholly at home in the ballroom, amongst the fashionable. She looked perfectly at ease on the arm of a nobleman, simpering and flirting. He could not fathom why this bothered him so much, but it did.

Tremendously.
Chapter 6

Lucy edged her way along the perimeter of the dance floor, stepping into the shadows near the potted palms that camouflaged the orchestra from the guests' view. She found she was nearly breathless and her cheeks ached—she had never smiled so much in her life. She was glad for a moment to collect her thoughts.

She stood quietly, drinking in the scene before her. Elegant men in topcoats and graceful women in fluttering gowns glided by, creating a dizzying kaleidoscope of color and movement. The intermingling scents of sandalwood, roses, and lavender were perhaps more intoxicating than the sip of champagne she had indulged in earlier, hoping to calm her nerves.

What a lovely party! She had to admit she was having fun in spite of herself. Her dance card was full and she had managed not to step on any of her partners' toes thus far. All in all, she supposed the evening was a success. She sighed with relief as she fingered the narrow gold cording that trimmed her bodice.

Her gaze flitted across the room, which was aglow in warm candlelight, and she realized she was searching for Lord Mandeville. She had seen him the moment he had stepped into the room in his elegant black dress coat, looking more handsome than ever. He was keeping a safe distance, and perhaps that was for the best. His presence made her feel a bit unsettled.

Lucy reached down to readjust her satin slipper and realized her feet ached terribly. If only she could sit for a moment, perhaps breathe in some revitalizing fresh air. She glanced at her dance card, tied conveniently to her wrist, and knew that surely someone would be clamoring for her attention soon. Perhaps she could escape for a moment's solitude in the garden. She glanced furtively about to make sure no one was watching, then hurried to the French doors leading out to the terrace.

As soon as she stepped out into the sultry night, she saw him standing there, his profile illuminated by the silver moonlight. Her breath caught and she froze, one hand raised to cover her mouth. Silently, she stepped back, hoping to escape before he became aware of her presence.

With a start, he turned toward her, his blazing eyes meeting hers and setting her heart aflutter.

"Miss Abbington." He did not bow. Instead he leaned against the railing, one gloved hand clasping an almost empty champagne flute. "Enjoying yourself, I see." His tone was cold, accusing.

"Yes, I am. Shouldn't I?" Lucy shook her head in confusion.

"Of course. The evening is undoubtedly a success for you. You must be pleased." He was positively glaring at her.

"I...I am, I suppose. At least I have not made any terrible blunders yet." She attempted a laugh, but it came out high pitched and unnatural sounding. "Perhaps I should leave you to your solitude, my lord—"

"I asked you to call me 'Henry', did I not? And yet you still call me 'my lord' and here I am still calling you 'Miss Abbington'. Lucy, is it not? Colin Rosemoor calls you 'Lucy', so perhaps I should, as well."

"But I have known Colin Rosemoor my entire life, my lord, so it cannot be compared now, can it?"

"I suppose you're right. Well, no matter. Hurry inside, then. Or were you perhaps hoping for another kiss?" He leaned toward her with a lascivious smile, and she smelled the strong scent of whisky on his breath.

_He's drunk_ , Lucy realized with disgust. She affected the haughtiest pose she could muster. "You have no right to speak to me this way." She held her head high, but her body betrayed her emotions with trembling rage. "No right at all," she added, practically in a whisper. She would never understand this maddening man. He was so affable one moment and then cruel the next. He broke down her defenses, drew her into his web of friendly camaraderie, and then, once she was there in his clutches, turned on her with inexplicable ire.

"Go, Lucy," he said, waving his hand dismissively toward the doors. "You've no idea how you've disappointed me."

"Do not address me so informally, my lord." Her chin, which she had thrust in the air so defiantly, began to tremble and treacherous tears threatened her eyes. She had to go back inside now and find somewhere private to collect herself. Without another word to him, she turned and fled through the single door on the far side of the terrace, toward Lord Rosemoor's study.

Henry took a few steps after her, into the open doorway, and watched her flee down a darkened hallway. He'd seen the tears in her eyes, and guilt had washed over him. What in God's name had he done? Bloody hell, he hadn't meant to make her cry.

He stood there indecisively for a moment, and then followed the direction she had taken. Halfway down the deserted hall he paused and listened. From behind a door to his right came the faint sounds of shuffling feet and snuffling. He took a deep breath and rapped on the door.

"Lucy?" No reply. "Miss Abbington?" More shuffling of feet.

"Go away," she called through the closed door.

Without thinking, he opened the door and stepped inside, quickly shutting and locking the door behind him. She was leaning against a heavy desk, her back to him.

She whirled to face him, her angry eyes red-rimmed and swollen. "Why are you here?" she asked, her voice catching on a sob.

Henry's breath caught in his throat, and he closed the distance between them in three strides, clasping her to his breast. She tried to pull away, but he only held her tighter. He raggedly breathed in her scent as his heart thumped against his ribs. Feeling her against him set his body on fire. He took a deep breath, fighting desperately for composure. "I am sorry, Miss Abbington." His voice cracked slightly. "You did not deserve that."

"You're right, my lord, I did not," came her muffled reply.

_Ever the little warrior_ , he thought in admiration. But he was relieved that she continued to let him hold her. She sniffled, and he reached up to stroke her hair, soft as the finest spun silk. He could not manage to swallow the uncomfortable lump in his throat. "You must forgive me. I behaved abominably once again."

She sniffed in response.

"Have you a handkerchief?" he asked.

"No," she replied, her face still buried in the folds of his coat.

"Here." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a white linen square. "Take this. Dry your eyes."

She took it and did as she was told. After she had blown her nose and dabbed at her eyes, he pulled her small form back toward his. He could not help himself. His body was betraying him, and he felt himself harden. Burying his face in her neck, he reached down to cup her bottom. It was surprisingly firm and muscled. His hands moved back up again, across the curves of her back, as his mouth pressed against the bare skin of her neck. She leaned into him, her eyes half lidded. His hands moved between their bodies to her stomach, and crept stealthily toward her voluptuous breasts until his roaming fingers found them.

He heard her gasp, but she didn't move, didn't push him away. He brushed his fingertips across the ripe fullness of her bosom. It would not take much to push down her bodice, expose the nipple that had hardened to his touch.

Henry closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath as he clutched her to him. Dear God, what was he doing? And why was she allowing it? This was wrong. _Dangerous_. He couldn't torture himself this way. Releasing her with a groan, he took her chin in his hand and tipped her head up. She boldly met his gaze. "Do not fall in love with me," he warned, his voice gravelly.

"Oh!" She wrenched herself from his grasp.

"Whatever it seems we have between us, it is false, nothing but illusion," he said, rubbing his temples. "I want you, yes. Desperately perhaps. But I will not marry you. I have no desire to take a wife at present, not till it's prudent that I do so. But when I do, I will marry well."

In a flash her hand flew out and struck him solidly across one cheek. The blood rose in her face, staining it an angry red. She stood there glaring at him, her hands clenched by her sides and her bosom heaving.

Henry reached up to rub his own smarting cheek. "I suppose I deserved that."

"Of course you did, you arrogant fool," she said. "I don't want to marry you any more than you want to marry me. Must I remind you that I am not looking for a husband?"

"Then why are you here? What were you doing out there, putting on that brilliant performance?"

"I told you. My papa wishes me to have a Season, so that's what I am doing. Having a Season. I'm behaving as a proper young lady should, fulfilling my duty. Surely you can understand that?"

"Perhaps," he said warily. "I must say, you are doing a damn good job looking as if you enjoy it."

"I am enjoying it. Why shouldn't I? Just because I'm not hanging out for a husband doesn't mean I can't have fun. It's almost as if...as if I've stepped into someone else's skin for the night. No one is thinking how odd I am or smiling at me patronizingly as they usually do." She shook her head. "Besides, it's none of your concern."

He cleared his throat. "I can't help but admire you. I want to believe you are different from the rest, though I've no idea why."

"Why do you find it so hard to trust me? To believe that I'm not out to ensnare you?" All at once her anger seemed to melt away and she looked almost sympathetic. "Is it because..." she swallowed and dropped her gaze. "Because of Miss Layton?" She looked up at him quizzically, her lovely green eyes shining.

"Cecelia? So you heard the story, I see. And what exactly were you told?"

"Well, that...that she broke your heart, of course."

"A broken heart? Is what they think?" He sat down and laughed, a deep, booming sound, echoing off the walls.

"Shhh. Someone will hear you," she pleaded.

"Sorry." He cleared his throat again. "To have one's heart broken, I suppose one must be in love first. And I can assure you I never loved Miss Layton. Mrs. Ridgeley, that is," he corrected.

"Bu—but, they said..." she stuttered, looking confused.

"Would you like to hear the truth? It's quite comical, really," he continued before she had a chance to respond. "My father had just passed away, and on his deathbed had begged me to take a wife, to ensure the marquessate. I felt the burden of the responsibility, and so I courted and offered for the most desirable young debutante of the Season, an heiress with a considerable portion behind her. Cecelia was beautiful, and I was fond of her, I suppose." He stood and began pacing the room, his hands shoved roughly into his pockets. "She accepted me eagerly enough, and we were able to reach a mutually pleasing agreement. And then the next day"—he stopped his pacing and pounded his fist on Lord Rosemoor's desk—"the very next day she was caught—quite publicly I might add—with her skirts around her waist and Ridgeley driving into her."

Miss Abbington's cheeks turned crimson, and Henry flinched at his own crudeness. The girl was a virgin, after all. But then, he had supposed Cecelia was, too. Obviously, he was no judge of virtue.

"Lord Mandeville, you should not tell me these things. It isn't proper." She wrung her hands, her cheeks scarlet, and refused to meet his gaze.

"Well, you wanted to know the truth, did you not? I was humiliated. I'm sure the _ton_ enjoyed speculating as to why she would choose Ridgeley, a mere mister, over the newly made Marquess of Mandeville."

"But...but why would she agree to wed you and then do such a thing?"

"And worse yet," he said with a caustic smile, "get caught doing it? Honestly, I've no idea. It was suggested that she had been carrying on with Ridgeley for some time before, so perhaps she was marrying me for my title, hoping to continue her liaison all the while. Perhaps her family insisted she marry me and she wanted out of the arrangement. Whatever the case, I didn't stick around long enough to find out the reasons for her deception. I left immediately for Scotland, where I remained overseeing my estate for more than three years. My sister finally convinced me to return and take my rightful place in Parliament. Eleanor is my twin, you know."

"No, I didn't know that," she whispered.

"There is much you do not know about me."

"Nor do I wish to know more, Lord Mandeville," she said coldly. "You should go at once. We must not be alone here, like this. I have worked so hard—"

"Yes, of course. I wouldn't want to ruin your prospects. But can we call a truce of sorts? Can you forgive me?"

"Yes, yes, of course," she said vaguely, taking his arm and steering him hurriedly toward the door.

She was right, he should go. Home. Immediately. "Good night, Lucy," he said, reaching for the doorknob.

As he opened the door and stepped into the hallway he heard her whisper, "Good night, Henry." His heart contracted painfully in his chest.

Lucy wiped her eyes once more and blew her nose. She looked at the handkerchief in her hand. A large, intricately scripted _M_ was sewn in black at one corner, a coronet embroidered above it. _Mandeville_. Had she really let him touch her so intimately? She reached a hand up to her bodice, remembering the searing heat of his hand upon her breast. Had he felt her heart accelerate at his touch? She shivered at the memory of his warm breath against her neck, the sensation of his lips on her bare skin.

She'd never before let any man take such liberties. She had known it was wrong, terribly wrong, and yet she seemed powerless to stop it. She had stood there, frozen, and allowed him to touch her. It was more than that, too, she admitted to herself. She'd _liked_ it. She hadn't wanted him to stop. Dear God, what sort of harlot had she become? Lucy felt powerless over her own traitorous body. She stamped a slippered foot in frustration.

His words echoed in her ears. _I will not marry you, Lucy_ , he'd said, the words all too familiar. She closed her eyes, remembering the chill in the air that cold December night, little more than two years' past. She'd fancied herself in love with the Earl of Sherbourne's youngest son, attracted by his boyish good looks, his easy charm. Edward had sought her out, openly flirted with her, and she'd been flattered that he'd taken notice of her. He'd strung her along for several months, while the whole village of Hollowsbridge wagged their tongues and speculated on what was developing between the oddly matched pair.

And then that December night, when the entire village had gathered for the annual lighting of the tree in the square, he'd pulled her out of the crowd, into the darkened lane, and tried to kiss her. She was so young, so naïve. She'd pushed him away and asked him his intentions—did he plan to marry her? If only she could take back those words and the humiliation that followed. She could still hear his laughter rising above the sounds of the festive caroling. She cringed, remembering the contempt on his face. "Marry you?" he'd laughed. "I won't marry you, Lucy. You didn't truly think I would? Honestly, a girl like you? I was just after a bit of fun."

"A bit of fun?" she'd asked with disbelief. How silly she'd been to believe he loved her.

"Of course. Come now, my father is an earl. You're not at all suitable. Surely you realized what I wanted from you." To this day, she could still feel the raw humiliation, the rage she'd felt at that very moment.

She would never again let a man humble her so, make her feel so lowly and common. She hadn't allowed Edward Allerton to break her spirit, nor would she allow Lord Mandeville.

She shook her head, hoping to clear it of the unwanted memories. How long had she been away from the ball? She needed to return before her absence was noted and speculated upon. She smoothed her hair, readjusted her bodice, and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief one last time. With a deep breath, she opened the door and hurried out, trying desperately to compose her features into a mask of decorum.

"Oh, Lucy, there you are, child. I was worried, dear. I could not find you anywhere." Aunt Agatha was standing at Colin's side, a frown upon her face. Lucy had seen her aunt gesturing wildly as she approached. "I was about to send Colin here in search of you."

"Why, whatever is the matter?" Lucy's stomach knotted in fear.

"Nothing is the matter, dear," Aunt Agatha said. "Lord Rosemoor wished to introduce you to the Duke of Colne and I simply could not locate you. It was as if you had vanished into thin air."

"I'm sorry I worried you, Auntie. I just needed a moment's rest, away from the crush." Lucy hoped her expression did not betray her guilt.

"Yes, well, do not disappear again." Her aunt patted her hand and smiled affectionately. "The evening is going so well, dear. I am so proud. So proud," she repeated. "Now that you have been found, I am off to the library for some whist." Lucy sighed as her aunt scurried off.

"I'm not so easily fooled as Agatha, Lucy," Colin said. "Are you going to tell me where you've been?" He leaned toward her, peering anxiously into her face. "You look as if you've been crying."

"No, I haven't..." Lucy found she could not lie to Colin, after all. "I cannot tell you." She shook her head resolutely.

Colin took her hand. "You're trembling." He turned her hand over. "What is this?"

Startled, she dropped the handkerchief she had not realized she was still clutching, and it floated gracefully to the ground with a swish.

Colin bent to retrieve the cloth. He held it up and examined the monogram. " _M_?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

Lucy chewed on her lower lip, unable to reply. She looked around nervously and saw Lord Rosemoor watching them, not six feet away, with a troubled expression darkening his normally jovial countenance.

"Mandeville, I suppose," Colin said.

Lucy squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. "Oh, Colin," she whispered, "it was awful. _Awful_. He followed me to the study and, and..." Lucy suddenly realized she had erred most grievously in her candor. Colin's gray eyes looked like storm clouds about to burst. She was frightened by their intensity.

Colin roughly grasped her wrist. "Lucy, come with me out to the terrace."

She followed him dutifully, afraid to refuse.

As soon as the doors shut behind them, Colin took hold of her shoulders. "Did he kiss you?" he asked.

Oh, it was so much worse than that! She remembered his hands on her bottom, on her bodice, touching her through the thin fabric of her gown. She shuddered. "He...I...well, not really, not this time, but—" Lucy gasped, realizing what she had inadvertently revealed.

"I'll kill him!" Colin said, and he looked as if he might. He stormed toward the doors, but Lucy reached for his sleeve and pulled him back to her side.

"No, Colin, you will do no such thing," Lucy said emphatically. "I am a grown woman, not some helpless little girl. I can fight my own battles." She refused to back down—she would not have the situation worsened by Colin's interference. "Truly, it's my own fault."

" _Your_ fault?" He clapped a hand to his forehead. "You are an innocent, Lucy, new to the ways of the _ton_. He took advantage of you, in my family's home, and I will not allow it."

He was practically apoplectic, and Lucy was reminded of her own papa when he was furious at her or Nicholas for some egregious misdeed. A nervous giggle bubbled up, and she reached a hand to her mouth to suppress it.

"Are you laughing?" Colin asked incredulously, his face turning bright red. "This is no laughing matter, Lucy."

"I cannot help it," she said. "You should see yourself—you look just like my papa, like a bullfrog in a fit. Dear Colin, I never should have burdened you with this. Please forget I mentioned it. You know I can take care of myself."

"Lucy, it isn't right." He shoved his fists into his pockets. "Not right, I tell you. He's hurt you. I can see it in your eyes."

Lucy tried to erase any trace of emotion from her features. "Promise me, Colin, that you will not speak of this to anyone, especially not to Lord Mandeville." Lucy wanted to forget the incident ever happened. No good would come of him confronting the marquess about it.

"No, I cannot." Colin vigorously shook his head.

"Colin, please." She reached a hand to his cheek. It was burning. "Do this for me." Her voice caught painfully in her throat. "I cannot bear it, otherwise." He reached up to cover her hand with his own.

"As you wish, Lucy. But if he ever, _ever_ , lays a hand on you again, I will not be so restrained."

"Thank you." She sighed with relief.

"Go back inside, then," he said gruffly. "You are a hit, you know," he added, a smile creeping across his face.

"Will wonders never cease?" Lucy laughed. "The evening is not yet over. I'm sure to ruin it somehow." Her heart a good deal lighter, she headed back inside.

"My dance, I believe, Miss Abbington?" A tall, slouchy man bowed before her as she reached the ballroom.

Was it? Lucy could not find her dance card, could not remember this gentleman's name. Had they been introduced? Where had her dance card gone to? "I'm sorry, sir, but I confess I have forgotten your name."

"Sinclair, Miss Abbington," the man said, drawing himself up to his full height. "Lord Thomas Sinclair."

"Yes, of course," Lucy covered, "Lord Thomas Sinclair." She was almost certain they had not been introduced.

"Perhaps a lemonade instead?" he asked.

"Yes, that would be lovely." She was quite thirsty, she realized, as she led the man to the refreshment table. With a practiced smile, Lucy took the cold glass Sinclair offered and sipped appreciatively.

"If you will forgive my boldness, Miss Abbington, I cannot help but declare you the most beautiful girl in this room tonight," he said. "Perhaps in all of London."

Lucy's hand flitted to her throat nervously. "Thank you, sir, for such a compliment. But I fear you are being too kind." _And too forward_. She looked around desperately for Jane, but found her friend occupied across the room with a handsome blond man.

"I apologize, Miss Abbington. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. There is no need for escape." He laughed, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

Had she been so transparent?

"Would I be worsening my prospects if I asked permission to call upon you tomorrow?"

Lucy looked up at the man sharply. He was handsome, she supposed, and had an appealing look of boyish charm. She couldn't help but admire his resourcefulness. But she wasn't sure how she should respond to his request. Blast the etiquette book; there had been no rule for this situation. "Yes," she murmured, hoping she was taking the right course. "Of course you may call. Now perhaps that dance you suggested?" If they were dancing, there would be less opportunity for talking.

They joined the forming set for a lively Scotch reel, one of Lucy's favorites. Thankfully, she had long been considered a graceful dancer—one skill she had not had to polish for her debut. Dancing was, well, _active_ , and she detested sitting still. She never missed a dance at the local assembly hall, and she'd even managed to learn the tricky quadrille long before she'd come to London. She couldn't help but smile as she took her place and waited for the music to begin.

Her smile faded as snippets of conversation reached her ears, even as the music began.

"Lord Mandeville, actually here tonight ... Scotland... Mrs. Ridgeley... broke his heart... Yes, Lady Charlotte, they say..."

Lucy felt the prick of tears. The last thing she wanted to hear was talk about _him_. She looked up at Sinclair and smiled falsely as she reached for his hand and began to move silently through the figures.

When the music ended, Lucy curtseyed politely. Looking over Sinclair's shoulder, she saw Susanna gesturing for her attention. She declined her partner's offer of more refreshment and excused herself with much relief, anxious to be rid of the man's company. Something about the way he'd looked at her, the way he'd touched her as they danced, had made her uncomfortable.

She hurried to her friend's side and reached for her hand. "Whatever is the matter, Susanna?" Her cheeks were flushed pink and her eyes looked bright and excited. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Oh, Lucy, I could not wait to tell you." Susanna threaded her arm through Lucy's and led her toward the room's far corner, away from the orchestra as they struck up again.

"Go on, you could not wait to tell me what?" Lucy settled herself onto a bench next to Susanna.

"Lord Mandeville!" Susanna gushed. "I have reason to be much encouraged."

Mandeville? Whatever did she mean? Lucy tried to hide the surprise in her own expression. "Is that so? Tell me."

"Well, you see, I had hoped for a dance with Lord Mandeville, but he arrived so late my dance card was already filled. I hadn't even the chance for a conversation with him." Susanna dropped her hands into her lap dramatically. "And then at once I saw him stride by, and in such a hurry. I have no idea where I got the courage, but I called after him." Susanna reached for Lucy's hand. "'Lord Mandeville', I called, and he bowed and came to my side at once and complimented me most graciously, though he did seem distracted. And then he said, would you believe, he said he wished most fervently that he could favor me with a waltz, but he had been urgently called away on business and must depart at once. I have no idea what kind of business he must attend to at such an hour, but I watched him go and he did indeed leave immediately." Susanna paused long enough to catch her breath. "I believe he was sincere. Is that not most encouraging?"

Lucy felt a lump in her throat. Could he not see the girl was infatuated with him when it was so plain?

"Lucy, dearest," Lady Rosemoor called out, striding up to the seated girls with a woman by her side. "I'd like to introduce you to Lady Worthington." Lucy and Susanna stood respectfully. "She is Lord Mandeville's sister, you see. Lady Worthington, I present Miss Lucy Abbington. She has already made your brother's acquaintance."

"I am so pleased to meet you, Miss Abbington. My brother has spoken of you," the baroness said, causing Lucy to blush furiously. "He told me quite cryptically that you 'helped him with his horses.'"

"Yes, madam, it is true," Lucy said. "I assisted with a foaling, you see, and with Phantom's injury."

The baroness looked to Lady Rosemoor quizzically.

"Miss Abbington has, well, _special talents,_ you might say, with animals," Lady Rosemoor explained. "She is quite the healer."

"Really? How fascinating." Lady Worthington appeared sincere. "And how nice to see you officially out, Miss Susanna. I do hope you two are enjoying your success."

"Lucy and I were just saying what a lovely evening it has been," Susanna answered with a nod.

"I'm so glad to hear that. Well, I fear I must go as my brother, who was acting as my escort, has abandoned me. But I'm happy to have made your acquaintance, Miss Abbington." Lady Worthington reached for Lucy's hand.

"Thank you, Lady Worthington," Lucy replied, taking her hand and smiling warmly.

Lucy exhaled as the two women disappeared back through the crowd just as a waltz struck up. Colin caught her eye from across the room, and with a raised brow, motioned her to his side. Since he was acting as her escort, her first waltz was promised to him. The evening was far from over. She gave Susanna's hand a squeeze before hurrying into Colin's welcoming arms.

Indeed, it was only just beginning.
Chapter 7

"Lucy, another bouquet for you. That makes seven so far. And Susanna has five. Oh, how exciting." Jane reached into the blossoms and plucked out the white card. "Lord Thomas Sinclair," she read.

"Sinclair." Lady Rosemoor made a clucking noise. "No, that will not do— will not do at all, I am afraid. Most inappropriate. Did we really invite him?" She tapped her temple thoughtfully with a frown.

"I believe so, Mama. His father is a duke and a friend of Papa's," Jane replied.

Susanna rushed in breathlessly. "Any more for me, Mama?" She looked around expectantly.

"No, dear, but you do have five. Very impressive, indeed."

"But no new ones have arrived?" She looked disappointed. Mandeville, of course. Lucy knew Susanna hoped to receive a bouquet from Lord Mandeville.

Lady Rosemoor looked around and shook her head. "Where is Mrs. Millington? We need several more vases." She clucked once more and bustled out in search of the errant housekeeper.

Lucy took a deep breath, inhaling the rich scent of hothouse flowers that filled the drawing room. So many of them for her! There were bouquets everywhere, every hue of the spectrum vividly represented.

"So many flowers," Lucy said in amazement. "Is this always the custom?"

"Indeed it is," Jane said, "and a great gauge of one's popularity. This afternoon you will likely have several suitors call upon you, as well. I suppose I shall be less busy with callers than the two of you, however, as I have only received two bouquets."

"Oh, Jane, only two?" Susanna's eyes shone with unshed tears.

"Remember, Susanna, it is quality, not quantity, that matters to a lady. I'm quite satisfied with my two." A mysterious smile flitted across Jane's features. "After all, it is my second Season. This was your come-out, yours and Lucy's. I'm delighted for you both." Lucy knew that she was. Jane had the most generous, unselfish heart.

"And who are they from, Jane? Your two? You must tell us at once." Susanna began poking around the arrangements.

"Alexander Clifton," Jane said.

_Clifton_. Had Lucy danced with him last night?

"And William Nickerson." That mysterious smile tugged at Jane's lips once more.

"Nickerson? Colin's chum?" Susanna rushed to Jane's side with a giggle. "How very interesting."

"Isn't it?" Jane said. "I admit, I never thought of him as a potential suitor until just last night."

"Oh, Jane, how very romantic." Susanna squeezed her sister's hand.

"Very romantic indeed," Lucy said. "And what of Alexander Clifton?"

"Oh, Clifton." Jane waved her hand dismissively. "He is quite dashing, I suppose. I will let him court me, but it won't amount to much. A rakehell, I'm afraid, but a handsome one."

Lucy recalled a tall, dark-haired man with warm brown eyes. Yes, Clifton had been his name.

"So, Susanna, who can you count amongst your suitors?" Jane asked.

"Let me see..." Susanna fingered the cards in her hand. "Bostock, Lord Roxburgh, the Duke of Eastham's eldest. Oh no, Sir Thomas Minton. And the youngest Marsden."

"That's exceptional, Susanna," Jane said. "Then why the long face?"

Lucy wondered yet again how it was that Jane hadn't recognized Susanna's infatuation with Lord Mandeville.

Susanna looked to Lucy, then back to Jane, her face a mask of frank indecision. "I confess, I was hoping perhaps Lord Mandeville—"

"Mandeville?" Jane practically shrieked the name.

"Shhh," Susanna said. "Lower your voice. I do not want Mama to hear."

"I should think not," Jane whispered. "Mandeville? Oh, Susanna, dear!" Her voice rose again. "Not Mandeville." Jane looked to Lucy, who refused to meet her eyes. Instead Lucy plucked a bloom from a bouquet and pressed it to her nose.

"Why ever not? I think I'm in love with him," Susanna said dreamily. "He was quite encouraging last night, and I thought perhaps...well, you know."

"No, I do not know at all. He is much too old for you, Susanna. Too old and, well, not suited to you. And besides, I thought perhaps Lucy..." Jane looked toward Lucy, who was thankfully out of Susanna's line of vision. Lucy madly shook her head 'no', her eyes widened in horror.

"I only meant that, well...Lucy and Lord Mandeville have much in common so I had thought perhaps... Oh, never mind." Jane looked flustered. "You are just a child, Susanna, and Mandeville is more than thirty, and a confirmed bachelor at that. You should place your hopes on someone more appropriate. The Season has just begun, after all. You would do well with the likes of Eastham."

Lucy's eyes darted around guiltily. She could not bear the raw disappointment in Susanna's eyes.

"You may be right, but I'm _not_ a child, you see, and a girl can hope, can she not? Even the most confirmed bachelors do sometimes settle down and take wives. If they can find the right girl, that is." Her frown gave way to a hopeful smile.

Just then the butler stepped into the room offering another arrangement, this one smaller than the rest, but exquisite. A simple, elegant arrangement of forget-me-nots, lilacs, and delphiniums. "For Miss Abbington," Penwick said, setting the bouquet down on a corner of the sideboard, the only available surface in the room.

Lucy rushed over to the bouquet and spied the card nestled amongst the blooms. Purples and blues, her favorite colors. Her heart raced. Somehow she _knew_ who had sent them, she just knew—though she could not say how. As she bent over to smell the blossoms, she surreptitiously plucked the card out and tucked it into her sleeve. She swallowed a lump in her throat. "They're beautiful," she said, turning to smile at her friends.

"Well, don't keep us in suspense. Who are they from?" Jane's eyes danced in anticipation.

"I haven't any idea. There's no card." Lucy feigned disappointment.

"No card?" Susanna questioned. "How can that be?"

"I...I do not know." Oh, she felt terrible lying, but it could not be helped. "But I believe the scents are giving me a headache. Perhaps I should get some fresh air." Jane and Susanna gaped at Lucy in stunned surprise as she rushed from the room rubbing her temples. It was not such a lie as her head _was_ beginning to pound.

As she reached the sanctuary of the stairs, she retrieved the small white envelope from the folds of her sleeve. With shaking hands she opened it, pulled out the heavy card, and read.

"Forgive me," was scrawled in black ink. It was signed simply _H_.

***

"That's lovely, Lucy. Really, such a lovely, er, tree?" Colin scratched his head and moved to the opposite side of the canvas for a different perspective.

"Oh, Colin, it does look _somewhat_ like a tree, does it not?" Lucy stepped back from her easel to survey her work in progress. "Papa suggested I try my hand at landscapes. More appropriate, he said. I confess it is not my forte."

"But over here, off to the side. The horse you've painted is wonderful. You should have made that the focal point instead," he suggested.

"But then it wouldn't have been a landscape now, would it?" She huffed impatiently and returned to her work in earnest.

Colin looked to the sky. "Quite a clear day, isn't it? Nearly a chill in the air."

"Goodness, you're beginning to sound like Mr. Cogglesworth. Please, no talk of the weather, I beg of you." She put down her palette and brush and readjusted her bonnet. The sun seemed unusually bright. It had rained most of the night, a cleansing rain, taking with it the oppressive humidity and replacing it with cool, crisp air. Lucy took a deep, revitalizing breath and returned unenthusiastically to her work.

"So, Lucy, I heard you received quite a few bouquets this morning. Bound to happen now that you've officially entered the marriage mart."

"The 'marriage mart'? Oh, that's awful. Do they really call it that?" She looked to Colin with a frown.

"They do. You've much to learn about the _ton_ , I'm afraid. Not much substance behind anything. It's all about connections, appearances."

"Are you a part of this 'marriage mart' business?"

"As your escort, I've no choice."

"Ugh. I really find this whole business exceedingly deplorable. I simply don't understand why my papa couldn't leave well enough alone."

"Well, you _are_ over twenty. I suppose it's time you find a husband."

"Why must I find a husband?" Lucy felt the blood rise in her face.

Colin shrugged. "That's just the way it's done."

"I'm not going to find a husband in London, certainly not amongst the _ton_. I prefer my life at Ludlow House. I'm allowed many freedoms a husband might wish to restrict."

"Perhaps you'll find a husband who will allow you your freedoms."

"You don't truly believe that. Didn't you just say the _ton_ was all about appearances?"

He nodded. "I suppose you're right."

"What about you? You've enjoyed bachelorhood a number of years now. Will you finally choose a bride this Season?"

"I suppose I've put it off long enough. Perhaps I will."

She looked up at him sharply. "Is there a particular lady you're considering?"

"No." He took a deep breath and shrugged. "I'm six and twenty and no woman has yet captured my attention. I'm beginning to doubt one ever will. Each Season it's the same—nothing changes but the frocks. Last night proved that to me. I suppose I should do like most and find some agreeable debutante. Anyway, enough about my sad state of affairs. Or lack thereof." He smiled slyly.

Lucy returned her attention to her painting, feathering the canvas with light strokes in an attempt to pattern a willow's leaves.

"I say, I've a brilliant idea."

She turned toward him, her brush aloft. "Do you, now? Perhaps I should alert the _Times_ , then."

"Very amusing. Ahem. You know I care for you, Luce—"

"And I care for you, too," she interrupted, her voice tight. Wherever was this leading?

With a sudden, jerky movement, Colin reached for her shoulders. Her eyes widened with surprise as she felt his lips touch hers. At once, she reached up and pushed him away. Green paint soiled his lapel as her brush dropped from her hand to the grass below.

"Whatever are you doing, Colin?" She could only stare at him in amazement.

"Lucy, why don't you marry _me?_ " he said.

"That isn't funny." Lucy looked up at the house and thought she saw a drape flutter in Lord Rosemoor's study.

Colin moved to her side, his lean frame towering over her diminutive one. In mock exaggeration, he placed a hand over his heart. "I'm utterly and completely serious."

"Have you lost your wits?" She bent down to retrieve her brush. "I was in no way insinuating you should marry me."

"Upon my honor, I can assure you I have my wits entirely about myself. Why not marry me? It would serve us both well. I need a wife, and you will need a husband. We're fond of one another, after all."

"I cannot marry you, Colin."

"But you care for me?"

"Of course I do," Lucy said, "as a brother. Not as a lover." Wherever did he get such a preposterous idea? Why, it was almost incestuous. She felt a shiver snake up her spine.

"But I would allow you to do whatever you please. Did you not just say—"

She shook her head. "It must be more than that."

"What more could you want?"

"Love, Colin. Much as I adore you, I don't love you in _that_ way. I...I'm sorry, I thought..." She shook her head as her voice trailed off, and she busied herself with her paints in an effort to avoid looking at him.

"You're right, of course. It was folly." He reached for his handkerchief and began dabbing at the paint that marred his coat. "You must forgive my boorish behavior."

"Of course I forgive you. You just...took me by surprise, that's all. You're like a brother to me, Colin. You always have been."

"Have no fear. My affections for you have always remained brotherly in thought and nature. But you're _not_ my sister, and I only thought I _must_ kiss you, to be certain. I hope my ill-considered words and actions haven't damaged our friendship beyond repair."

"Don't be silly." She reached for his hand and squeezed it. "It was a very gallant thing to do, offering to rescue me from the marriage mart."

He smiled his familiar, lopsided smile, and Lucy returned it with her own. "And now you must tell me, for the record..."

"Yes?"

"The kiss."

"Like kissing a sister," he said with a mischievous grin.

"Positively incestuous," she added with a nod.

"I say, there's Mother," he said, stuffing his handkerchief back into his pocket. "Probably coming to scold you for not resting up for callers later."

Lucy looked up sharply and saw Lady Rosemoor waving from the terrace. The viscountess walked briskly down through the garden and joined the pair before the easel.

"Lucy, what an, um, interesting, ahh...landscape, is it?"

"Yes, I know. It's awful. I've never attempted landscapes before. I thought to give it a try."

"Well, the horse there"—Lady Rosemoor pointed—"is superb." She moved closer and raised her quizzing glass. "Very lifelike. It truly is, dear." She nodded her head, her lips pursed.

"Thank you," Lucy said. "Are Jane and Susanna resting?"

"Yes, they are. Colin, I was hoping for a private word with our Lucy. Would you excuse us? Your father is enjoying a sherry in his study and I am sure he would welcome your company."

"Of course, Mother. I'd be happy to oblige." Colin winked at Lucy and strode off toward the house.

Lady Rosemoor settled herself on a dainty chair, her ample body spilling over the sides of the seat. She gestured for Lucy to sit. "Lucy, dearest, I do hope you will not take what I am about to say as criticism. It is just that, with your mother gone, I feel it is my responsibility to help...well, to guide you.""Of course, Lady Rosemoor." Lucy sat and folded her hands in her lap.

"Lady Mandeville sought me out last night at the ball and spoke quite frankly about her displeasure over your visit to Covington Hall."

"Covington Hall? But that was over a month ago."

"So it was, but still she's harping on how terribly inappropriate it was, you helping with the foaling. She said she was shocked to find you alone with her son, unchaperoned. In a state of 'dishabille' I believe she said."

"Oh!" Lucy rose to her feet. "That's untrue. Perhaps I was without a bonnet or gloves, but other than that I was properly clothed."

"Lucy, I am sure what you say is true. I realize that, at home, people are accustomed to your pursuits. But here in London there are those who will find it terribly unusual for a lady to conduct herself as you do. Please, dearest, sit." Lady Rosemoor reached for Lucy's hand and gestured toward the chair.

Lucy complied, her legs shaking.

"I know you are very skilled, very knowledgeable. And if what Lord Mandeville says is true, you saved the life of that foal. No, I have no qualms with your going to Covington Hall to assist as you did. After all, the marquess himself summoned you. But you should have allowed someone, Mrs. Stafford perhaps, or even Mary or Bridgette, to accompany you."

"You're right, Lady Rosemoor," Lucy murmured, her eyes downcast, "and I'm sorry for the embarrassment you must have suffered. Shall I write Lady Mandeville a note of apology?"

"No. I told her I would speak with you, and I have. But she chose to tell me about the incident with Lady Charlotte Haverford at the Warburton party, as well." She raised one brow.

Lucy's cheeks burned. "Oh, Lady Rosemoor, I have no idea how I made such an error."

"Well, it was not such an error on your part, dear, if he did indeed ask that you call him by his given name, and Jane assures me he did. Yet I am afraid that you have made quite an enemy of Lady Charlotte. From what I hear, it is possible she and Lord Mandeville will soon become betrothed. At least Lady Mandeville hints at that." Lady Rosemoor tapped her chin thoughtfully, looking puzzled. "Although it does seem peculiar that he would so publicly cut a young lady he was about to offer for, doesn't it?"

Lucy's heart began thumping in her chest.

"Anyway, dear, I would suggest you try to avoid Lord Mandeville if you can. I do not know under what circumstances he allowed you to address him so informally, but I sincerely hope you haven't formed an attachment."

"I assure you I have not."

"Oh, I am much relieved to hear it. I thought as much. Lord Rosemoor does think highly of him, but I think that after the scandal a few years back he is perhaps a wounded man. I see something...I cannot explain it, but there is something in his eyes that disturbs me." She shook her head solemnly. "I cannot say exactly why I think he is to be avoided—after all, he is a marquess, his manners are impeccable, and his pockets are heavy enough. But..." She threw her hands in the air. "There it is. Something in his eyes."

Lady Rosemoor rose and patted Lucy on the shoulder. "I hope I have not upset you. You are like a daughter to me, Lucy. I loved your dear mother—God rest her soul—like a sister. I only hope I can guide you as well as she would have herself. She would have been so proud of you last night. You were every bit the proper young lady."

"Thank you. I hope you know how grateful I am for the opportunities you and Lord Rosemoor have given me."

"But you would be happier at home, am I right?"

"I confess I feel a Season in London is unnecessary for a girl such as me."

"Nonsense. Your grandpapa was a baron. Why, even as a physician's wife your mother could be presented at court. You had every right to be introduced into society yourself, and I know Sarah would have wanted it for you. Now go, off with you. Back to your dreadful painting."

Lucy couldn't help but laugh. It _was_ dreadful.

"And if that nosy son of mine asks what we spoke of, tell him I was scolding you for not resting up properly for the callers you will surely receive this afternoon."

She watched Lady Rosemoor amble back to the house, stopping to admire a bloom here and there as she went, and then Lucy returned to her canvas. She retrieved her brush and palette and stood there, surveying her work, but her mind refused to focus on the task at hand. What a day it had been. First the bouquet from Lord Mandeville, then Colin and his peculiar proposal—she could barely believe he had tried to kiss her. Again. For he'd tried once before, when she'd been no more than twelve. She'd punched him then, a perfectly placed right hook that had bloodied his nose. He'd only wanted some practice, he'd claimed indignantly. Lucy couldn't help but laugh aloud at the memory.

And now this most uncomfortable conversation with Lady Rosemoor. Thank goodness Lady Rosemoor didn't know what had transpired between Lord Mandeville and herself last night at the ball. Her cheeks burned at the memory. Forget it, she chastised herself. Forget _him_. It was Susanna's heart that Lady Rosemoor should be concerned with, not hers. Hadn't Lord Mandeville said he wasn't looking for a bride? And even if he were, would the daughter of a viscount meet his criteria? She doubted it. Poor Susanna. Lucy shook her head with a sigh as she put away her paints.

"Marriage mart," she muttered under her breath as she headed toward the house. "How dreadful."
Chapter 8

"Colin, it is imperative I have a word with you." Lord Rosemoor shut the door to the study and sat at his desk, motioning for Colin to take the seat opposite him.

"I am afraid I saw something most disturbing last night, and then, just now..." He shook his head as he trailed off. "After much thought, I know what must be done." His father absently tapped his fingers on the desk as he spoke, a frown wrinkling his brow.

"Whatever are you talking about?" An uneasy wariness slithered across Colin's heart.

"You, son, you and Lucy," his father said. "Last night at the ball—"

"Oh, that." Colin waved a hand dismissively. "I was angry at the time. Perhaps I was a little forceful, but it has been smoothed out between us, I assure you."

"And just now, out in the garden. I've always feared this could happen. I can see it in your eyes, when you look at her." His father shook his head and cleared his throat.

Colin narrowed his eyes. His father was speaking in riddles.

"This must be done at once. There is a packet of letters at my solicitor's office. A correspondence, of sorts. I had planned to leave them to you upon my death, but, well..." He cleared his throat again. "It is essential you are in possession of the information they contain immediately."

"Letters, you say? I'm not sure I understand." Colin shook his head. He had never seen his father act so strangely, and it unnerved him greatly.

"You will understand once you read them, of that I am sure. Read them, and leave them there for safekeeping. I will not speak of this matter again. Is that clear, son?"

"Yes, Father, but the secrecy of the matter baffles me." His father continued to look at him sternly, as if unsatisfied by his reply.

"Yes, that is clear," Colin said through clenched teeth.

"Good." Lord Rosemoor nodded. "Go there now. I just sent word that they should expect you." Lord Rosemoor rose from his chair and picked up an unlit cheroot, turning his back to Colin.

Apparently, the interview was over.

***

They were, indeed, expecting him. The slim, bespectacled solicitor led Colin to a quiet office, handed him a stack of neatly tied-up letters, and left him there without a word of explanation. He sat down on the scabbed leather chair opposite the desk and untied the string holding the packet together. He had no idea what kind of information these papers would contain, but he had a feeling it would not be pleasant news.

He took the first letter from the top of the stack. His hands shook as he unfolded the paper yellowed with age, and began to read.

Dearest Charles, I received your last letter and hold it close to my heart. The babe is almost six months now, and what a joy she is! You have no idea the happiness she brings me. Her hair is soft-spun gold and her eyes have turned a lovely clear green. Yes, she looks like her mama! You can rest easy that there are no suspicious features to betray her parentage. Oliver adores her, dotes on her as if she were his own. He is a most accepting man, and of that I am truly grateful. I do miss you, dearest Charles. Every time I look at her, I am thankful for this precious gift you have given me. I must go, the babe awakens.

It was signed simply 'Sarah'. Sarah? Abbington? _Dear God._ Colin's stomach did a flip-flop in his gut. The letter was dated January, 1798. Almost twenty-one years ago. His forehead broke out in a cold sweat; ice ran through his veins. He picked out another letter at random and opened it, smoothing the page flat with damp hands. This one was dated August, 1801.

Charles, your last letter disturbed me greatly. I know you care for Lucy and that you feel a certain responsibility for us, but you must put what happened behind us. Elizabeth must never know. She would never understand, never forgive us, and Lucy would suffer. Surely you understand that? Elizabeth is my dearest friend, after all, and now Oliver is my husband. What is done cannot be undone, but we must spare those we love further pain.

Colin let the paper flutter to the desk. No need to read more. Lucy was his sister. _His sister_. Suddenly it all made sense. Hadn't he always known it, always felt it in his heart? Good God, he had proposed marriage to her, even tried to kiss her! He shuddered and dropped his head into his hands with a groan.

What the hell had his father been thinking? It wasn't as if Lucy were the only child born on the wrong side of the blanket. No, that was shockingly common amongst the _ton_. But Sarah Abbington had been his mother's dearest friend. She had been like family. He searched his memory, looking for any indication of something—anything—improper between his father and Lucy's mother. But he had only been a boy of four, perhaps five years when Lucy had been conceived. All he remembered was a woman with golden hair and green eyes, just like Lucy, except she had been taller, slighter, and her eyes had lacked the brilliant luster that Lucy's possessed.

Had his father seemed exceedingly interested in Sarah's daughter? He couldn't remember. And then, several years later, Sarah had died while giving birth to Nicholas... Nicholas! Had he delved deeper into the packet of letters, would he have learned he had a half brother, as well? He eyed the letters suspiciously and shook his head. No, he could read no more. He realized he'd lost a significant measure of respect for his father. And yet...and yet he'd gained a sister, hadn't he?

He stood on shaky legs and leaned against the desk. How unfair for him to be the sole possessor of this uncomfortable knowledge. Without thought, he retrieved the first letter from the stack and stuffed it into his breast pocket with a surreptitious glance around. He replaced the second letter and retied the bundle, then stood for a moment, attempting to collect himself.

Once his racing heart had settled a bit, he opened the door, thanked the solicitor, and headed out into the bright midday sun. He could feel the letter burning against his heart as he climbed into his curricle, took up the ribbons, and headed toward his own lodgings.

***

"Lucy, dear, must you go? You should be resting as the Rosemoor girls are doing." Aunt Agatha shook her head impatiently as Lucy donned her riding gloves and straw bonnet.

Lucy had missed her morning constitutional and she was itching to feel her horse beneath her, even if it was from atop a blasted sidesaddle. Yes, a ride would soothe her jangled nerves. Bridgette had already agreed to accompany her while her mistress slept. "Oh, Auntie, don't fret. I promise to return in time for callers." She wondered briefly if Thomas Sinclair would really come as he'd suggested. Her palms dampened at the prospect.

"Well, if you insist, then," her aunt said. "But do hurry back, dear." She wagged her head with disapproval.

"I will, Auntie," Lucy said. "I promise."

But before Lucy could finish tying her bonnet, Aunt Agatha began to wring her hands, her eyes darting about indecisively. "Oh, dear. Wait one moment, Lucy." Her eyes appeared troubled. "I have a most unpleasant confession to make, and I can no longer stand the guilt."

"Whatever do you mean?" Lucy asked in surprise.

"Earlier this morning I came to your bedchamber, looking for you, of course, nothing more, and I saw your escritoire was a mess so I thought to straighten it some, and...oh, bother!" the woman exclaimed, pulling something from her reticule. "I found this."

Lucy could only stare. It was Lord Mandeville's handkerchief. At the night's end she had tucked it under her writing papers in the top drawer of her desk and then forgotten about it. She found her voice, made it steady. "Oh, is it only that? A handkerchief? You had me frightened for a moment there, Auntie." She attempted a laugh.

"But dearest, the monogram," Agatha said solemnly. She pointed to the monogrammed script. "'I can only assume this belongs to Lord Mandeville?"

"Yes, you assume correctly." There was no use denying it. Besides, perhaps it would help to unburden herself to her aunt. The tightness in her chest was positively suffocating. "It is indeed Lord Mandeville's handkerchief. He gave it to me last night." How would she ever explain it?

"Please tell me it was under proper circumstances," her aunt said with a grimace. "I will be truthful with you, Auntie." Lucy took a deep breath and steeled herself for her aunt's disapproval. "We had somewhat of a row last night, the marquess and I. You know how easily I cry, and he gave me this to wipe my eyes. He apologized, of course, and all is well between us now, I suppose." And she did suppose it was. After all, he had sent the flowers.

"Well, why did you not tell me this last night? This is why you disappeared, then, isn't it?"

"Oh, Auntie, I don't know why I couldn't tell you." She went to the settee, her aunt following her and sitting close by her side. "I fear the marquess causes conflicting emotions within me and I don't always act rationally as far as he is concerned."

"Lucy, dear, have you formed a _tendre_ for him?" Aunt Agatha asked, reaching for Lucy's hands and giving them a squeeze.

"No, of course not." She sighed impatiently. "I'm much too sensible for that. But nevertheless, he does vex me. I cannot explain it, really."

"Well, I must make another confession, then. That night he dined with us at Glenfield, I concluded he was more than agreeable. We conversed at length and he was most interested in your skills, and I believe it was more than polite interest. In fact, he seemed admiring. I might have bragged a bit about you. I told him about the twin foals you saved." "Did you? I suppose that explains why he summoned me to Covington Hall to assist in Medusa's foaling. I wondered what the two of you were discussing so seriously that evening."

"I admit to playing matchmaker. But he seemed so broad-minded, so appropriate for you. How old do you suppose he is, anyway?"

"I cannot say. Perhaps two and thirty? But it is of no consequence. There is nothing between us, and never will be."

"How can you be certain of that? The Season has only begun."

"He told me directly that when he does marry, he will marry well."

"Humph." Her aunt kicked at the carpet with a scowl.

Lucy shrugged. "Besides, there is also Susanna to consider."

"Susanna? Whatever does she have to do with this?" Agatha looked puzzled. "I'm afraid Susanna fancies herself in love with Lord Mandeville."

"No," her aunt gasped in surprise.

"It's true. She admitted her feelings just this morning."

"But Lucy, if there is a chance that you and he—"

"But I've told you there's no chance of that. I confess I'm unsure of my feelings toward him, but I do know I'm not in love with him and I certainly have no wish to be his mistress." There, she'd said it.

"Oh," her aunt gasped, her cheeks reddening. "Do not even say such a thing, not even in jest. Anyway, perhaps he will change his mind about marriage, once he finds the right girl."

"Susanna said much the same." Lucy shook her head sadly. "I only wish he were aware of her feelings, so that he could refrain from encouraging her further."

"Has he said something to encourage her, then?" Agatha asked.

He had truly done very little to warrant Susanna's encouragement other than being kind and friendly to the girl. She could not fault him for that. She shook her head. "No, not really, but Susanna is young and hopeful. I suppose she takes any attentions from him as encouragement."

Aunt Agatha reached over to pat her cheek. "Well, dear, do not cross him off your list just yet. There are many weeks left in the Season. Let us see what develops."

Lucy shook her head resolutely. "No, I shall simply avoid him as much as I can, that's all." The clock chimed loudly, announcing the hour. "I really must go."

"Yes, of course. Go on, then." Aunt Agatha stood and smoothed her gown.

"Good bye, Auntie. And thank you," Lucy called over her shoulder, feeling deliciously unburdened. On her way out, her gaze fell upon the sideboard, drawn inexplicably to the lovely arrangement Lord Mandeville had sent. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, she reached over and plucked out one exquisite indigo bloom.

_The same color as his eyes_.

She quickly untied and removed her bonnet and gently tucked the blossom into its band. She retied the ribbons under her chin and stepped outside with a smile. Standing there on the front steps of Rosemoor House, she looked up at the sky, a beautiful cerulean blue.

What a glorious day!

***

Henry cursed under his breath. Why had he sent flowers to Miss Abbington? What a ridiculous, impulsive thing to have done. Yes, he was sorry he behaved so badly, damn the whisky. But he didn't want to give her false hopes. He'd meant it when he'd warned her not to fall in love with him.

He crossed the length of his bedchamber and sat down in front of the fireplace, staring blankly into the dying flames. His muddled mind could barely grasp the two very different images: the girl in Essex who rode about in boys' clothing, so capable, so skilled, and so easy to talk to; and the young lady at the ball the night before, dressed in the most fashionable, most seductive of gowns, smiling and flirting, batting her lashes at every man with a title.

No, they could not be the same person.

He reached down to pull on his boots, which gleamed like ebony, reflecting the flames with their mirrorlike luster. His head throbbed painfully, probably from the champagne on top of the whisky last night. It had been so very long since he'd imbibed so excessively. After he'd left the Rosemoors' ball, he'd started to walk home but found the short distance between Rosemoor House and his own lodgings insufficient to clear his head. He'd found himself walking aimlessly toward Covent Garden, alone but for the fancy women eager to offer their favors for a price. He'd realized he'd gone there purposefully, intending to find a willing body to keep his own warm for the night. But he'd found he couldn't do it. He'd kept his head down, ignoring the suggestive glances and lures cast his way. Instead, he'd gone home—alone—and lain in bed thinking about _her_ half the night.

Suddenly he wished to be outdoors. He walked to the window and peered out appreciatively. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and the fresh air would clear his aching head. Perhaps he'd go to Eleanor's, suggest an outing to the park with the children. He'd behaved badly to his sister at the Rosemoors' ball, after all, leaving her there without a word. He stood and called for Philbin to tie his cravat and fetch his coat. As his valet finished his ministrations, Henry resolved to make amends with Eleanor. They could arrange for a luncheon to be packed, and he would indulge her odd propensity for dining _alfresco_ —surely that would please her. Dismissing Philbin, Henry retrieved his hat and whip and set off toward Grosvenor Square with a smile.
Chapter 9

Henry wasn't surprised to see so many people in the park enjoying the day's offerings, and he was glad Eleanor had agreed to join him. The sky was brilliantly blue, dotted with thick, feathery clouds that drifted lazily on the summer breeze. The brisk clip of horses' hooves and the rattle of curricles pulled by elegantly matched pairs could be heard over his nieces' and nephew's laughter. Their governess sat a short distance away, watching them frolic on the lawn, and Eleanor sat by his side, a slim, leather-bound volume clutched in her hands. Henry sighed with content, unable to think of a better way to pass the day.

He returned his attention to the pad lying on the ground in front of him, surveying the sketch he'd been working on while his sister read. A charcoal study of Phantom, and not too bad, either, he thought with a satisfied grin.

Eleanor's voice rang out, startling him. "Miss Abbington?"

He looked up to see the girl reining in her horse, a look of unmasked surprise upon her features.

"Good day, Lady Worthington," Lucy called out from the lane with a nod. "Lord Mandeville," she added, turning toward him and favoring him with a dazzling smile that lit up her entire face.

He roughly closed his pad and stood, as Eleanor laid aside her book and joined him.

"How lovely to see you again," his sister called out, striding over to the girl with a welcoming smile. "Won't you join us? We were about to enjoy some sandwiches and lemonade."

Henry groaned. No, she most definitely should _not_ join them. _Too dangerous._

Luckily, the girl seemed to agree. "Oh, no, I couldn't do that."

"Of course you can. Your company would give me great pleasure," Eleanor persisted.

Lucy was starting to look panicked. "No, I couldn't intrude."

"Don't be ridiculous. I insist. Have your maid take the horses over there to our carriage, and then join us. Please."

Lucy finally nodded her assent. The poor girl had no choice, really. Henry wondered if his sister would have physically dragged the girl from her mount had she refused again.

Lucy did as Eleanor instructed, and when she returned she found Freddie standing before her, looking up at her quizzically.

"Why, a good day to you, sir," she said as she knelt down to his level. "I'm Miss Abbington. What's your name?"

"I'm Frederick," he said. "Are you a governess?"

"No, I'm not a governess," she said with an amused grin. "Why do you ask?"

"You look nice. Miss Rawlings is our governess, and she's nice. I'm hungry."

Henry cleared his throat. "I see you've made quite an impression on my nephew. Come, Freddie, leave Miss Abbington alone. Go to Miss Rawlings—you can have a sandwich soon enough."

Miss Abbington laughed as the boy scampered away.

"Here, come meet my nieces," Henry said, and Lucy followed him across the lawn to where two dark-haired girls lay sprawled on their backs, gazing up at the sky. "Katherine, Emily," Henry called, "come meet Miss Abbington." His nieces bolted upright, their eyes wide with surprise, before jumping to their feet and running to his side.

"Miss Abbington?" Emily questioned, breathlessly. "The one who Uncle Henry...oof!" Katherine jabbed her sister in the ribs with her elbow. "Ouch! Why ever did you do that, Katie, I was only asking—"

"I'm glad to meet you, Miss Abbington." Katherine smiled up at Lucy curiously before taking her younger sister firmly by the elbow and leading her over to their governess.

Henry reached a hand to his forehead with a grimace. Damn his loose lips. He never should have told Eleanor about the flowers, certainly not in front of the children. "I'm afraid I forget how sharp their minds are. I was telling my sister I sent you flowers and—"

"Oh, how rude of me, I nearly forgot." Lucy's cheeks flushed a most pleasing pink, and she reached up to finger a single bloom tucked into the band of her bonnet.

A perfect blue delphinium blossom. Unmistakably from _his_ bouquet.

"Thank you, my lord. The...the flowers were lovely," she stammered, her flush deepening.

"I hope you'll accept my apology for my behavior last night. I'm afraid I overindulged in drink." His heart accelerated at the memory of her warm, lush body pressed against his, the feel of her voluptuous breasts straining against the thin fabric of her gown, just waiting for him to—

"Yes, of course," she said, her eyes downcast. "Your apology is accepted." Her mouth was drawn and she looked terribly uncomfortable.

"Good, then let us eat," he said, swallowing hard and attempting to push the memories of last night as far back into the recesses of his mind as possible. He led her back to his sister and the cloth on the ground, eyeing appreciatively the feast that lay before them. Baskets filled with sandwiches and pastries, fruit-filled bowls, and trays with bread and cheese were all spread out atop crisp white linen under a shade tree. Henry was suddenly ravenous. The children joined them, and one and all dug into the collation with evident enthusiasm.

"Mmmm, this is delicious, Lady Worthington," Lucy said, reaching for a second tiny sandwich. "It was so kind of you to ask me to join your family. There's nothing more delightful than dining _alfresco_ on a lovely afternoon."

"My sentiments exactly." She looked to Henry with a smug smile. "We're delighted to have you, aren't we?" Eleanor asked Henry pointedly.

"Of course," he said, reaching for another sandwich and taking a bite. He chewed for a moment in silence, thinking how to steer the conversation to a safe topic. "How are the Rosemoors recovering from last night's festivities?" he finally asked.

"Quite well, thank you. In fact, I think everyone is relieved for it to be over with, and to have the household returned to normalcy."

"It was a lovely party, Miss Abbington," Eleanor said. "You must be pleased."

"I am." Lucy reached for an apple tart. "I had such a very good time, and most unexpectedly."

"Why unexpectedly?" Eleanor asked.

"I'm not quite used to such grand affairs. My life at home is quiet and simple in comparison."

Henry noticed a small sparrow hovering near the edge of their cloth, and he watched in fascination as Lucy plucked a crust of bread and held it out temptingly. Within moments the bird alighted beside her, cocking its head as it hopped closer and closer. At once the bird came right to her hand, snatching the bread away in its beak before flying off to enjoy its reward.

"However did you do that?" Katherine watched the bird disappear in amazement, her eyes as wide as saucers.

"Yes, can you do it again?" Emily asked.

"I want a bird to eat from my hand," said Freddie with a pout.

Lucy laughed. "Well, it's not so hard, really. Just make them feel safe and secure, so they trust you."

Henry looked up sharply, and though their eyes met only briefly he felt it physically, as if he had been punched in the gut. Looking away, he reached for a slice of bread just as Lucy reached for one herself. Their hands collided over the basket, and Henry's tingled as if a spark had passed from her fingers to his.

He reached up to rub his temples. Bloody hell, what was going on? What was she doing to him? She _was_ some sort of enchantress—there was no other logical explanation.

"Here, like this." Lucy returned her attention to the children and broke off another bit of crust, holding it in an outstretched hand. A sparrow swooped down and took the bread, and the children's delighted laughter rang out in response.

"Me, me," Freddie begged.

"Come, sit here." Miss Abbington settled the boy into her lap and put a bit of bread in his hand, which she held cupped in her own. "Shhh, quiet." Within seconds the greedy bird returned, and Freddie squealed with glee. Katherine and Emily demanded their own turn before Eleanor entreated them to let Miss Abbington alone.

"You must have many suitors, Miss Abbington," Katherine said, biting into a pastry. Emily nodded in agreement, a dollop of jam on the tip of her nose.

"Suitors?" A faint smile tipped the corners of Lucy's mouth.

Henry was hardly listening—his attention was focused on that lovely mouth of hers. He was remembering how warm, soft, and silky it felt beneath his; how heavenly she had tasted, so intoxicatingly sweet... He took another bite of his sandwich, attempting to rein in his straying thoughts.

"I'm afraid not," Lucy was saying. "I haven't much time for suitors, you see, I—"

"No suitors?" Katherine looked puzzled. "But you are so very pretty, and so kind. Perhaps you will consider Uncle Henry, then."

Henry choked on his sandwich.

"He's terribly handsome," Katherine continued enthusiastically. "Why, just this morning I heard Miss Rawlings say..." Katherine looked flustered, raising a hand to her mouth. "That is to say, I mean...well, he _is_ handsome, is he not? And he is a marquess, after all. That must count for something, especially to someone like you."

Henry could barely breathe. A thick slice of roast beef seemed to be lodged in his throat.

"Katherine!" Eleanor cried out, her eyes wide and her face crimson. "Enough. You will apologize at once to Miss Abbington."

"I'm sorry," she murmured, looking as if she were about to cry.

Lucy reached over and patted her hand. "It's quite all right, Katherine."

"Go now, all of you, off to Miss Rawlings. _Now_!" Eleanor bellowed, and all three children sprang up wordlessly and hurried over to their governess. "I apologize for her impertinence, Miss Abbington."

"No apology is necessary, Lady Worthington. I assure you no offense was taken. Truly, the children are delightful."

Henry studied her sharply but could find no signs of artifice in her countenance. He watched raptly as she plucked a ripe strawberry from a bowl and popped it into her mouth. His eyes were involuntarily drawn back to her lips, perfectly shaped and delectably luscious.

"Thank you again for your kindness," she said, a tiny spot of strawberry juice on her chin. Henry longed to lean over and lick it off himself. Instead, Lucy lifted her napkin and daintily blotted her mouth.

"Henry," Eleanor said, "why don't you and Miss Abbington take a stroll? I'll help Miss Rawlings get the children cleaned up and ready to go."

He fixed an angry glower upon his sister.

"Oh, no," Lucy demurred. "I was told to expect callers later, and I must get back at once."

Callers? Yes, of course. After last night every unattached man in London would be banging on her door, wouldn't they? "I insist," he said, surprising himself. "Just a short stroll along the Serpentine."

Eleanor looked as if she might applaud.

"Yes, then, I suppose if you insist." Lucy brushed the crumbs from her frock and stood on shaky legs. She took the marquess' proffered arm reluctantly, her heart fluttering against her ribs. She was almost afraid to touch him, afraid of her own reaction. She tried to make herself think of something—anything—other than the feel of his hard, taut muscles beneath her fingers. Her breath came faster as they walked briskly for a moment in companionable silence.

Lucy smiled, reflecting on the children's wide-eyed wonderment. They _were_ delightful, and she could not hold speaking the truth against Katherine. For a brief moment she allowed herself to consider the notion that if she never married, she would never have children of her own, never experience the joys of motherhood. These intruding thoughts deeply saddened her, and she forced them from her mind. No use dwelling upon such unpleasantness.

Instead she decided this was as good a time as any to broach the subject of Susanna's deepening feelings for Lord Mandeville. She couldn't let him continue to encourage her, albeit unintentionally, suspecting as she did that he wouldn't marry her.

"My lord, you must allow me to ask you a most indelicate question." It must be done, for Susanna's own good, but that did not quell the guilty pangs Lucy felt at betraying her dear friend's confidence.

"Indelicate?" His mouth curved into a smirk and he raised one brow suggestively.

"Yes." She paused, gathering her courage. "About Susanna Rosemoor."

"What about Miss Susanna?" Lord Mandeville cast her a sidelong glance as they walked.

She took a deep breath. "Is there any chance at all that you would consider her?"

"Consider her? I'm not sure I know what you mean."

Lucy swallowed hard. "For your bride, I meant."

His mouth curled into a frown. "No, of course not. I like her well enough, but no, she won't do. Why do you ask?"

"Because, my lord, I'm afraid she thinks herself in love with you."

"In love with me?" he asked incredulously. "Why would you think such a thing?"

"I have very good reason," Lucy answered. "Susanna said so herself."

"But..." he sputtered, "but she is only a girl."

"She is but two years younger than I am, my lord."

"Yes, well, then you are practically a girl yourself." He stopped and turned to face her. She colored at his appraising stare. "Are you really so young?" he asked, his brow furrowed.

"Not so young for a debutante. I'm nearly one and twenty."

"You must think me an old man, then. Does she know I am not looking for a bride?"

"Of course not, and I hope you are not insinuating she consider—"

"Good God!" His face blanched. "Of course not."

"I'm sorry." Lucy flushed in embarrassment. "I misunderstood. But of course I haven't told her that. However would I say I came to know such an intimate detail?"

"You could always tell her I told you so when I last attempted to ravish you," he said with a wicked grin, his fingers lightly stroking her palm. "It would be fairly close to the truth, after all."

"That isn't funny," Lucy said, suppressing a smile. Dear Lord, what was the man doing to her? His touch was sending shivers of pleasure up her spine.

"I know it isn't," he said solemnly, but he laughed anyway.

In spite of herself, Lucy could not help but join in. It felt comfortable, walking and laughing with him.

She returned her thoughts to Susanna's plight and grew serious once more. "I'm only telling you this so you may try to spare her tender feelings. She takes any attention from you—any whatsoever—as encouragement, you see."

He slowly shook his head. "I confess, I never even imagined—"

"I assumed as much when she told me what you said to her last night at the ball."

"I don't even remember what I said to her last night, but I assume I didn't ask her to marry me." He smiled mischievously. "Did I?"

"No, nothing like that, but she was encouraged just the same."

"And what of you, Miss Abbington? Do you take my attentions as encouragement, too?" His tone was light, playful.

"Don't be silly," she replied, sounding considerably more sure of herself than she felt. "I'm much more sensible than that. Besides, for every measure of encouragement you toss my way, you eventually take it back tenfold, don't you? I believe you take great pleasure in it."

He stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face her. "Is that really how you see it?" He reached up to stroke her burning cheek, his eyes blazing with a ferocious intensity that took her breath away. "You think I take pleasure in hurting you?"

Lucy could only stand there, confused, blinking repeatedly. "I...I don't know what to think, my lord." Her heart sped up, racing like a horse in full gallop.

The sight of a familiar figure, strolling languidly toward them, caught her eye. "Look," she said, "isn't that Lord Thomas Sinclair?" She expelled her breath, relieved to put an end to this uncomfortable conversation.

"Sinclair?" He dropped her hand turned to look. "Damn," he muttered.

"Mandeville," the man called out.

"Sinclair," Lord Mandeville returned curtly.

"Good day," Lucy said, acknowledging him with a polite nod.

"Good afternoon, Miss Abbington," he replied, removing his hat and dropping into an exaggerated bow. "What a delight to see you out enjoying the fair weather. If I might say so, you look positively radiant today. I do hope you will be at home later, as I planned to call." He winked and looked to Lord Mandeville with a grin before turning back to Lucy. "Since you so graciously gave me permission to do so, of course."

She felt the muscles in the marquess' arm tense beneath her fingers. She released him and fidgeted with her gloves, wishing a hole would open up in the ground and swallow her.

"Yes, I shall be receiving callers later," she finally said. "In fact, I really should be getting back to Rosemoor House now." She offered him a weak smile. "If you will excuse us, Lord Thomas. Perhaps I will see you later."

"Of course, Miss Abbington. No doubt you will see me later. Good day, then." He tipped his hat. "Mandeville," he added with a nod.

Henry spat out the man's name, his hands balled into fists by his side.

Lucy could not help but notice the brittle tension between the men. "I suppose you are acquainted with Sinclair, then?" she asked, once they were out of the man's earshot.

"Yes, we went to Eton and Oxford together," he said through gritted teeth. "The bloody reprobate." He looked practically murderous and she could barely keep pace with his quickened gait. "You should stay away from Sinclair, you know. Have the Rosemoors not instructed you so?"

"Perhaps." What was it Lady Rosemoor had said just that morning? That he was 'inappropriate'? "But he seems quite charming," she murmured falsely, sneaking a look at his face from beneath her lashes. Was he jealous, she wondered? Never in her entire life had she stirred jealousy in a man, and certainly not a man as handsome and virile as Lord Mandeville. It was a heady feeling. She allowed herself to revel in it for a brief moment.

"I'm sure," he said, his voice gravelly, "that you would have no resistance if you wished yourself to be Lady Thomas Sinclair."

"Lady Thomas Sinclair? Why ever would I wish that?"

"His father is a duke, a very influential man. Their ancestral estate in Kent is palatial. Of course it all goes to Thomas' eldest brother Simon, but I'm sure there will be sufficient crumbs for Thomas."

"And do you suppose he would be interested in having an animal healer for a wife? For I'm not giving that up, not even for Thomas Sinclair."

He shook his head. "I don't see why he would mind. He's only a younger son."

"I see."

"Do you? You claim you don't wish to take a husband, yet your words seem to suggest otherwise."

Lucy let out an exasperated breath. "I was only teasing, baiting you, Lord Mandeville, for I did not wish to repeat myself once more that I am not here in London on a holy quest for a husband."

He looked at her sharply, as if assessing her words. "I must say, it seems as if your sponsors have high aspirations for you. I heard they've applied for vouchers for Almack's on your behalf, and I'm fairly certain they won't succeed. Shall I be blunt?"

"By all means, Lord Mandeville," she bit out. "Aren't you always?"

She saw him wince.

"Sinclair has set his sights on you, and not for your wifely potential." He cleared his throat. "I assume you know what I'm insinuating, Lucy."

Indeed she did, and she also noticed he had addressed her by her given name. She knew she should correct him, but what was the use? She attempted to speak calmly, coolly, so as not to betray her agitation. "I do, my lord, and I thank you for your concern. But I am perfectly capable of seeing to my own virtue."

"I'm sure you are. You are perhaps the most capable woman I've ever known. But the ways of the _ton_ are not familiar to you, and there are certain realities you should be aware of. Your interests, your passions, are not usual for a lady. If you were, say, an earl's daughter, then the _ton_ might turn their head a bit, chalk it up as nothing more than an eccentricity. But with your background—"

"I'm well aware of my own background."

"Devil take it, Lucy. I don't mean to offend you. I only mean to make you aware that some men might not have honorable intentions toward you."

"I'm aware of that, as well." Lucy could only wonder if this conversation was in response to Katherine's comments. Was he trying to make certain she understood that a marquess would never consider a girl like her?

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I did not mean—"

"Don't apologize. Have you noticed we have gotten ourselves into a tiresome pattern of insulting one another and then apologizing for it?"

"Actually, it's always me insulting you, never the other way around." He smiled ruefully.

"I realize that. I was only trying to be polite. But why apologize for speaking the truth? I will say it once more and then you are free to believe what you will—I am not in London to find a husband. I have much higher aspirations than that."

Remembering just why she _was_ in London, Lucy suddenly wondered why she had not yet heard from Mr. Wilton. Surely he had received her letter by now.

"Well, then...I apol—I mean, very well, then."

Lucy thought she saw the faintest blush creep across his cheeks. No, she thought, shaking her head. She must be mistaken. But his eyes had become a blank again, that maddening curtain drawn against their depths. He had shut down, shut her out, and Lucy was glad for it. She sighed and shook her head sadly.

"Tenfold, my lord," she muttered. "Tenfold."

The two continued in brooding silence back to the marquess' family. If Lady Worthington noticed the pallor that had fallen across their mood upon their return, she did not comment upon it.

Lucy summoned Bridgette and the horses and hurried home toward Rosemoor House at the briskest clip acceptable. As she made her way back through the park and toward St. James's Place, she looked to the sky and scowled at the ominous shadow of storm clouds darkening the previously perfect afternoon. It was an apt reflection of her mood.
Chapter 10

Henry stood gazing at Lucy's retreating form on horseback. Eleanor came to stand by his side, watching him. She smiled broadly, her eyes twinkling. "You're in love with her, aren't you?"

"In love with whom?" Henry asked distractedly, unable to draw his gaze from Lucy until she disappeared over the rise into the distance.

"Don't insult my intelligence. You know exactly whom I speak of. Miss Abbington."

"Of course I'm not in love with her." He dropped his gaze and intently studied his fingernails. "Why would you even think such a thing?"

"Clearly you admire her, and it's obvious you find her fetching. That's why. I've never seen you so smitten. It's high time you chose a wife."

"Surely you're not suggesting I consider marriage to Miss Abbington?"

"Of course I am. Why not?"

"Why not? Eleanor, need I remind you I am a marquess? Have you forgotten such a minor detail? I can't marry her."

"And why is that?"

"Her father is a physician. I realize you are a bit broad-minded in that regard, but you must realize how inappropriate she is."

"Her grandfather was a baron. Lord Wexley. That would mean the current Baron Wexley is what? Her uncle? A cousin? How is she inappropriate? Pray, enlighten me. And don't insult me further with your lies."

"If it will satisfy you, I will admit that I admire her. She's got pluck, that girl does, and good sense, too. It's refreshing to speak with a woman so accomplished and intelligent. As you well know I'm convinced that 'proper' ladies are weak in mind and character."

Eleanor cleared her throat.

"Present company excluded, of course," he added.

"But you don't deny she's lovely?"

"I suppose she's attractive enough." She was perhaps the most physically alluring woman he'd ever met, a diamond of the first water, but he'd never admit it to Eleanor.

She laughed. "Certainly that's an understatement. But go on, continue."

"There's nothing more to say." Her stubbornness was beginning to annoy him. "I can't marry a girl like her. She would bring nothing to the match. She's just not good _ton_."

"But you said you admired her for just that."

"I do."

Eleanor shook her head so vigorously that a dark lock of hair escaped its binding and fell across one alabaster cheek. "I'm not certain I'm following your logic. You like her. You admire her. You find her _somewhat_ attractive, and a cut above proper young ladies in mind and character. She'll make someone a fine wife, so long as that someone is not you?"

Henry sighed in relief. At last, she understood. "Exactly."

"But you have no respect or admiration for women whom you _would_ consider appropriate. You just said they have weak minds and characters, the 'appropriate' ladies. Surely you could never love a woman like that."He nodded. "Yes, now you see."

"I don't see at all. In fact, I'm completely baffled. Do you even hear yourself, Henry?"

He rolled his eyes in exasperation. "If and when I choose to take a bride—and I see no reason to do so at present—the alliance will be nothing more than a political maneuver. I'm well above marrying for love. I cannot believe I am even having this conversation with you, of all people."

"What do you mean by that? I should think I'm the one person above all you should be having this conversation with."

"Then you should understand, Eleanor. I won't be like _him,_ " Henry said quietly.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean. Held back. Deceived. Too blinded by misguided emotions to see or to grasp the truly great things in life." His throat ached and he could feel the blood pulsing in his neck. "That will not be me, Eleanor."

"But you are nothing like our father, nor is Lucy like our mother. And how do you know love _isn't_ the one truly great thing in life, besides?"

"I know you adore Frederick, but surely you are more sensible than that. Your own marriage was an arranged one." He saw her face flush, her mouth fall open. She started to sputter in indignation before he cut her off with a pat on the shoulder. "Come now, don't get yourself all puffed up. I realize Frederick fell immediately and desperately in love with you before you wed. He'd have been a fool not to. Still, it was an arrangement between his father and ours, nothing more than a political alliance. Love came later. Power, influence—those are what define you as a man. I will make more of myself than Father did."

"Pure and utter nonsense. You cannot throw away your happiness to spite our mother," she spat out. "No matter what you become, she'll never see it. Don't you know that?"

"This has nothing to do with her. I don't give a damn what she thinks. But don't you see? Loving a woman, particularly the wrong sort, can ruin a man."

"And you've determined this universal truth from one example, I suppose. Our mother."

"Yes, and besides, women are cruelly deceptive creatures. You can trust neither their words nor their actions. It's all duplicity, falsehoods. Anything to gain what they desire."

"All women? Or just Cecelia Layton? It appears you've judged all of womankind by two rather poor examples."

"What about Charlotte Haverford?"

"Okay, three poor examples. What about me, Henry? Have you forgotten that I'm a woman?"

"An exceptional woman. Not the rule." It was true. Nothing would convince him otherwise. It had been Eleanor, after all, who had coddled and doted on her smaller, weaker twin; who had kissed him goodnight each and every evening; who had patiently slowed her pace to that of the small, tired boy. She had always been his closest friend, his confidant, his touchstone.

"Then Miss Abbington is an exception, as well."

"And how do you know that?" he asked with an indulgent smile. "You barely know the girl."

"I _know_. Woman's intuition. Can't you trust me, Henry? Have I ever led you astray before?"

She hadn't. What would he have done without her all these years? What kind of man would he be today without her unwavering devotion? "No, but—"

"No buts."

"Even if what you say is true, love won't bring me happiness." He was sure of it. It hadn't done much for his father. Love wasn't real, it had no substance—it was nothing more than a diversion, creating hurdles on the path to power and influence. And those were what he craved. The influence his father had failed to inspire, much less exert. The power to bring about change, and change was needed. His father had had the vision, yet he'd never lived up to the responsibility. Henry would shoulder the burden himself. He was no longer a weakling and he would make bloody sure all of England knew it.

"And denying your feelings for Miss Abbington _will_ bring you happiness? Throwing away—"

"I'm happy. Look." He forced a phony grin, stretching his mouth as wide as possible. His comical theatrics briefly lightened the mood, and Eleanor laughed.

"Well, I can't help but worry for your future. You say the only way you'll wed is if you're able to bind yourself to someone you neither admire nor care for. Yet the one woman you do seem to admire is off-limits because she isn't good _ton_. Come now, admit you're falling in love with her."

Her tone was playful, but Henry could feel the palpable hum of her hopeful excitement. He hated to disappoint her. "I will admit no such thing. I like her, yes. In fact, if you must know the truth, I find I like her too much to make her my mistress, much as I long to. But love her? No." He shook his head. "And even if I did, it wouldn't signify."

"Then I feel sorry for you."

"Don't waste your pity on me. This is how it must be."

Eleanor shook her head solemnly. The hopeful spark in her eyes had all but disappeared. "You have no idea what you're missing, Henry. No idea at all."

He sincerely hoped she was mistaken.

***

Lucy was overjoyed to see a familiar figure standing on the front steps of Rosemoor House as she rode up a quarter hour later. "Mr. Wilton," she called out with delight, rushing toward him in eager pleasure. "How wonderful to see you. You received my letter, then?"

"Miss Abbington," he said, removing his hat and running a hand through his mop of pale curls. His round brown eyes were full of warmth. His father was the vicar of Hollowsbridge and a kind, generous, man—a scholar at heart. His only son, just turned two and twenty, was also a scholar, though the younger Wilton preferred the sciences over the philosophy and literature the vicar favored. Just seeing his face made Lucy long for home.

"How good to see you," he said. "Yes, I received your letter. I was just speaking with Mrs. Stafford when I learned you were not at home. How are you finding London?"

"Very exciting. Certainly not as quiet as home, to be sure." She looked up at the darkened sky as the first, fat raindrops fell softly on her skin. "Come, join me for a cup of tea."

"Thank you, Miss Abbington. That would be delightful." With hat in hand, Mr. Wilton followed Lucy inside to the parlor and took a seat opposite her. Lucy called for Penwick and arranged for tea to be brought at once. Her heart was racing. She could barely wait to hear what news Mr. Wilton brought.

Only once she'd poured the aromatic brew—peppermint and chamomile, her favorite—for Mr. Wilton and took several dainty sips from her own steaming cup did she dare inquire. "So, Mr. Wilton." She swallowed hard and set down her cup, hands trembling. She studied his face carefully. His smugly satisfied smile infused her with a sudden rush of hope. "Have you spoken with anyone at the college about my request? Dare I hope you can help me in any way?"

"That's just what I came to tell you, Miss Abbington. I've spoken at length with my mentor, Professor Williams, and he's quite intrigued by you. A very forward-thinking man, he is. You see, most of the faculty is threatened by the amateur, but I spoke quite candidly with him about your exceptional abilities and he's willing to meet with you."

Lucy's heart skipped a beat. Had she heard correctly? She leaned forward in her seat and laid a hand on his sleeve. "No, it cannot be true."

"It is true indeed, Miss Abbington. He teaches a laboratory on Wednesday afternoons at one, and he has agreed to meet with you immediately following at two-thirty. He will go over the day's lesson with you and allow you to use the equipment. With his assistance, of course."

"Oh, of course," she said breathlessly. "However did you manage this?"

"As I said, he was intrigued. I think perhaps he is sure I am exaggerating your skills and wishes to prove me wrong. But with the dearth of educated practitioners in Hollowsbridge, Professor Williams agrees you should further your training."

Lucy was speechless. It was too good to be true.

"Yes, a very forward thinker he is," Mr. Wilton said as he picked up his teacup and sipped with a satisfied smile.

Lucy barely heard anything else he said, her mind was racing so quickly. Would she truly be able to go? What would she tell the Rosemoors? No doubt they would find the arrangement unacceptable. She would speak with Aunt Agatha. Surely Auntie would understand the circumstances and help her to convince them. This was the most exciting day in her life. Forget the _ton_ , forget Lord Mandeville and his—

"Miss Abbington?" Penwick was standing in the doorway holding a white card in his hand. "Lord Thomas Sinclair is inquiring as to whether or not you are at home. He is in the drawing room at present with Lady Rosemoor and the misses."

She resolutely shook her head. "Thank you, Penwick. Please tell Lord Thomas I am not at home."

"He will tell Lord Thomas no such thing, Lucy." Aunt Agatha stood in the doorway, her hands planted on her generous hips, her mouth curled into a disapproving scowl.

Lucy looked to Mr. Wilton who stood at once, one hand fumbling in his coat. "Miss Abbington, our business is concluded and I will leave you to your caller." He produced a slip of paper and laid it on the table. "I have written out everything you need to know. I shall see you Wednesday, then?"

"Yes, of course. Thank you, Mr. Wilton. Thank you ever so much!" Impulsively, she rushed over and kissed his weather-roughened cheek.

Mr. Wilton bowed awkwardly, his face reddening. "Yes, of course."

"Come, Mr. Wilton," Aunt Agatha said. "I will see you out." She followed him, tut-tutting all the while. Moments later she returned to peer back through the doorway. "Now go, Lucy," she said, waving her hands toward the drawing room. "Smooth your hair and your gown and go see to your caller at once."

With a sigh, Lucy obeyed, forcing her mouth to form a smile as she stepped into the drawing room.

"Ah, there she is," Jane called out.

Sinclair stood and reached for Lucy's hand. As he planted a kiss upon her knuckles, she averted her gaze to the window, framed in yellow silk. She frowned at the dreary gray sheet of steady rainfall that tapped lightly upon the glass.

"It's delightful to see you again today, Miss Abbington. How fortunate that you were able to enjoy a stroll with Lord Mandeville this afternoon before the weather turned so dismal."

Lucy's stomach lurched at the mention of Lord Mandeville's name, and she heard Susanna's sharp intake of breath. No less than four pairs of curious eyes turned toward her.

"Yes, ahem, well, it was such a surprise to run into Lady Worthington in the park, and so generous of her to ask me to join her family." Lucy looked worriedly to Susanna and was relieved to see that the explanation appeared to placate her.

"Lady Rosemoor tells me you have yet to enjoy the opera since your arrival in Town. I hoped I could convince you—and Mrs. Stafford, of course—to join me tomorrow evening in my box. It should be an extraordinary program, Tramezzani singing _Così Fan Tutte_. I would be honored to escort you."

How on earth could she get out of it? But then an unpleasant idea flitted across her mind. Maybe she shouldn't get out of it. A part of her wanted to punish Lord Mandeville for his blunt words. Another part longed to see once more that flicker of jealousy she'd witnessed earlier. She knew it wasn't right to play such games, yet she _did_ need to play her role here in London. She had to at least pretend to allow herself to be courted. And who better than Lord Thomas Sinclair? He was safe. After all, if he were an inveterate rake as Lord Mandeville had suggested, then she had no worries of offending his heart or involving her own. And it would surely set Susanna's mind at rest, especially after Sinclair's little slip. Yes, this was the perfect solution.

She'd bite her lip and graciously accept his invitation. Looking up at Sinclair, she feigned what she hoped appeared a shy smile.

"Thank you, Lord Thomas," she murmured. "That would be delightful."

Lady Rosemoor set her mouth in a tight line and looked to Jane with obvious disapproval, but Susanna and Aunt Agatha looked pleased.

"How kind of you, Lord Thomas," Aunt Agatha said. "Oh, I so love the opera."

"Splendid." He rose and bowed to Lucy. "It is settled, then. I shall see you tomorrow evening, Miss Abbington, and I look forward to deepening our acquaintance."

Lucy could only wonder how she would possibly endure his company. It would surely be a long night.

He turned and nodded toward the women. "Ladies, I bid you all a good afternoon." He strode out with an arrogant grin on his all-too-handsome face.

***

Lucy walked quietly down the hall and knocked on Aunt Agatha's bedchamber door. "Auntie?"

The door opened. "Yes, dear?"

"Might I have a word with you?"

"Of course, come in. You must be thrilled about the opera tomorrow. I confess, I have so longed..." Her aunt trailed off and peered anxiously into Lucy's face. "What's wrong, dear? You are chewing on your lip. Don't you want to go to the opera with Lord Thomas? He seems an amiable sort, and besides, you must take advantage of all the opportunities you have with eligible young men. You've barely made any acquaintances besides Lord Mandeville, after all."

Lucy's stomach flipped nervously and her palms dampened.

"Of course I'm looking forward to the opera with Lord Thomas." She smiled cheerfully while inwardly she groaned. "We're sure to have a delightful time."

Aunt Agatha nodded vigorously in agreement, and led Lucy to the bed.

Lucy sat facing her aunt and took her hands in her own. "But no, I wished to speak with you about Mr. Wilton's visit today."

"Oh, that. Yes, it was nice to see a face from home, wasn't it?"

"It was indeed. But I wanted to ask...that is..." Lucy took a deep breath before continuing hurriedly. "You see, Mr. Wilton has made arrangements for me to visit the Veterinary College weekly for a bit of tutelage, and, oh Auntie, you must help me. I must be allowed to go." She could no longer curb her enthusiasm.

Aunt Agatha pulled her hands from Lucy's grasp. "Whatever do you mean, tutelage? You cannot mean you are to attend classes at the college yourself?" Her eyes widened as she raised a hand to her mouth.

"No, nothing like that. But one of Mr. Wilton's professors has agreed to meet with me on Wednesday afternoons to help me with some training. I promise I shall continue to fulfill all the duties befitting a proper young lady, if you'll just allow me this...this...incomparable opportunity."

Aunt Agatha shook her head, her curls dancing madly about her head. "Absolutely not, Lucy. Why, it's unheard of. You are here to enjoy the social Season, not to waste time poring over moldering tomes, or worse yet, masquerading as a student."

"I know, and I will continue to enjoy the Season. This is only one afternoon a week, and no one save the Rosemoors will know of it." She hated the petulant tone of her own voice.

"I'm sorry, but I know your papa would never allow it," she said, shaking her head resolutely. "No, there is no way."

Lucy felt the blood rise in her face. There _had_ to be a way. She rubbed her fingertips across the nubby texture of the counterpane as she cast about to formulate a plan.

"It's too bad about the opera, then." She looked to the ground and solemnly studied her scuffed slippers.

"What do you mean?" Her aunt narrowed her eyes with obvious suspicion.

"And it's too bad I shall no longer have interest in any of the gentlemen who were so kind to come and call this afternoon. Who had we? Lord Thomas, Sir Alan, Lord Trollington, Mr. Bolingbroke..." Lucy trailed off, noting that her aunt was beginning to puff up, her mouth set in a pursed scowl.

Time to play her trump card.

"Not to mention Lord Mandeville. He appeared quite attentive this afternoon in the park."

"Lucy Abbington, what are you suggesting? Are you saying that if I don't allow this, this... _nonsense_ ," she sputtered, "that you will refuse to consider any of the gentlemen courting you?

"I'm only saying I will be so very disappointed that I might sink into despair. No, I couldn't possibly allow myself to be courted—I shall be far too maudlin." Lucy clasped her hands in her lap and raised her eyes to the ceiling.

"I cannot believe this, from my own niece. Why, I've raised you as my own, and this is the thanks I get? Such impertinence!" Aunt Agatha's face was a mottled red.

Lucy knew she needed to change her tactics at once. "Come, Auntie," she said enthusiastically, "say I can go. If you do, I promise I'll give serious consideration to each and every one of the gentlemen who choose to court me. I shall be a model young lady. Say yes, please!"

"What choice have I, with you blackmailing your own aunt? You should be ashamed of yourself, Lucy, resorting to such despicable tactics." She folded her arms across her chest and gave Lucy a sidelong glare, but Lucy detected a slight softening of her features.

The dear woman had never been able to refuse her anything she truly desired, had she? And she had asked for very little in her twenty years, content as she was with her life. Surely her aunt realized how very important this was to her. Lucy leaned toward her aunt and planted a fond kiss on the woman's cheek. "I _am_ somewhat ashamed, but you see, it was the only way you'd agree. This is important to me, Auntie, can't you see that?"

Aunt Agatha sighed and set her mouth in a tight line. She paused before reaching over to clasp Lucy's hand. "Yes, I see, dear. I see. Nevertheless, I'm not pleased about it. Why, I'll have a word with Mr. Wilton, I will, for setting such a bug in your ear."

"Don't be cross with poor Mr. Wilton. He was just doing as I asked. I wrote to him as soon as we arrived in Town. It's really not so bad, is it? Only an afternoon each week. And I promise you, Auntie, I shall honestly try to...well, I shall be most agreeable with the gentlemen. I _will_ make an effort." Lucy squeezed her aunt's hand.

"I know you will." She patted Lucy's cheek. "You're a good girl, dear, always true to your word. Even if your priorities are not quite right." She heaved herself to her feet and crossed to the door. "However, your papa is going to be furious with us both when he hears of this."

Lucy's eyes widened. "Must he? It's really not necessary, is it?"

"I suppose not. Not right away, at least. Well," she said with a sigh, "I suppose I should go speak with Lady Rosemoor at once to make the arrangements. Lord help me." She threw her arms into the air before opening the door and stepping into the hall.

Lucy couldn't suppress the giggle that began in her chest and bubbled up involuntarily. It had worked!
Chapter 11

"I don't know how I managed to let you convince me to join you tonight, Eleanor. I hate the opera." Henry settled himself into his seat with a grimace.

"How can you hate Mozart? Besides, it's not as if I physically dragged you here against your will. You could have stayed at home for all I care had Frederick been back to accompany me."

"Well, then," he huffed, almost insulted. "Might I borrow your glasses for a moment?" He squinted, trying to make out the faces in a box across the way. Eleanor handed him her opera glasses, and he raised them to his eyes. "Is that Miss Abbington? With Thomas Sinclair?" The blood rose in his face. Whatever was she doing with that scoundrel? Yes, it was surely her. That was her aunt, Mrs. Stafford, with them.

"Henry, give me those." Eleanor swiped the glasses from his grasp. "It's not polite to stare, especially with the glasses." She raised the lenses to her own eyes. "Yes, that is indeed your Miss Abbington. And that is Lord Thomas escorting her. I wonder how he was able to snag a box."

Henry's heart began to pound. "She's not _my_ Miss Abbington, and I thought you said it was impolite to stare," he said with a scowl.

"Well, so it is. But I had to have a look now, didn't I?" She put down the glasses and retrieved her fan, absently stirring the air in front of herself. "I thought you said you weren't in love with her." She didn't even attempt to mask the amusement on her face.

"I'm not in love with her," he bit out through clenched teeth. "But that doesn't mean I'm happy to see her consorting with the likes of Thomas Sinclair. The Rosemoors are friends of mine, after all, and I therefore feel a sort of obligation to, well..." He wasn't exactly sure what he meant to say. "Surely they know of Sinclair's reputation. Why ever would they allow him to escort her?"

"I have no idea, but please stop scowling. Here, the music is beginning." He reached for the glasses again, but Eleanor moved them from his reach. "And please keep your eyes on the stage."

Henry fidgeted throughout the interminable first act. He tried to concentrate, to determine why opera was supposed to be enjoyable. He vigilantly tried to keep from looking across the way at Lucy and Sinclair, but his eyes involuntarily darted her way every time his peripheral vision perceived a movement, a gesture, from her direction.

He sat forward in his seat, attempting once more to focus on the drama unfolding on the stage. It was no use; he had no idea what it meant, anyway. He sat back and readjusted his cravat. He couldn't resist one more glance in Lucy's direction. Even in the darkened theater, he could see that Sinclair was leaning toward her, whispering something in her ear. Damn it. He reluctantly averted his eyes. His traveling gaze settled upon a lovely girl in virginal white, sitting primly with her hands folded in her lap. Lady Helena Waring, daughter of the Duke of Corning. Her face and form were considered perfect by the _ton_ 's standards. Her father's fortune was vast, his ducal power considerable.

This was Lady Helena's first Season, and most considered her the year's _Incomparable_. If he had to take a wife, it should be someone like Lady Helena. He could scarcely imagine anyone more appropriate. Corning was a powerful Tory but Henry could tell he was fickle, malleable. What he wouldn't give to have the man's ear. Marrying Corning's daughter would all but assure he'd have the man in his pocket. Better yet, Corning held an immense portion of unentailed land that ran along the western boundary of Covington Hall. That land, merged with his own estate, would make Henry the largest single landholder in all of Essex. He wondered suddenly who Lady Helena's suitors were. Was she already favoring a certain gentleman? He would ask Eleanor about her at intermission, if one ever presented itself. Surely his sister would know.

As if the gods were listening to his pleas, the music rose to a crashing crescendo and then mercifully silenced. He heaved a sigh of relief as the heavy curtains dropped across the stage.

"Well, Henry, you look as if you've just endured a most painful invasion of your senses." Eleanor patted his hand. "Did you really find it so unpleasant?"

"Lady Helena Waring—what do you know of her?" He cocked his head in the girl's direction.

"Lady Helena?" Eleanor's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What do you wish to know? She's a lovely girl, just out this Season."

"Who's courting her?"

"The cream of the crop, to be sure. John, Earl Covedon. Lord Embry, eldest son of the Duke of Colne."

Henry waved a hand dismissively.

"Why ever do you ask?"

He ignored her question. "And does she favor any of those cowhanded lads?"

"I'm sure I've no idea." Eleanor absently looked past Henry. He followed her gaze and saw that she was watching Lucy who had risen to her feet, Sinclair holding her arm possessively.

"What of her intelligence? Is she completely empty-headed and vacuous? Does she have any pluck at all?" Henry asked, unable to tear his gaze from Lucy.

"Who? Miss Abbington? Surely you know the girl better than I."

"Not Miss Abbington," he said exasperatedly, returning his attention to the girl in white. "Lady Helena."

"Oh," Eleanor said with a sigh. "Lady Helena. Well, I would say she is somewhat sharper than most. She strikes me as generally appropriate to her station. What is your sudden interest in Lady Helena, anyway? I thought you had no plans at present to take a wife." Eleanor looked past Henry's shoulder again, her brow drawn. She was watching Lucy again, he was sure. He turned impatiently and saw that Sinclair still held her arm, but it appeared as if she were trying to wrench it from his grasp. Mrs. Stafford was nowhere to be seen. _What the hell is going on?_

"Please excuse me for one moment." He was gone before his sister could respond, striding angrily in the direction of Sinclair's box.

***

"I must insist you unhand me, sir." Lucy gritted her teeth and glared at Sinclair as she took her seat, one hand nervously fidgeting with the locket at the base of her throat. Her mother's locket.

"Come now, Miss Abbington. Don't play the role of coy schoolgirl. Surely a lady such as yourself is used to such, er, attentions."

"What are you insinuating, sir?" Lucy felt a white-hot anger searing her breast as the house lights dimmed and the orchestra struck up again.

"Enough of the simple country-girl act," he whispered into her ear, pulling Lucy toward him and grazing her breasts with the back of his hand. His pale eyes glittered and his mouth twisted into an angry sneer. Lucy's eyes widened in horror as he reached down and cupped her backside with his hand.

Lucy rose to her feet in indignation, grateful for the dim lighting. Where was Aunt Agatha? Why had she not yet returned? "Please, sir—"

"Call me Thomas." He stood and draped one arm across her shoulders. In a flash, one of his hands reached down to pinch her nipple suggestively, causing bile to rise in Lucy's throat. Instinctively, her hands balled into fists and she shoved with all her might at his chest. At the same time, she raised her knee and thrust it directly into his groin.

"Oof," he groaned, his face contorted with a mixture of pain and rage. "You bitch," he ground out in whispered tones. He reached for Lucy's wrist and twisted it painfully. "Who do you think you are, anyway? You're nothing but a little piece of—"

Suddenly the door to the box swung open, banging against the wall with a dull splinter of wood. Lucy gasped in surprise as Lord Mandeville's muscular frame pushed through the doorway, his dark face a mask of fury. He shoved Sinclair against the wall, toppling chairs as he did so, and grabbed the man roughly by the collar.

"Little piece of what, you bastard?" Henry said, his voice a menacing growl. "Go on, say it so that I can rip your throat out with just cause."

Lucy shuddered. It looked as if he just might do what he threatened. She scuttled to the far corner of the box, pressed herself against the wall, and squeezed her eyes shut.

"Mandeville, this is no business of yours. This is between Miss Abbington and me."

She opened her eyes just wide enough to see Henry tighten his grip on the man.

Just then, what was left of the door swung open again. Colin burst in, his brow furrowed in concern. "Lucy, is there a..." He trailed off and looked around, taking in the scene before him. "Mandeville, what's going on here?" Colin looked to Lucy, still huddled in the corner. "Lucy, are you hurt?" He rushed to her side and drew her into his arms. Henry still held Sinclair against the wall.

"I—I'm fine," Lucy stammered. She looked up, beyond their box, and saw dozens of eyes trained on them, a chorus of mouths forming silent O's of surprise.

"Someone _will_ tell me what has happened," Colin demanded, swinging his gaze from Sinclair to Henry.

Lucy mutely looked to Henry. His eyes were smoldering.

"Mr. Rosemoor, your family was severely amiss in allowing Sinclair to escort Lucy tonight. He tried to take advantage of her—practically attacked her. I only got here just in time." He released the silent, glaring Sinclair and threw a disdainful glance at Colin. Crossing to Lucy's side, he grasped one of her hands in his.

"Are you certain he didn't hurt you?" Henry's voice was soft, his touch gentle. "Just give me the word and I will—"

"You _will_ pay for this, Mandeville," Sinclair said as he reached up to rub his bruised neck. His eyes, full of hatred, boldly met Henry's. "You and your little whore—"

Henry was across the small space in an instant, his hands encircling Sinclair's neck. "I'll kill you, you bastard." His eyes were blazing, the thick cords of his neck standing out.

Sinclair's face registered utter surprise and disbelief.

"Mandeville, he's not worth getting thrown into Newgate over. Let him go," Colin said.

Lucy nodded, her legs shaking madly, and Henry dropped his hands to his sides. Sinclair slid to the floor, gasping for breath.

Aunt Agatha rushed in, clutching two lemonades to her bosom. "I'm sorry, dear, the crowds were so thick I thought I'd never—" She looked around and her eyes widened with horror. She dropped the lemonades and they hit the floor with a thud, showering a spray of pungent liquid over the box's stunned occupants. "Oh, goodness, whatever happened? I think I'm going to swoon..." And with an even louder thud, she slumped to the ground in a heap of bombazine.

Sinclair rose to his feet and stepped over the prostrate woman. "I believe I'll be on my way," he said, casting a contemptuous glance over one shoulder as he stormed out.

Lucy rushed to her aunt's side, reaching for her reticule and retrieving a vinaigrette. She waved it in front of her aunt's nose several times until the woman's eyes fluttered open.

Aunt Agatha sat bolt upright. "What...what happened?"

"You swooned, Auntie. Here, lie back down."

Aunt Agatha looked up at Henry, confused. "Where is Lord Thomas? Lucy, what has happened?"

"It turns out Lord Thomas isn't such a gentleman, after all. Are you sure you're all right? Should I fetch you some water?" Lucy's brow furrowed in concern.

Henry handed her a handkerchief, and she dabbed at the lemonade soaking her aunt's frock.

"No, dear, I'm fine now. Here, Colin, help me up off the floor."

Colin righted an overturned chair and assisted Aunt Agatha to her feet. She sank into the seat with a grateful smile.

"Mrs. Stafford," Henry asked, "are you sure you are well? I think it's best we leave—we seem to have created quite a stir."

"He's right. Auntie, are you well enough to walk?" Lucy had to leave, to get out of there as quickly as possible.

"Yes, of course. I'm perfectly fine." Lucy was relieved that the color had indeed returned to her aunt's wrinkled cheeks and her ragged breathing had slowed to normal.

"Come, Lucy. I'll see that you and Mrs. Stafford get home safely." Henry took her elbow and steered her into the hallway.

"No need for that, Mandeville. I can see them both home. If you'll excuse us." Colin dismissed the marquess with a nod, leading Aunt Agatha toward the stairs.

"I insist, Rosemoor, on seeing Lucy safely to your carriage, then. It's painfully obvious that she isn't safe left to your family's discretion."

Colin released Aunt Agatha's arm and whirled about to face the marquess challengingly. He drew himself to his full height—nearly equal that of Henry—with his chest thrown out and his fists balled at his sides. Henry glared back, flexing his hands menacingly, his dark face only inches from Colin's fair one.

Lucy knew she had to do something, and fast. This whole evening was spiraling out of control, and she was beginning to feel ill. "Colin, please." She reached for one of his bottle-green sleeves. "Lord Mandeville is only trying to be helpful. Come," she said, reaching for the marquess' arm. "I am grateful for your assistance, my lord."

Henry bowed and reached up to cover her hand with his as he escorted her out.

As they stepped out into the warm night, Lucy paused briefly to fasten her cloak. Her eyes widened as she clutched at her neck in desperation. Her necklace!

"My locket!" It was gone. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She couldn't leave without it—it had been her mother's favorite piece of jewelry. She couldn't even picture her mother without seeing the golden oval at the hollow of her neck. She had to go back and find it at once.

"I have to go back inside. Colin!" she called out, and he turned to face her. "My mother's locket is gone. It must be in the box somewhere."

"Are you certain?" Colin asked. "Are you positive you were wearing it?"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure. Please!" There was a dull, tinny ringing in her ears, practically deafening her. She had to get back inside, and now.

Aunt Agatha raised a hand to her forehead, her knees buckling slightly beneath her. Colin tightened his grasp around her middle, supporting her weight with his own. "Oh dear, I think I might swoon," she said.

Lucy hurried to her side, reaching again for the vinaigrette, but her aunt waved her hands away.

"Ahhh, Colin, dear," Agatha moaned. "Rosemoor House, at once."

"But, but..." Lucy stammered, "my locket! I can't leave without it." Her vision became blurry as tears threatened her eyes. Blast it! She didn't want everyone to see her weep here in front of the King's Theatre. Nor did she wish to appear selfish, but she couldn't bring herself to leave without the locket. Surely her aunt would understand.

"Mandeville, make yourself useful and go back and find it," Colin said, tipping his head toward the theatre's pale stone façade. "Come, Lucy. Let's get Agatha home."

"I...I can't just leave my locket, Colin. What if Lord Mandeville can't find it? How will he know what it looks like?" Lucy shook her head. "I'm sorry, Auntie, but I must go back."

"Go, Rosemoor," Henry said. "Take Mrs. Stafford home. I'll go back in with Miss Abbington and then see that she gets home safely."

Colin wavered slightly, looking at Henry with a mixture of anxiety and distrust.

"Ohhh, my head," Aunt Agatha moaned, her knees dipping again. "Please, Colin. Go on, Lucy. Go with Lord Mandeville."

Lucy wrung her hands. "Colin, I'll be fine. Just get Auntie home."

Colin hesitated again, looking from Aunt Agatha to Lucy with a worried frown. "If you're sure?"

Lucy barely heard him as she turned and followed Henry back into the opera house, back to the box she had occupied earlier.

The two dropped to their knees, crawling about the small space and squinting in the dim light as the music swirled and crashed around them. This time Lucy didn't care who saw them, so intent on her search was she. Within moments, she spied the locket, gleaming in the corner beneath an upturned chair. Thank God!

"Lord Mandeville," she whispered loudly. He rose to one knee and looked up. She held out the necklace triumphantly, and then put it in her reticule. He reached for her hand, helped her to her feet, and the pair hurried out.

"Wait," he said, halting as they reached the staircase. "Eleanor—I nearly forgot her. Come, follow me. I'll tell her what has happened, and then we'll be on our way."

Lucy nodded and followed him silently to his sister's box. As he slipped inside, she waited, fingering her reticule and heaving an enormous sigh of relief, so happy to have her treasure back. What would she have done had she lost it? It was unthinkable. She squeezed her eyes shut and said a silent prayer of thanks. When she opened her eyes again, Henry was back at her side, his face grim.

"My sister assures me there is at least another two hours of this drivel, plenty of time to get you home and return for her." He took her arm and led her down the sweeping stairs and back out into the starry night.

"I'm so sorryto drag you away like this. Perhaps I should hire a hack—"

"Don't be ridiculous. Trust me, you're doing me a favor. I couldn't have borne it another minute. Here we are."

A footman offered Lucy a hand, and moments later she was settling herself into the dimly lit carriage, Henry seated opposite her. He stretched his legs out in front of himself, crossing them at the ankles, drawing her attention to the length of his limbs. Her gaze traveled up his form, resting on his face, which was turned away from her toward the window. His eyes appeared darker than usual, shadowed. Haunted, perhaps? He often looked troubled, and it was not the first time she'd wondered why.

She removed her gaze from his form, and stared unseeing out the window. Half the _ton_ had just witnessed that ugly spectacle in the box. Surely there would be talk, gossip linking her and Lord Mandeville in some unflattering way. Truly, she didn't care what they said about her...but what of him? Did he care? She continued to hear talk of his relationship with Lady Charlotte Haverford. Hadn't his own mother hinted at a forthcoming engagement between the two? Her stomach churned at the thought, and her gaze was immediately drawn back to him. She studied his profile, so noble, so proud, so... _beautiful_. That was the only word for him.

The carriage jolted violently, pitching to the right. Henry was instantly by her side, his arms tight about her shoulders.

"Sorry, milord," the driver called out from above. "Blasted pothole." "Are you all right?" Henry gently brushed a lock of hair from Lucy's cheek, and then grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger.

"Yes, thank you. I'm fine." She wriggled uncomfortably from his grasp, his touch searing her flesh.

He roughly shoved his hands into his coat pockets and slid toward the door, leaving a respectable distance between them. "Well," he said, his voice significantly cooler than before, "that was quite a night, wasn't it? Mozart and madness—what a suitable combination."

"I'm so very sorry to have dragged you into that awful scene with Sinclair. I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself, of course, but I do appreciate your coming to my rescue as you did." _And so gallantly, too_.

"I'm just sorry I didn't kill him right then and there. Never did a man deserve it more."

Lucy's heart lurched.

"Besides, it looked as if Colin Rosemoor would have been your rescuer instead, had I not gotten there first."

"I'm sure you're right," Lucy said, smiling a genuine smile for the first time that night. Yes, Colin had burst in only moments after Henry, that same murderous look on his face.

"Just what is there between you and Rosemoor?" he snapped, his dark eyes suddenly stormy.

"Whatever do you mean?" She knitted her brow in confusion.

"You know exactly what I mean. What is there between you?"

"Noth—nothing! I've known him my whole life—he's like a brother to me."

"Are you lovers?" he asked, leaning toward her, his voice hoarse. "Have you kissed him the way you've kissed me, Lucy?"

Before she could reply, he pulled off his gloves and began roughly unfastening her cloak with his bare hands.

"Oh!" Lucy cried out just as his mouth took hers ruthlessly, possessively. A thick heat seemed to swirl around their bodies, enveloping them in a luxuriant haze as she kissed him back, her intensity matching his. His tongue sought entry to her eager mouth, and she yielded, melting against the squabs as his tongue found hers. Her limbs felt weak, limp, but her heart beat furiously, a dizzying crescendo sounding in her ears.

He lifted his mouth from hers and buried his face in her neck. She inhaled his scent—sandalwood and leather—so wonderfully masculine. She felt the pressure of his tongue against the pulse just above her collarbone, and she dropped her head back as a soft moan escaped her lips. His hands reached up to her hair, blindly pulling at the pins that held her carefully coiffed tresses in place. She shivered as she felt the soft, silken waves tumble down her back.

She braced herself against the back of the seat with her palms, giving in to the waves of pleasure coursing through her. She'd wanted this all along, she admitted to herself. His mouth, his touch. She couldn't deny it.

Before she knew it, his fingers had found the fastenings on the back of her gown. He deftly undid them and pushed her bodice down, exposing her shift beneath. Surely he could see her breasts through the transparent fabric. She knew she was correct when she felt his fingers tracing circles around her nipples, causing her to shudder fiercely.

"My lord, please...you mustn't...ohhhhhh," she cried out as he took one hardened peak between his teeth and began to suckle her. She could feel the heat of his mouth through the wet fabric of her undergarment, and she squirmed in her seat. A warmth spread from her stomach to her thighs, and she desperately wanted...wanted... _something_. She reached down to clutch the back of his head, tangling her fingers in his dark hair.

He withdrew his mouth and looked up at her, his face flushed, his eyes glazed. "You don't want me to stop, do you?"

"No," she cried out, breathlessly. "No, my lord."

In an instant, his mouth found her breast again, his teeth lightly nipping at the puckered flesh. He reached for her hand, drew it to his trousers, and she gasped when she felt the length of his manhood straining against the woolen fabric. She couldn't contain her curiosity, and was shocked to find herself stroking his arousal, amazed at the frightful size of him.

He drew his mouth away and tipped his head back, his eyes half lidded. "By God, Lucy. Do you feel what you do to me? You mustn't, I can't..." He pushed her hand away. "I can't promise not to take you right here in this carriage if you keep touching me like that."

She dropped her hands to her lap, her cheeks burning.

"Do not be embarrassed, Lucy, not for my sake." His eyes roved over her body. "Have you any idea how very beautiful you are?"

She knew she should be mortified by her state of half dress, but she looked into his face and saw nothing but frank admiration—almost reverence—in his eyes. How could she be ashamed? She felt like the most beautiful woman alive.

"So lovely," he murmured as he dipped his head toward her once more. She closed her eyes as she felt his tongue move between her breasts and down toward her stomach—caressing her skin through the fabric with featherlight strokes—then back up again to lave her nipples. He was feasting on her like a starved man, and she was loving every last sinful sensation.

With a lurch, the carriage swayed to a halt. Lucy's eyes widened as she looked out the window and saw that they had arrived at Rosemoor House. Henry quickly reached across her and drew the curtains.

"Dear God," Lucy whispered. She clutched her bodice in front of her breasts, which were bare except for the thin material that clung wetly to her skin. With shaking hands, she reached up and felt her hair tumbling down in a tangled mass around her burning face. "What shall I do?"

"Wait, don't move." He quickly opened the door and stepped out. She could hear the low rumblings of his voice as he spoke to the driver. Moments later he reappeared, and as soon as he shut the door behind him, the carriage lumbered off again. "I told the driver to take us twice around the block. It'll give you time to make yourself presentable." He lowered himself across from her, his gaze averted.

In seconds, Lucy had her dress pulled back into place. She reached behind but found she was unable to fasten the tiny buttons. She turned to stare wide-eyed at Henry, horrified by what she had to ask him to do.

"My...my dress," she stammered, barely able to form the words with her mouth.

Without a sound, he moved to her side as she presented her back to him. She felt him fumbling for what seemed like an eternity before he returned to his own seat opposite hers. Retrieving a handful of pins from the carriage floor, she did her best to re-create the hairstyle Bridgette had produced earlier that evening. Luckily, she was used to dressing her own hair—she had no lady's maid at home. If only her hands weren't trembling so.

"I suppose that will have to do," she said, her tongue thick in her mouth as she patted her hair in place. She nervously raised her gaze to Henry's face and was stunned by the stricken look darkening his features.

At once the strain of the night was too much for her to bear. First that horrible scene with Sinclair, then her missing locket, now this. Her composure melted and she burst into tears.

Through her tears she saw Henry look up at her in surprise. She dropped her head into her hands and sobbed wordlessly, awash in guilt and shame. The floor of the carriage creaked as she felt his weight beside her, then his fingers lightly stroking her hair.

"Please don't cry, my sweet. I..." His voice caught. "I don't think I can bear it. Here, dry your eyes like a good girl."

She reached for the handkerchief he offered and dabbed at her eyes, silently cursing the man for awakening such stirrings—such longings—in her. Of all the men, all the thousands of men in London, why did _he_ have to be the one to make her feel things she'd never before felt, never dared to hope for?

Henry winced at the sight of her tears, still damp upon her flushed cheeks. Never before had he acted so impulsively, so coarsely with a lady. It was unthinkable. He'd broken his own code of honor—he'd compromised her, risked her virtue and her reputation when he knew full well he could never offer her marriage. His lack of control sickened him, and he bit back the sour gall of self-loathing. "By God, Lucy, I'm sorry. Truly I am. Damn it, I'm no better than Sinclair, taking advantage of you in the worst way."

She swallowed hard before looking him squarely in the eye. "You didn't take advantage of me. I...I'm afraid I'm as much to blame as you, Lord Mandeville."

"Must you still call me that?" he said, bristling. "Can't you call me 'Henry'? I've given you permission to do so, you know." He couldn't help the hard edge in his voice.

"No, I cannot, my lord. I've told you so repeatedly. And I wish you wouldn't call me 'Lucy' either. It isn't proper," she said primly. "What are we to do, my lord? We can't allow this to happen again."

She was right about that. He couldn't risk it, couldn't trust himself in her presence. "We mustn't see each other any more, that's all that can be done. You must understand, I can't let it happen. I'm a marquess, and certain obligations come with the title. I'll make certain our paths don't cross. Besides, I've no interest in the Season's entertainments. I've more important things to focus on."

He could still go to Almack's. As he had predicted, those closed-minded, dour Patronesses had denied Lucy access to the hallowed hall. Much as he despised Almack's and all it represented, it was certainly the place to cultivate the right associations. He would force himself to suffer through it.

She hiccuped as she nodded in agreement. "Very well. I, too, have more important things on which to focus." He could see her spine straighten, her eyes take on that familiar glow of determined intensity. Her gathering resolve was visible, palpable. _Devil's eye, what a woman she is._ It made his chest swell with pride. If only the circumstances were different.

The carriage rolled to a halt again in front of Rosemoor House. Lucy leapt to her feet and opened the door, taking the footman's hand and stepping down to the walk. Henry followed her out stiffly, not quite ready for this encounter—which might be their last—to end.

"Lucy," he said hoarsely, and reached for her hand. He saw her reluctance, the indecision flitting across her features, before she allowed him to take it. He raised her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips against her knuckles. He held it there a moment too long, desperately wishing it didn't have to end this way, that he could say something, anything, to make things right. Finally she pulled her hand from his grasp.

"I thank you for escorting me home," she said, her voice cold as ice. "Good night." She turned and walked away from him without a backward glance, disappearing into the fog that appeared from nowhere and rose from the sidewalk like eerie wisps of smoke.
Chapter 12

At dinner Lucy was still brimming with excitement from the day's activities. At exactly two o'clock she and her aunt had arrived at the gates of the college. A half-hour later Mr. Wilton had appeared and taken her to meet his mentor, while Aunt Agatha remained in the waiting carriage, occupying herself with her needlework. Her first session had been wonderful, far exceeding her expectations.

Professor Williams was patient and attentive, explaining how the laboratory equipment was used and then allowing her to try her hand. They'd discussed her stable ventilation theories at length, and he had seemed genuinely intrigued by her ideas. Then she'd followed the professor out across the grassy quadrangle to the infirmary, and together they examined and treated a racehorse's lame leg. A bowed tendon. She could tell he had been surprised and impressed by her skills, amazed that she'd treated such an injury before.

If only she could convince him to let her sit in on a lecture or two. He'd given her some notes to study, but it just wasn't the same as sitting in the small theatre he'd shown her, listening to the discussion firsthand. She absently pushed her food around her plate. There must be some way...

Lucy's thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of the butler.

"My lady?" he said to Lady Rosemoor, wringing his hands.

"Yes, Penwick?" Lady Rosemoor put down her silver and turned toward the man.

"Lord Mandeville is downstairs, quite insistent that he see Miss Abbington right away."

Lucy looked up sharply.

"At the dinner hour?" Lady Rosemoor asked. "Does he say whatever for?"

"He has some sort of wretched creature wrapped in a towel. He says it requires Miss Abbington's immediate attention." He cleared his throat and dropped his voice a measure. "His lordship is quite agitated, my lady."

Without waiting for permission Lucy rose to her feet, her napkin falling to the floor. "I must go."

Lady Rosemoor nodded. "Yes, Lucy, go at once. I'll accompany you."

Jane and Susanna's surprised expressions barely registered as Lucy rushed wordlessly from the room.

"Thank God, Lucy." Henry hurried to her side, and Lucy saw Lady Rosemoor's eye's narrow suspiciously at the casual use of her given name. The marquess thrust a bloody towel toward her, his face white and pinched. "This pup, I... I was returning home in my curricle when it dashed into the street. There was nothing I could do to avoid him. I think he's terribly hurt, and I couldn't just leave him there to suffer."

"Oh, dear." Lucy unfolded the towel and peered anxiously inside. The pup, no more than a few months old and scrawny from malnutrition, barely stirred. "He's in shock, poor thing," she said softly. "One leg is broken, for certain." She needed to check for internal injuries; it was likely worse than it looked. "Let's get him into the kitchen. I'll need some boiled water, clean towels, and a box of some sort right away." Lady Rosemoor nodded and hurried off toward the kitchen.

Henry grasped Lucy's wrist. "I did the right thing, didn't I, bringing him here?" The raw anguish in his eyes touched her deeply to her core, made her tremble with emotion.

"Of course, Lord Mandeville," she said, her voice wavering. "I'll do everything I can. It may not be enough, I'm afraid. The kitchen is this way. Can you carry him? I need to fetch a few supplies."

"Of course," he said with a nod.

As she led him toward the kitchen, Lucy mentally listed additional supplies she would need. She was relieved to see that Cook had started the water boiling. Lady Rosemoor returned at once with a housemaid bearing a stack of thick towels. Lucy indicated for Henry to set his bundle upon the long trestle table.

The pup began to stir, and wailed pitifully. Lucy went to him and laid a gentle hand upon his muzzle. He appeared to calm at once, his frightened brown eyes looking up beseechingly. The kitchen staff gathered in curious silence as she set to work. She didn't look up from her task, refusing to allow herself to become distracted. Yet she was keenly aware when Lady Rosemoor led the marquess out of the kitchen.

Almost an hour later Lucy felt sure the small dog would live. She'd set his leg and cleaned his wounds, mostly superficial. The poor pup must have only been grazed by the curricle's wheel and then thrown aside before any fatal damage had been done. What good fortune he hadn't been mortally wounded, that Lord Mandeville had brought him here. _Fortune_ , her mind repeated. Why, that's what she'd call him. She'd nurse Fortune back to health and then find him a home. Her papa would be furious if she came home with yet another stray.

Hastily, she washed up and went to find Lady Rosemoor, to ask her to send word to Lord Mandeville that the pup would indeed live. With a weary smile, she skimmed down the stairs, pausing at the sound of voices drifting from the drawing room. Curiously, she peered in. Lady Rosemoor was pouring tea for Lord Mandeville, who sat stiffly on a chair across from Jane and Susanna.

"Oh, Lucy! There you are. How is the pup?" Jane rose and hurried to her side.

Henry stood, a steaming teacup in one hand, his brows drawn together.

"Thankfully, he was not so badly injured as it appeared. I'm happy to report that, once his broken leg has healed, he should be quite well."

Henry sighed and set down his cup. "You've no idea how relieved I am to hear that, Miss Abbington."

Lucy's heart skidded as he stood gazing at her with grateful eyes. She felt a flush rise up her neck. Good God, she'd nearly tossed aside her virtue the last time they'd met. Her cheeks burned as she remembered the wondrous feeling of his hot mouth against her skin, the exquisite taste of his mouth, the blatant evidence of his arousal...

"I'm afraid I couldn't convince the marquess to leave us until he was assured of the pup's well-being," Lady Rosemoor was saying. She held a cup out to Lucy. "Join us for tea, dear."

Lord Mandeville reached for his hat. "I should be on my way. I appreciate your good grace, Lady Rosemoor, and I apologize for insinuating myself as I did."

"No, Lord Mandeville, I quite understand." Lady Rosemoor nodded solemnly.

"My lord, you must stay and finish your tea," Susanna entreated, her cheeks stained a delicate pink.

But Lucy knew he would go. He must.

"No, I've intruded as it is, but I thank you ladies for distracting me with your pleasant company. Miss Abbington, it seems I am in your debt once more."

"Nonsense," Lucy said, confused by her churning emotions. Most gentlemen would have left the pup without a second thought. But Lord Mandeville wasn't like most men. Bringing the pup here had proven him exceptionally compassionate, kind beyond doubt. True, he exuded a casual air of diffidence, a gruff and cynical exterior, but clearly a tender heart beat in his chest. It also proved he believed in her abilities—he believed in _her_. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper, thick with emotion. "Thank _you_ , Lord Mandeville, for bringing him here, for not leaving him there to die."

She watched as he shifted his weight and averted his gaze. "Yes, well." He cleared his throat. "I bid you all a good night."

And he was gone.

***

Henry's heels tapped smartly against the walk as he made his way toward White's, the _Edinburgh Review_ tucked under one arm. He reached up to rub his throat with his palm, conscious of the raspy ache. He shook his head in amazement as he turned onto St. James's Street.

He'd spoken for almost three hours straight, outlining an educational reform act that would create free schools for the children of London's lowest classes. His chest swelled as he remembered the way it had felt, standing in his long robes amidst the red and gold grandeur of the House of Lords. A sea of faces in powdered wigs had swum before him, some chatting with their neighbors as he spoke, but others—far outnumbering the former—listened raptly. His father's teachings had served him well; he'd quoted Plato and Sir Thomas More—both advocates for educating the masses—and he'd woven an airtight argument for his case. More than any other time in his life, he'd felt as if he belonged, as if he'd found his place.

As he stepped up to Number 37 and entered the club, his satisfied smile deepened. Henry felt... _proud_. That was it. He was proud of himself, and it was a bloody good feeling. He handed over his walking stick and hat to the porter and headed up the great staircase, his step light, a smile dancing upon his lips.

He took a seat at the far end of the room, opposite the large bay window, and unfolded his newspaper. Raucous shouts gained his attention, and he looked up to see Colin Rosemoor engaged in a tense game of cards with several other young bucks. No doubt the stakes were high. Mr. Rosemoor seemed to possess a near-fatalistic penchant for losing large sums at the gaming tables. Henry shook his head with a scowl, wondering when the viscount would put a stop to his son's excesses.

Not for the first time, he wondered at young Rosemoor's relationship with Lucy. She claimed they were nothing more than friends, yet Henry detected a bit of jealousy and possessiveness in the demeanor of Mr. Rosemoor— _Colin_ , as Lucy so intimately called him—that belied her assurances.

_Lucy_. He sighed heavily. He couldn't help but wonder how she was faring.

The corners of his mouth dipped into a frown. He missed her company. His pulse quickened just envisioning her face, and he shook his head. No use thinking about her, especially with things going so well for him today in Parliament. They came from worlds far too different. He was glad they'd met, that he'd had the opportunity to know her. If nothing else it had, in small measure, restored his faith in the fairer sex. But now they must follow the divergent paths their lives would lead. It was too bad, really. She was the most intriguing woman he had ever known. Yet he wouldn't make her his mistress. He couldn't. She was far too intelligent, far too accomplished and engaged in her own life to accept being a diversion in his. No, there was nothing more to be done. He felt a sharp pain shoot through his gut. Regret? No, it must be hunger. He hadn't eaten all day. Signaling for the waiter, he ordered a light repast along with his port and then turned his attention to the paper.

Moments later he felt a hand clap him smartly on the shoulder. He turned to find the Duke of Corning before him, shaking his head with a grimace.

"Well, my boy, now you've gone and done it," the duke said.

Henry lowered the paper. "Pardon me, Your Grace. Just what have I done?"

"Eloquently driven home your point, that's what, and managed to sound nearly...well, _moderate_ whilst doing so. A rare feat, indeed." The man's pale blue eyes twinkled.

"Thank you, sir." Henry rose, straightening to his full height before bowing to the man.

"Haven't seen the House so full in some time. Men tripping over each other, all come to hear you speak. The bill will never pass, of course. But your efforts were impressive nonetheless. You'll set men talking, and perhaps a handful of votes will be swayed."

"That's a start, then."

"Dine with me tomorrow, Mandeville. The duchess and my daughter will be pleased with your company. I believe you met my daughter Helena last week at Almack's?"

"I did, sir, and a lovely girl she is."

"She is, indeed. The last of my girls. I will be sad to see her leave me one day."

"I'd be delighted to join you tomorrow." It was exactly what Henry had hoped for. His plan was progressing nicely.

"Good. Doesn't take such a keen eye to see you're an ilk above those milksops flitting about my daughter like moths to a flame. England might not yet be ready for a man like you, but soon your day will come. I can smell it." Corning slapped one glove smartly across his palm. "We'll speak more tomorrow. Perhaps I can aid your cause."

"I'm grateful for your confidence."

"As well you should be, my boy. Oh, and Mandeville?"

"Yes?"

"Don't come empty-handed. Helena is quite fond of roses, after all." The duke winked. "Favors red ones, I believe.""Thank you for the information. I would hate to disappoint her."

"Good evening, then, Mandeville."

"Good evening, Your Grace."

Henry returned to his seat as the duke strutted out. He flicked open the paper once more with a self-satisfied smile.

Would it really be so easy?
Chapter 13

"Goodbye Professor, and thank you," Lucy called out as she collected her things and hurried out toward the waiting carriage. She couldn't wait to read the equine anatomy text Professor Williams had given her. Her own texts at home were so outdated. As she closed the wooden wicket gate behind her, she searched the street for the familiar conveyance. It was nowhere to be found. With a shrug, she retrieved the new book from her satchel and began to idly thumb through the crisp, clean pages.

Without looking up from the illustrations, she walked back to the gate to wait amongst the vendors selling nuts and oranges from wooden pushcarts. "Oh," she cried out, startled as she felt herself bump into something solid.

"Pardon me, miss," a gruff voice said, "but you should look where you are..."

Lucy swung around to the familiar voice, her eyes widening in surprise. "Oh!" she said again, dropping her book to the ground with a resounding thump.

"Lucy?" A slim leather portfolio slipped from Henry's hands and clattered to the ground beside her book. "What the devil? What are you doing here, unescorted at that?" he demanded.

Flustered, she bent to retrieve her book. Her gaze fell to the portfolio, which had fallen open to reveal an exquisite charcoal sketch. It was a woman in profile with one shoulder bared, a cascade of hair framing the unmistakably familiar face. Lucy inhaled sharply.

_It was the same face she saw looking back at her in the mirror each day_.

Henry reached for the portfolio, his brows drawn into an angry line. Lucy looked away as she hastily retrieved her textbook, her cheeks aflame. Her stomach felt as if it had dropped to her knees.

"Answer me, Lucy. What in God's name are you doing here?"

"I...the college. I've been studying at the college with one of Mr. Wilton's professors. I come each Wednesday afternoon. Aunt Agatha accompanies me, but today she and Bridgette went to the stalls to do some shopping and they must be running late."

"The college? What the devil are you talking about?"

She turned and gestured toward the arch behind them, to the words Veterinary College carved into the stone over the gate.

"Oh, right. That. So your friend came through for you, then?"

"Yes, can you believe it? It's marvelous, my lord! You would never believe the things I'm learning." She looked up into his face and saw his features reflecting amusement.

"Really, Lucy, it isn't safe for you to be out here unescorted like this. This isn't Pall Mall, you know." He clutched the portfolio tightly in his hands, and Lucy couldn't stop her gaze from traveling back to it.

Had it truly been a drawing of her? She couldn't stop the words that issued forth. "That sketch, my lord. It was beautiful. Did you...is it yours?"

He gazed over her shoulder at the horizon before turning back to face her. "Yes," he said, looking her squarely in the eye.

She felt her heart skip a beat. "I had no idea you were an artist."

He hesitated briefly before speaking. She saw his features soften slightly, and then he smiled—a warm, mischievous smile that made his blue eyes sparkle like sapphires and set her hands atremble.

He leaned toward her, conspiratorially. "I dabble a bit. I'm here in Camden Town to pay a call on a friend of mine, James Frasier. James was my art tutor when I was a child, and he's made quite a name for himself since. He's got two paintings in Chatsworth right now."

"Chatsworth? That's quite impressive."

"Yes. He's extraordinarily talented. Occasionally I drop by and show him my newest work."

"I never would have imagined it. You, an artist. I always pictured you as more of the, well, the sporting type."

"When I was a boy I was quite...ahem, ill. I spent most of my time indoors. I couldn't overexert myself so my father hired James to teach me to draw. I've always found it therapeutic, so to speak."

Lucy was fascinated. He simply didn't strike her as the artistic type, nor did he look as if he'd been sick a day in his life. "I'd love to see more of your drawings."

"No, I've never—I'm afraid I've never shared them with anyone except James. And my sister, of course."

"Of course."

"So," he said, obviously wishing to change the subject. "I somehow found myself at Almack's last night, and you seemed to be a popular topic of conversation."

"Is that so? Not too unflattering, I hope."

"Interesting, to say the least. All the gentlemen were talking about the Butler ball."

Lucy's hand rose to her mouth to suppress a giggle. "Ah, yes. The Butler ball."

"One of Jamison's carriage horses colicked, I'm told, there on the curb, and next thing everyone knew, you were outside in your ball gown, ministering to the poor beast."

"I'm afraid it's true. Thankfully the Rosemoors' footman was able to send word to me inside. Honestly, my lord, they were all standing around on the cobbles, shaking their heads, not doing what needed to be done."

Henry wagged his head and chuckled. "I wish I'd been there to see it. But what of your plan to act the role of proper young lady?"

"Really, what's the use? It's beginning to get tiresome. I've done well enough, don't you think?"

"I suppose. I must say, the ladies at Almack's were scandalized. Personally, I think they were a bit jealous that all the gentlemen were talking about you, no matter their reasons."

Lucy heard someone call her name, and looked around to see the Rosemoors' coach pull up to the curb, Bridgette wildly waving a hankie out the window. "So sorry we're late, miss."

"I'll be on my way," Henry said, tipping his hat.

"Yes. Good day, then." She turned to go but then quickly turned back to the marquess. "Oh, and Lord Mandeville," she said, lightly laying her hand on his sleeve.

"Yes?" he asked, his mouth curving into a smile.

She tapped the portfolio. "Your secret is safe with me." Without waiting for his reply, she hurried to the coach and climbed in.

"I can rest easy, then," he called out after her, and she heard his laughter as the coach pulled away.

Henry chuckled as he watched Lucy scamper to the carriage. What an exceptional girl, he thought as he headed on foot toward James's townhouse. He couldn't help but admire her resourcefulness. So she was actually studying at the veterinary college, was she? Yes, Lucy Abbington was nothing short of extraordinary.

He glanced down at his portfolio as he turned down Crook's Row, the heels of his boots clicking on the cobbled walk in rhythm with the beating of his heart. She'd seen his sketch, a portrait of her, and he'd noted the shock of recognition in her eyes. At least she'd had the good grace to refrain from mentioning the likeness.

He'd been able to avoid her these past weeks, to stay away from any function where she might be in attendance, and it had been a productive few weeks, at that. He'd renewed several advantageous acquaintances, particularly that of Lord Grey. What's more, the Duke of Corning had been receptive to Henry's efforts at courting his daughter, Lady Helena. Henry had dined with them a sennight ago, and Lady Helena had been fawning and attentive. She'd made it clear, subtly of course, that he could have her if he wanted her. And perhaps he did. Better yet, the duke—a Tory with powerful friends—had pledged to back Henry's education bill. All the pieces were falling into place.

But he hadn't been able to get Lucy out of his head. So he'd drawn her, instead.

It had been easy to conjure her image in his memory. Each and every time he closed his eyes, he'd see her there, with her hair loose and flowing as it had been that very first time he'd laid eyes on her at Glenfield. That image was burned into his mind. Every time he was in her presence, his rogue hands itched to release that glorious hair from its bindings. He'd never forget the way she looked that night in his carriage with her hair falling around her face, her cheeks stained strawberry red, nothing between her body and his devouring eyes but a thin layer of cloth.

He stopped, looked around the bustling street, and took a deep, gulping breath. He closed his eyes and tried to think of something—anything—unpleasant to stop the embarrassing tightness in his trousers from becoming apparent to passersby.

_Rats. Yes, rats. Awful creatures, rats_.

He sighed as the tightening in his groin lessened, and continued on towards James's place. He could no longer deny his attraction to the girl, that much was clear. But whom one was attracted to wasn't so important—it was the choices one made regarding it that mattered. Perhaps his father had been too weak to resist the lustful lure of an inappropriate girl, but he wouldn't succumb.

No, he would not let his attention be diverted.

As for Lucy Abbington, she would surely continue to haunt his dreams, and he would continue to draw her. But nothing more.

Henry stepped up to Number 12 and rang the bell. Moments later he found himself ensconced in James's eclectic drawing room, a kaleidoscope of vibrant colors and patterns that never failed to delight him in their stark contrast to his stuffy and monochromatic surroundings at Mandeville House. James sat before him, looking much the same as he had perhaps twenty years past when the young, penniless artist had answered Henry's father's advertisement for an instructor. James still garbed himself in the gaudy hues of a dandy and his untidy curls—now more gray than brown—still reached his shoulders.

Once the initial pleasantries were dispensed with and the port was poured, James rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "So, let's see what you have for me today."

Without a word, Henry flipped open the portfolio and thumbed through. James put on his spectacles and leaned over the page, squinting.

"Hmmmm, interesting." James looked surprised. "You've changed your focus, I see. No more goddesses on winged horses, eh?"

Henry shook his head, holding his breath. He'd long since stopped drawing that hopeful image.

"Portraits of a woman, instead. A very beautiful woman. Is this someone you know?" He looked up at Henry, his almond-shaped eyes full of questions.

"Yes, I know her."

"Henry, I..." he cleared his throat, and his eyes dampened. "I don't know what to say."

Henry's stomach lurched. Were they really so bad? Damn, he knew he shouldn't have shown these to James. He shifted his weight uncomfortably.

"They are inspired, Henry. Exquisite." James flipped through the pages, studying each drawing for a moment before moving on to the next. "Not only is your craft improved, but the feelings these sketches evoke...they move me. You've not only captured her beauty, but her spirit, her soul as well." He looked up at Henry, gazing at him questioningly. "Well done, my boy," he said softly. "Well done."

Henry found he couldn't speak. He gazed down at the likeness of Lucy, blinking repeatedly. "That one," he managed to say, "that one I've begun in oil on canvas." He'd sketched her from the back, her chin tipped over one shoulder. She wore nothing but a corset, partially unlaced. Her cascade of silky waves was piled high on her crown, but several golden locks tumbled unfettered across her bared shoulders, as if some unseen hands had just released a few pins.

James's eyes skimmed over the image. "It appears that you have found your muse at last. You are finally drawing what you see with your heart instead of with your eyes, and that, my boy, is the key to fine art. It was something you had to find for yourself, something I could not teach you. Now tell me about this girl. Is she a mistress of yours?"

"No, not a mistress."

"But your drawings are so visceral, so sensual, I can only suppose that this is someone you know, well, _intimately_."

Henry's thoughts were dragged back to that night in his carriage, but he shook his head.

"Well, if she isn't yet your mistress, it's high time you made her one. This is your most accomplished work to date."

"She's a...well, a lady, James, and an innocent. I've no intention of making her my mistress."

"Well, God's teeth, Henry, make her your wife, then."

Henry shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't do that, either. She's not an appropriate match. She's just..." He searched for the right word. "An acquaintance of sorts. However, as you so astutely recognized, things have gotten a bit more physical than propriety allows. I can't risk finding myself forced to the altar, forced to marry so far beneath my station, when I'm so close to achieving the status I crave."

"But what of passion, of romance?"

"Damn it, not you, too? I've already heard this rubbish from Eleanor. I've no need for such trivial, meaningless notions. I'm not like you, James. I am a marquess, and I intend to be made a duke before I die. I won't be like my father."

"Your father was a passionate man. He loved your mother with a rare devotion."

"My father was a fool." His breaths were coming uncomfortably fast. "He wasted his love on a woman who had no regard for him in return, short of what he did to fatten her purse." He reached up to loosen his cravat. It suddenly felt as if it were strangling him. He rubbed his eyes with his palms, trying to erase the painful memory that was flooding back to him unbidden, playing itself out in his mind.

He had been no more than twelve, thirteen perhaps, and the weakness in his chest had worsened, exacerbated by an unlucky fall into the river. It was midsummer, but his father had kept his family in the country, refusing to leave his wife alone. He had used his sick son as an excuse for missing the Parliamentary session. Again.

Just after the sun had set, Henry had ventured into the maze in search of Eleanor. He had heard laughter, a muffled moan. Wondering what devilment his twin was up to, he had hurried through the tall hedgerows toward the sounds. He remembered seeing deep shadows cast upon the ground, reflecting the height of the hedges, and the brilliant light of the moon guiding him down the familiar path.

Left, left again, and a sharp right—and that's when he had seen them. His heart skidded at the memory.

Clearly illuminated by the full moon, he saw his mother, bent over a wrought-iron bench. Her skirts were gathered around her waist, her backside facing him. Behind her stood Lord Glenbrough's second son—no more than seventeen—with his trousers around his ankles. Henry's mother was moaning and grunting, rutting like a mare in heat, while the boy thrust into her repeatedly, his head thrown back in rapt delight.

Henry had been paralyzed, completely unable to tear his eyes from the horrific scene before him. He had begun to gasp and wheeze, unable to catch his breath.

The boy had continued thrusting as Henry's mother turned and looked over one shoulder. Seeing him standing there, an ugly sneer spread across her face.

"You!" she spat out, just as the boy threw his head back and let out a primal moan. Opening his eyes, the boy quickly withdrew himself and reached down for his trousers.

Henry had turned his head and averted his gaze, the taste of vomit flooding his mouth.

"Bloody hell," the boy sputtered, dragging up his trousers and buckling them into place. "What if he tells Lord Mandeville? My father'll have my hide."

Henry had continued to wheeze noisily.

"He wouldn't dare tell his father, he hasn't the courage. Sorry excuse for a boy. Nothing but a sickly little runt."

"How...how d...d...dare y...you!" Henry finally managed to choke out.

"How dare I what? Enjoy myself? Stuck out here in the country all the time, never going to Town, all on _your_ account. No, your father can't leave his weakling of a son long enough to go to London, and here I am with nothing but...but beautiful boys to entertain myself with." The boy, called John, backed toward the hedge looking slightly pleased with himself. Henry's mother had then spun on him, her face contorted with rage.

"Good God, from the moment you were born, it was obvious you were never going to amount to much, and look at you now, barely able to breathe or stand on those weak little legs of yours. You're pathetic." A spray of spittle had landed on Henry's cheek with those venomous words.

An amused smile had spread across John's face as he listened to his lover's tirade.

The surroundings had begun to spin and blur, and Henry fought for each ragged breath. He took several steps back, clutching wildly at his burning chest.

"Go, crawl back to the house. I dare you to tell your father what you saw here tonight. But you won't, will you? You haven't the gumption. No, like father, like son, they say."

Henry had turned and fled, John's laughter ringing in his ears. Somehow he managed to drag himself back through the maze, back into the house, and up the stairs to the nursery. Eleanor had been sitting on the window seat and she'd looked up with wide eyes when he'd come in panting and gasping for breath. He'd tried to tell her what he'd seen but he couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. Eleanor had run for the nurse just as Henry slumped to the floor, and the next thing he remembered was awakening hours later with the family physician by his side.

Henry had never told a soul what he'd witnessed that night in the maze, but he'd never forgotten the revolting images or his mother's cruel words.

"I'm nothing like my father," Henry blurted out, back once more in James's drawing room. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead.

"Here, have a drink." James handed him his port and Henry gulped it down with one stiff jerk of the wrist. "Are you all right, son? You disappeared within yourself for a moment there." He reached for the decanter and refilled Henry's glass.

"I...I'm fine." He took another long draught of the liquid, feeling it burn a path down his throat to his unsettled stomach. Good God, if only the drink could permanently erase such memories from him mind. "I'm sorry, James, but I really must be going." Henry rose on unsteady legs. Damn it to hell, he _was_ still a weakling. His whore of a mother had been right all along, hadn't she?

"Not until you tell me what just happened. You look as if you've seen a ghost."

No, not a ghost, but a personal demon, one that he couldn't seem to exorcise. He reached for his hat. He had to get out of there, and fast. "I just remembered an important engagement. I must be on my way at once." He snapped shut the portfolio and strode toward the door, only glancing back long enough to see James staring at him, his mouth agape.

No, he would _not_ be like his father.
Chapter 14

"Why the Friday face, Lucy?" Jane asked, reaching for her hand. "It's only a soirée, not a public hanging."

"I know, but do you realize we've been to no less than two balls, three dinners, two luncheons, and one rout in the past week alone? How on earth is one supposed to keep up with it all? I'm just so...tired." Lucy sighed. Bone tired. Tired of parties, tired of pasting on a practiced smile and pretending to enjoy herself. It had been a bit of fun at first, this grand social whirl. But now it had become nothing but a chore to endure between sessions at the college with Professor Williams. Worse yet, she'd somehow managed to garner several new ardent suitors, much to her chagrin. Not one of them had anything interesting to say. All preening and strutting like peacocks, treating her as if she were some prize brood mare at Tattersall's. She let out a huff and turned to stare out the window.

"Lady Middletown throws quite a crush," Colin offered. "I'll wager you won't find it too unpleasant, Lucy. Besides, you'll have the pleasure of my company."

"Hah," said Jane with a smile. "You're just hoping Lady Helena Waring will be there."

"Lady Helena? Hmmm, I suppose she will be." He grinned wickedly.

At the mention of Lady Helena's name, Susanna sighed dramatically. Lucy reached over and patted her hand. Lately it seemed as if all the gossips were linking Lady Helena and Lord Mandeville, not that Lucy or any of the Rosemoors had the opportunity to witness it firsthand—Lord Mandeville had not attended a single function that they'd been at in more than a month.

Oh, he wasn't totally absent from the social scene. It seemed as if he never missed an appearance at Almack's, and all the unattached young ladies were talking about him. Lady Mandeville still hinted to her closest confidants about her son's impending betrothal to Lady Charlotte Haverford, but word had it that, more often than not, he was seen with the beautiful Lady Helena on his arm instead.

Yes, their plan to avoid one another was working, working perfectly at that. She should be pleased, Lucy reminded herself. Things were going so very well at the college. Just last week the professor had asked her to write up a short paper on her own little experiment in stable ventilation at Ludlow House. Of course, with her hectic social schedule she'd barely had time to put pen to paper. But she was already busy envisioning the practice she'd build once she returned home. It was no longer a hazy, unattainable dream but rather a soon-to-be-realized reality, and she was brimming with excitement. All she would need was a letter of recommendation—a letter of support—from Professor Williams and she would have the necessary credibility. Perhaps she and Mr. Wilton could form a partnership of some sort once he was graduated.

She looked up sharply as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of Middletown House, an attractive gray stone structure just off Berkeley Square. The door swung open and Colin hurried out, offering his hand to assist the ladies to the walk below. Lucy took Colin's arm and allowed him to steer her through the front door and into the foyer, her body becoming numb and her senses dulled. It was almost as if she could float above her body and watch someone else go through the motions of flirting and conversing, dining and dancing. It was the only way she could stay sane, especially once the conversation turned toward Lord Mandeville and his inevitable absence.

She vaguely heard her name announced as she stepped inside the music room. Her heart began to race. There, leaning indolently against the pianoforte, was Lord Thomas Sinclair. As if that weren't bad enough, Lady Charlotte Haverford was standing by his side, her dark head bent toward his fair one.

Oh, why had she come tonight? She'd felt the first stirrings of a headache this afternoon. She should have stayed home. She looked around frantically for Jane and Susanna, but found them already in conversation with their hostess. No, there was no escaping the vile man. Might as well get it over with.

Sinclair looked up and saw her. He leered at her across the space, his smile wolfish. She distinctly saw him nudge Lady Charlotte's side.

"Mr. Rosemoor, Miss Abbington. How good to see you both," Lady Charlotte called out sweetly.

"Good evening, Lady Charlotte," Colin replied, his voice cold.

"What a lovely gown, Miss Abbington. You know Lord Thomas Sinclair, don't you?"

"Yes, of course. Lord Thomas." Lucy nodded stiffly, boldly meeting his gaze.

He raised one brow suggestively. "Miss Abbington and I are quite _intimate_ friends, are we not?"

Colin's arm tensed under her hand. "Sinclair, how dare you suggest—"

Lucy cut him off. "No, I don't believe we are, sir," she interjected. "In fact, if I remember correctly—"

"Ah, yes," Lady Charlotte interrupted. "That little scene at the opera. More entertaining than the drama onstage, from what I'm told. I'm so sorry I missed the spectacle." She tilted her head toward Sinclair's and laughed.

How dare she!

Lucy looked to Colin and saw his chest puff up and his face turn scarlet. "You're lucky I don't call you out, Sinclair."

A hush fell over the room, all eyes turned toward them.

"Standing up for her honor, eh, Rosemoor? I thought that was Mandeville's job. Is her reputation really worth dueling over? After all, it appears that Mandeville has already abandoned her side."

Lucy clutched Colin's arm, digging her nails into his coat. "Don't bother, Colin," she said, her voice steady. "He isn't worth it." She spun around and stalked off toward the refreshment table.

Colin caught up with her immediately and she looked up into his eyes and smiled. "They all seem disappointed that it won't come to blows, don't they?" She tilted her head toward the crowd gathering around the pianoforte, heads wagging as they surreptitiously stole glances at her. "Look at them all, whispering behind their fans. Honestly, Colin, I don't care a whit what they think of me."

"I should call him out. I can't allow him to suggest that your reputation is anything but exemplary." Colin's face was a mottled red.

"Of course you can, and you will. No need getting yourself shot over it."

"I thank you for your faith in my marksmanship."

"Colin, really. Who pays any mind to what that scoundrel says? And Lady Charlotte? The two of them make some pair."

"You're right. Nevertheless, I'm not leaving your side tonight." He tightened his grasp on her elbow.

"Thank you, Colin."

"You're very welcome." His gaze traveled to the doorway. "Ahhh, there she is," she heard him murmur.

"There _who_ is?" Lucy turned and followed his gaze to a beautiful blonde wearing ice-blue silk.

As if she'd read his mind, the girl practically floated toward them, flashing Colin a perfect smile.

"Lady Helena," he called out, bowing.

"Mr. Rosemoor," she answered, nodding. "How lovely to see you." She turned to Lucy. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Lady Helena Waring."

So _this_ was Lady Helena.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Colin said. "Lady Helena, may I present a longtime family friend, Miss Lucy Abbington?"

The two women curtseyed to one another. "Of course. I've heard so much about you. What a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. Lord Mandeville tells me you are the Rosemoors' guest for the Season. What a delightful treat that must be."

Lucy started at the sound of the marquess' name, and her eyes narrowed suspiciously. Just what was he telling Lady Helena about her? "Yes, it is indeed quite a treat," she finally managed to reply.

Lucy was relieved when Lady Middletown interrupted them by announcing that the evening's musical entertainment was about to begin. She took a seat beside Colin, and Jane and Susanna hurried to join them. From the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of blue. Lady Helena was settling herself just behind and to the left of them. Lucy couldn't resist twisting a bit in her seat to peek at the girl as the lovely piece by Beethoven began.

She _was_ beautiful, there was no doubt of that. Her ringleted hair was the same pastel blonde as Susanna's, but her face was rounder, fuller, her lips a perfect bow. Her round eyes were a rich blue, framed by thick lashes. Susanna, with her sharp features and pale eyes, looked practically elfin in comparison. She could see why Lord Mandeville would be drawn to a girl like Lady Helena. She was every inch the lady, a duke's daughter at that. Lucy felt a pang of jealousy startle her, and she fidgeted in her seat.

Her thoughts were drawn back once again to the night in Lord Mandeville's carriage. She looked to the floor as she felt the blood rush to her face. Goodness, the things she'd let him do to her. She'd done things to him, as well, she reminded herself, remembering with an inward groan the way she'd touched him so intimately. The heat in her cheeks intensified. She couldn't resist turning in her seat once more, to peer curiously again at Lady Helena. The girl sat with her hands folded primly in her lap, a rhapsodic look on her face as she watched the musicians perform. Had Lord Mandeville touched Lady Helena the way he'd touched her? Kissed Lady Helena the way he'd kissed her? The thought made bile rise in Lucy's throat.

She faced forward again and reached up to finger her mother's locket. Her face hardened. No, he likely hadn't taken such liberties with Lady Helena. The girl's pedigree was impeccable, after all, nothing like her own. She was just a commoner's daughter to be trifled with, taken advantage of without repercussions.

By the time the last strain of music died away, Lucy's head was pounding. The cacophony of voices was prickling her every nerve, and an unease had settled in her stomach. Reluctantly, she followed Jane over to the Butler girls. "Wasn't the music lovely?" Miss Butler asked. "I must say, I prefer music to dancing any day. At least I don't have to worry about standing alone against the wall, or listening to Mama groan about my lack of prospects."

"Nonsense," Jane said. "Why, I see the way Mr. Tanning looks at you. Poor lad can barely find his tongue in your presence."

Miss Portia covered her mouth with her hand and giggled. "It's true. He croaks like a toad whenever he speaks to her."

Miss Butler rolled her eyes. "I was hoping Lord Mandeville would be here tonight. It seems as if he's never around, yet everyone is always speaking of him."

"Is that so?" Jane said vaguely. "Have you heard the latest _on-dit_ about Lord Chesterfield? I've heard that—"

"Why, just this afternoon Lady Allen came to call," Miss Butler interrupted, "and she said that Lord Allen says he's made quite an impression in Parliament of late."

"Lord Chesterfield?" Lucy asked hopefully.

"No, Lord Mandeville."

"Good lord, tell me Mandeville isn't rallying still for schools to educate the street urchins?" Jane laid a reassuring hand on Lucy's arm.

"That was weeks ago. No, they were debating the Seditious Meetings Bill, and it's said that the House was positively brimming, which is most unusual. People were crowding in to hear him speak, standing in the aisles. I heard that many a vote was swayed by his passionate speech. Why, perhaps he'll be Prime Minister one day."

"I had no idea you were so interested in political affairs, Miss Butler." Jane shook her head, her expression one of utter amazement.

"Anyway," Miss Butler continued, "when I saw Lady Helena here tonight I thought for sure that Lord Mandeville would be here, as well. Perhaps the rumors aren't true that..."

Lucy could no longer listen to the girl prattle on. She was desperate for an escape, any sort of respite. Seeing Jane look up and smile broadly as William Nickerson headed their way, she took the opportunity to excuse herself and head upstairs to the ladies' retiring room.

As she reached for the cut-glass door handle, she paused, instantly recognizing the lilting, perfectly modulated voice of Lady Helena, followed by a tinkle of laughter.

"Perhaps she's some sort of witch," she was saying. "The Rosemoors' cook told our cook that she saw her with her very own eyes, laying her hands on some wretched dog and practically bringing it back to life. Can you imagine? Poor Lord Mandeville. It's why he isn't here tonight, of course."

"Is that so?" someone asked.

"I'm afraid the poor besotted girl has thrown herself at him in such an embarrassing fashion that he's had to avoid any function at which she might appear. He's probably hiding out at White's right now, rather than facing what could be another embarrassing scene like the one at the opera."

"Yes, I've heard there's no less than ten wagers about her in the betting book at White's at any given time," another feminine voice was saying, followed by more laughter.

Lucy could hear the blood pounding in her temples. So that's what Lord Mandeville was telling them, then? That he was avoiding her company because she was throwing herself at him? How dare he, the bloody bastard! She clenched her fists by her sides, wishing he were there right now so she could throttle him with her own hands. White spots of anger floated before her eyes, nearly blinding her.

"She fancies herself a healer, did you say? Animals only, or people, too? Because I could use a ..."

Lucy fled before she could hear more.

***

"Absolutely not, Eleanor. I can think of nothing worse." Henry snapped shut his pocket watch and leaned back against the window, the bright midday sun warming his back. Replacing the watch in his waistcoat pocket, he indolently crossed one boot-clad ankle over the other and surveyed his sister with narrowed eyes.

"Nothing worse than a house party?" Eleanor asked, running one hand absently over the sofa's curved arm. "Please, Henry, it's not as bad as that. It'll be lovely, I promise. Just a small gathering. The invitations have already gone out. The children are so looking forward to some time in the country and they will be disappointed if you don't come."

"A small gathering, you say? And might I ask whom you've invited?" He folded his arms across his chest.

Eleanor fiddled with the hem of her sleeve as she always did when she was nervous. Henry had the feeling she was up to something, that he was being manipulated, and he didn't like it one bit.

"Selina, of course, and her family." Eleanor's dearest friend, married to the Viscount Henley. Lord Henley was a favorite of Henry's, and he nodded approvingly.

"Lord and Lady Stanley, the Nickersons, the Merrills, the Avondales." She refused to meet his gaze.

"Is that all?"

"No. A few more. There's the Rosemoors, as well." She practically whispered it.

"Of course." He felt anger rise in his chest. He _was_ being manipulated.

"Don't glower at me like that, Henry. You know I couldn't have a house party and not invite them. I particularly enjoy their company, as does Frederick." She cleared her throat. "And the children adore Miss Abbington."

"I see." He turned to gaze out the window, both hands shoved into his pockets.

"Before I resort to begging and pleading, I'll let you know it gets worse. Mama invited Lady Charlotte."

"What?" he bellowed, spinning around. "That settles it, then. I'm not coming." He stormed toward the door.

"Henry, you must come, and you will. I'm not happy about this myself."

He paused in the doorway. "Then why is she invited? It's your home. You know how I feel about her, Eleanor."

"I told you, Mama invited her. It was rude and presumptuous of her to do so, but she has. What am I to do, uninvite the woman?"

"Yes," he said, pounding a fist on the doorjamb, "that's exactly what you are to do."

"And risk affronting Lord and Lady Hathorne? No, Frederick would not have it. It's only for a few days; we'll manage her company that long."

"Not _we_ , my dear sister— _you_. You will manage her company. I'm not coming."

Eleanor sank to the sofa with a sigh of frustration. "Henry, please. I confess, I planned this party with hopes of getting you and Miss Abbington in the same company, as you're obviously avoiding her. You don't fool me with your protestations, after all. I know you have feelings for her, and you might as well confront them rather than running from them as you've been doing these past weeks."

"I am not—"

"Please, Henry." Eleanor held up a hand. "Of course you are. Let me finish—I'm actually confessing my own meddlesome finagling here. I planned it so perfectly, and then Mama went and invited Lady Charlotte, and now what am I to do? You've heard how the girl speaks of poor Miss Abbington, and now I'm to have them both as houseguests? You must come, Henry, to preserve the peace. For Miss Abbington's sake."

He reached up to rub his temples. Damn it. Between his mother and Charlotte, they'd make Lucy miserable, he was sure of it. But it wasn't his bloody job to play peacemaker. Eleanor had gotten herself into this predicament; he should let her untangle it herself. But then he thought of Lucy.

God, how he'd missed her. He'd found himself going out of his way to walk by Rosemoor House in the past week, desperate for a glimpse of her, nothing more. He'd almost attended the Middletown party, knowing that she would likely be in attendance. But so would Lady Helena, and he couldn't face the possibility of seeing them both at the same time.

Would it really be so bad to spend some time with Lucy again, if only for a few days? He'd grown so bored with the _ton_ in her absence. Every moment he spent with Lady Helena, it was all he could do to pretend to be interested in her conversation, interested in _her_. There was only a month or so left of the Season, after all, and then Lucy would be off to Nottinghamshire. What harm could come from seeing her just once more?

He looked over at his sister, still fiddling with her sleeve with a despaired look on her face. Bloody hell. He raked a hand through his hair.

He'd do it.
Chapter 15

"Lucy, dearest, I can hardly sit still, I'm so excited. Do you think he's here?" Susanna darted from one window to the next, rising up on tiptoe to peer out as Lucy unpacked her things and laid them out on the dresser. Fortune darted around the room with his nose to the ground, sniffing excitedly as he adjusted himself to the unfamiliar surroundings.

"I've no idea, Susanna. Perhaps he isn't coming at all." He'd better not, not if he valued his limbs. She still felt murderous toward him, and she wasn't at all certain she could control her temper. She'd been lured into his clutches, trusting him, believing they were friends, despite it all. Feeling...something...for him. His betrayal still pained her beyond rational thought. She would never forget Lady Helena's cruel words. _How dare he_? Her mind kept repeating the phrase over and over. She slammed her brush onto the dressing table, and Susanna looked up at her in surprise.

"Lucy, whatever is the matter?"

"Nothing at all. It slipped from my hand." She forced herself to breathe normally. "Isn't this room lovely?" she finally said. Her eyes drank in the furnishings. Delicately carved mahogany was draped in twilight-blue velvet. The walls were covered with a patterned blue silk that made Lucy think of the clear skies on a winter day in Hollowsbridge. She crossed to the doors leading out to a balcony and threw them open. "Come, Fortune." The dog ran to her side, his limp practically gone, and lifted his nose to sniff the air.

The garden spread out before her in its midsummer glory. Fragrant roses climbed up trellises, framing arches that led to benches arranged around manicured beds of blooms. Lucy stood on the narrow stones and breathed in the perfumed air. A warm breeze caressed her cheek and set the hem of her organdy gown fluttering. Off in the distance she spied a tree-lined lane, opening out to a meadow covered in a multicolored blanket of wildflowers. She could barely wait to find herself atop a horse and galloping down that shady lane toward the meadow. Perhaps once she got settled and Jane and Susanna lay down to rest she would find the stables and request a mount.

A knock upon the door pulled her from her thoughts, and she hurried back across the room to open it. Lady Worthington stood there in the hall, a welcoming smile lighting up her face.

"Miss Abbington, Miss Susanna. I'm so delighted you've arrived. I hope your rooms are to your liking. I've put your aunt next door, Miss Abbington. I believe she's settling in now."

"Thank you, Lady Worthington," Lucy said. "The room is lovely indeed. I'm so looking forward to this visit," she lied, worrying yet again that their hostess' brother would join them.

"Yes," Susanna said, "it was so kind of you to include us. Your home is lovely."

"Thank you. Please feel free to explore as you wish. We've got a wonderful library, and the orangerie is spectacular."

Lucy knelt to pick up Fortune. "Lady Worthington, I hope you don't find me too presumptuous, but I was thinking...that is, if you don't mind, perhaps your children would like to have Fortune as their own? Your brother found him, after all, and the pup simply adores children."

Lady Worthington reached out to scratch the small dog's chin. "Oh, Miss Abbington, the children will be delighted. So this is the poor pup Henry told me about. Fortune, you've called him? How fitting. Henry was much relieved that you were able to save him. He should be arriving any moment, and I know he'll be pleased to see him healthy and thriving. Come, if you've finished settling in. Let's go to the children at once and show them your gift. They are so very anxious to see you."

"Of course." Lucy glanced at Susanna, who looked delighted at the mention of Lord Mandeville and his imminent arrival.

"I believe I'll go and rest for a bit, then," Susanna said, her cheeks pink. "Thank you again, Lady Worthington, for having us." With a smile, she scurried down the hall toward her own chamber.

Lucy retrieved the dog's things from her traveling case and followed Lady Worthington to the nursery. As they stepped into the brightly colored room, Lucy stopped dead in her tracks. There he was, sitting inelegantly on the floor surrounded by his nieces and nephew, who were all speaking at once. He wasn't wearing a coat or cravat, and the top buttons of his linen shirt were undone. She swallowed hard at the sight of his dark chest, curly hairs peeking out from the neckline. She felt she should avert her gaze from the intimate display, but found herself unable to do so.

Lord Mandeville looked up at her and smiled broadly.

"Henry, when did you sneak in? I had no idea you had arrived." Lady Worthington rushed to his side.

Lord Mandeville stood and kissed the cheek his sister offered him. "I arrived not a half hour ago. The children kidnapped me and have been holding me hostage." He turned to Lucy and nodded. "Miss Abbington."

"Lord Mandeville," she said curtly. At the sight of the children, Fortune began whining and wriggling excitedly in her arms.

"Children," Lady Worthington said, "Miss Abbington has brought you a gift."

"This is Fortune," Lucy said, setting him down on the floor. The children rushed over with squeals of delight and began stroking the dog enthusiastically. "He's fully recovered from his injuries and ready to be part of a family. I thought you might enjoy him."

Katherine stood and threw her arms about Lucy's waist. "Oh, Miss Abbington, thank you so very much. I've been begging Mama for a dog of our own. Papa doesn't let us touch his."

Lord Mandeville looked to the dog with an amused grin. "Is this really him, then? So well recovered? Why, he barely limps."

"His recovery has been nothing short of amazing. This little dog has the spirit of a champion." Lucy reached up to wipe away one stray tear from the corner of her eye. She would miss him, but she knew he would be happy here.

"Why don't you take Fortune outside and let him have some exercise. Miss Abbington, I'm sure you and my brother have some catching up to do."

"Actually, Lady Worthington, I was hoping that I could entreat you to loan me a mount for the afternoon. Your park looks so lovely that I'd like to explore a bit."

She looked crestfallen. "Of course, Miss Abbington. Tell my groom to saddle Lady Grey for you."

"No, not Lady Grey, not for Miss Abbington," Henry said. "Perhaps for the other misses, but not for her. Thunder, I think, would be more appropriate."

Lady Worthington looked worried. "Thunder? Are you certain?"

"Absolutely certain." He was grinning, the arrogant man.

"I trust my brother's judgment, Miss Abbington. You shall have Thunder, then. Have a lovely ride."

"Thank you, Lady Worthington. I look forward to it." Lucy bowed to her hostess and started down the hallway. Just as she reached the staircase, she was startled by the sound of footsteps following her. She whirled around to face Henry, just as he reached for her hand.

"Lucy, wait," he called out.

She roughly pulled her hand from his grasp. "Don't touch me," she hissed, her heart pounding erratically. She turned and attempted to flee. He caught up with her in an instant and reached for her wrist, spinning her around to face him.

"Whatever is the matter with you?" He frowned as he peered questioningly into her face, his gaze boring into hers.

She could barely breathe. She was trembling with rage, rage she'd kept bottled up for more than a fortnight now, and she felt as if she might explode. "I said don't touch me," she spat out, unable to stop her voice from quavering. "And don't call me Lucy. I am 'Miss Abbington' to you."

He dropped his hands to his sides with a look of surprise.

Without another word, she turned, her head held high and her back rigid as she hurried down the stairs. She had to get away from him, as quickly as possible.

What the hell was the matter with her? It hadn't been more than a moon since he'd seen her last, that day in Camden Town, and she'd been friendly enough then, even a little flirtatious. Why did her body tense and her green eyes flash the moment she laid eyes on him in the nursery? The iciness in her voice had sent shivers down his spine.

He stood and watched her flee down the curving stairs, then retrieved his coat and followed her at a distance, out to the stables. He'd assumed she'd go to her bedchamber and change into a riding habit, and he was looking forward to learning which room she'd been assigned. But no, apparently she was going to ride in that ridiculous little frock. He stood outside, waiting in the bushes like a Peeping Tom, peering in through a window as the frowning groom saddled the muscular gray gelding. He wasn't the least bit surprised when he saw her mount the horse astride, her frock tucked between her legs, and take off down the lane in a full gallop. Within moments, he had his own horse saddled and took off in pursuit.

Down the lane they rode, Lucy perhaps a quarter mile in the lead, into the meadow, and down toward the brook that marked the northern border of his brother-in-law's estate. If she sensed him behind her, heard the echoing hooves, she showed no indication of it. He could see the white folds of her dress billowing out in the wind, her golden hair escaping it's binding and flying out behind her as she leaned forward into the breeze, urging her horse faster, faster. Her rear rose off the saddle and her knees pressed into the horse's sides. The animal responded instinctively to her movements. He couldn't help but grin in admiration as he urged his own mount faster.

She galloped along the brook for perhaps a half-mile before reining in the gray and slowing to a walk. Henry followed suit, his pace matching hers, halting only when he saw her dismount, throw the reins across the horse's neck, and smooth her skirts down with her palms. He dismounted a mere twenty yards from her and stood motionless, staring at her back for what seemed an eternity. Tentatively, he took a few steps toward her. She whirled around to face him, her cheeks stained an angry red.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" she called out.

Had she really cursed? He'd never before heard a lady curse, and he couldn't suppress a smile. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm out for a ride, it's a lovely day. And you?"

"You...you...horse's arse," she sputtered. "You know exactly what I'm doing. Trying to get away from you."

"That's painfully obvious, my dear, but the question remains, why? What have I done to offend you thus? I've only just arrived, and I thought I was perfectly cordial. You look beautiful, by the way." She did. Such a visual paradox—all sensual curves in virginal white. He'd never before seen her wear white. Her windblown hair was falling about her face, her eyes that same shade of impossible green. How he ached to reach out and take her in his arms.

"You...you bastard," she said.

For a lady, she was certainly fluent in curses. "Can't you at least tell me what I've done?"

"What you've done? Humiliated me, that's what you've done. Made me the laughingstock of the _ton_."

"Whatever do you mean? I've done no such thing." What the devil was she talking about?

"I heard her, Lord Mandeville, with my own ears. How could you tell her such lies? That I had thrown myself at you? That you were forced to avoid my company for fear of...of my embarrassing you!"

"Tell _who_ that? Honestly, Lucy, I have no idea what you're speaking of. I've told no one any such nonsense."

"Lady Helena Waring," she said, speaking the name with distaste. "They were laughing at me, my lord. Laughing!" She stomped one slippered foot and turned her back to him.

"Lady Helena? I never...I never said any such thing." Of course he hadn't. Wherever would she get such a notion? He shook his head. And then it hit him, practically knocking the breath from his lungs. Her father, the Duke of Corning, had asked him about that scene at the opera. Corning had requested that he avoid Miss Abbington's company if he planned to court his daughter, and he'd agreed. Nothing more. But why would he tell his daughter he'd extracted such a promise and elaborate the story with lies? To soothe her ego? Or perhaps Lady Helena had concocted the story herself, and if so, what a cruel, unladylike thing to do. Especially to a girl so far beneath her in station. Why, Lady Helena could have any man she wanted. _Any man but me_ , his mind corrected, and he recognized it as the truth. He might marry her, but she'd never have his heart.

"Lucy, you must believe me. I never said those things to Lady Helena."

"I _don't_ believe you." She turned to face him with narrowed eyes and put her chin in the air, her arms folded across her breasts. She looked like a sulking schoolgirl.

"It's entirely the truth. I confessed to her father I was avoiding your company after that scene at the opera, but I gave no details as to why." He took a step toward her, one hand outstretched. "You must believe me, Lucy. He wanted assurances that my attentions toward his daughter were honorable, that you and I were not... You must understand, the duke is a very powerful man. His connections are immensely helpful, and..."

She turned, presenting her back to him again.

"And I wasn't thinking straight. Damn it, Lucy, I could wring her neck for embarrassing you like she did." He dropped his gaze to the ground. There were flowers everywhere, poppies and clematis, columbine and meadow rue. Impulsively, he bent down and began gathering a makeshift bouquet. He worked quickly, silently, arranging the colorful bunch as artistically as he could.

After a few moments of silence, she peered over her shoulder and shrugged. "Whatever are you doing?"

He rose and held out the bouquet. "What does it look like I'm doing? Picking flowers. For you."

She looked coldly at his offering and didn't move to take it.

"You must believe that I would never say such things about you. Could you truly believe that of me? I thought you knew me better than that."

"What I know of you, my lord, is that your ambition overrides my feelings."

What could he say to that? It was true.

"Besides, she sounded quite...convincing."

The pain on her face was evident and it twisted his heart to see it. He took another step toward her, still holding out the flowers. "Please take them. I know I have no right to ask for your forgiveness, but I must, for whatever role I played in this."

He could see the indecision in her eyes. She bit her lower lip and looked away, her gaze fixed upon the horizon. When she finally looked back to him, he could see that he'd won, and relief flooded through him as she hesitantly reached for the bouquet.

"The Season will soon be over and I don't want you to go home despising me," he said softly. "Say you'll forgive me."

She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded.

He couldn't help but close the distance between them and take her in his arms.
Chapter 16

Lucy shuddered against his body, her head pressed to his heart. She could hear it beating wildly, erratically, mimicking her own. Why had she given in so easily, let go of her anger so effortlessly? She wanted to yell at him, to scream and rail and make him feel as miserable as she'd felt. Yet she desperately wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that he'd never said such things about her, never meant to hurt her. But he was right—she'd return home in less than a month's time and she'd likely never see him again.

Her whole being ached at the very idea.

She tipped her head back to look up at him, and in seconds his mouth descended on hers. This time his kiss was soft, tender. He cupped her chin with his palm as his lips gently caressed her own and then he retreated, leaving her painfully unsatisfied, desperate for completion. Her eyes reluctantly fluttered open, only to find his deep-blue ones staring back at hers. His mouth curved into a smile.

"What's so funny?" she asked.

"You, my sweet. You should have seen yourself, racing the wind like a jockey at the Derby, your skirts flying up. I've never seen anything like it," he said with a chuckle.

"Oh, dear, do you think anyone else saw? Aunt Agatha will be cross with me for certain."

"Surely the ladies are all resting, and if any gentleman happened to witness that...well, if they did, I'm sure they're too busy savoring it to complain."

Lucy's cheeks burned. "I was so angry I didn't even think. I just...rode."

"That you did, and quite well, if I might say so. Thunder is not the easiest mount to manage."

"He's wonderful."

"Have you any idea how much I want to kiss you again, Lucy?"

She flushed. "We shouldn't, my lord. Remember?"

"I remember. But right now I'd like to forget." He reached for the bouquet she still clutched in her hand and pulled out a rose-colored bloom. He moved to her side and gently tucked it behind her ear. "There. You look like a goddess."

"And you look like a god. Truly, my lord, you are beautiful." She blushed, surprised by her own candor. It was true, though. She chewed on her lower lip. Perhaps they could forget, just for a moment. She tenderly set the bouquet on the ground and peeled off her gloves. With trembling hands, she reached up to his face. He stood motionless as she caressed one cheek with her bare palm. His skin was so dark, such a dramatic contrast to her fair hand. She ran her fingers lightly across his brow before moving lower to trace his lips with her fingertip. She heard his breath hitch in his chest. His lips were full and sensual, and Lucy ached to feel them against her own. Without thought, she rose up boldly on her toes and brought her mouth to his.

He groaned and crushed her against him as she slipped her tongue inside his mouth and then withdrew it teasingly, issuing a challenge he was obviously eager to meet. Before she knew it, he had doffed his coat and dragged her to the ground, his body held rigid above hers as he devoured her mouth. She arched her back, pressed her breasts against him with a hunger she didn't recognize as he explored every cranny, every crevice of her mouth with his tongue.

She wanted the kiss to go on forever.

"Lucy, my Lucy," he whispered against her mouth. She felt his breath, warm against her ear, as his tongue trailed a path down the nape of her neck. She gasped as he nibbled her earlobe, sending shivers of delight down her spine. Seemingly involuntarily, her hands moved to his chest and her fingers flew over the buttons of his waistcoat, then his shirt. Soon his sculpted torso was bared to her curious hands, and she lightly ran her fingertips across the smooth planes. He was perfect. She lightly stroked her palm across his breastbone and felt him shudder against her neck as her fingers made contact with one hardened nub. She knew this was wrong, even dangerous, yet she couldn't stop herself.

Abruptly he pulled away, breathless. "Not here, Lucy. There's an abandoned cottage not a half mile away."

Sudden awareness shot through her, and she pushed him away and struggled to sit. "No, we mustn't. I must return at once, it's close to dinnertime."

He dropped his head into his hands. "Bloody hell, you're right. We should get back before someone comes looking for you. By God, Lucy, I can't seem to control myself around you. Here, let me help you up." He reached for her hands and helped her to her feet where she swayed dizzily against him for a moment.

Lucy reached a hand up to her temple. "Perhaps it's best if we're not seen riding back to the house together. Why don't you go on, and I'll be on my way shortly."

"I'm sure you're right." He eyed her sharply as he buttoned his shirt and reached for his hastily discarded coat. "Are you certain you're well?"

"Of course, my lord. I'm perfectly fine." She knelt to retrieve her gloves and pulled them on. "Go on, I'll see you at dinner."

"Yes," he said with a mysterious smile, "I'm willing to wager my sister has seen fit to make you my dinner partner." He bent toward her and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Until then, my sweet."

Lucy couldn't help but admire his muscular form as he swung easily onto his mount's back and spurred it toward the great house. She watched him go until he was nothing more than a speck in the distance, and then she retrieved the bouquet, swung up onto her own horse, and followed suit.

When she reached the stables, she dismounted and walked Thunder to the waiting groom.

"How was he, miss?"

"Wonderful, thank you."

"Eh, Miss Abbington?"

"Yes?"

"This is a bit awkward, you see, but I heard tales that yer a bit of an animal healer, and well...ye' see, miss, I was hopin' that you'd be of mind to take a look at ol' Red 'ere." He cocked his head toward a stocky roan in the stall behind him.

"Of course. What appears to be the problem?" She set down the bouquet and pulled off her gloves, wiped her hands on her skirt, and followed the groom into the stall.

"Well, milady, the head groom's been away a few days, sick he is, and I jus' dunno what to do. This horse 'ere stopped eating his feed in the last day or two, and I can't see what's the problem. Don't appear to be colic." He shook his head. "I jus' dunno."

"Well, let me have a look then." She crossed to the horse and laid her hand on its nose. She stroked the rough mane for a minute until he appeared at ease with her. Then she pried open his mouth and peered inside. She ran a finger lightly along his teeth and gums, her mouth pursed and her brow furrowed. And then she felt it.

"No, it's not colic, you're correct on that count. It's his tooth here. The enamel's broken, chipped away, likely from a stone. Probably hurts him too much to eat his grain. I'll have to pull it."

"Pull it? Can you do that yerself, miss?"

Lucy laughed at the young groom's skepticism. "Of course I can. Just give me a moment to go inside and collect some things and I'll take care of it straight away." Beaming delightedly, she headed toward the house, her mind on nothing but the task ahead.

The bouquet lay on the ground beside her gloves, all but forgotten.

***

Henry couldn't wipe the smile off his face as he hurried down the stairs, hoping to join Frederick for a glass of sherry before dinner. He was sure he looked like an idiot, grinning madly to himself. But he couldn't help it, not with the memory of her kiss so fresh in his mind. He strode past the salon and was headed toward the study when he heard Miss Abbington's name and stopped short.

"No, Lady Charlotte, come now," a voice was saying. "It can't be true. An animal healer, you say?"

"I tell you, it _is_ true. I've no idea why Lady Worthington would invite such a girl into our company."

Damn it to hell, it was Charlotte Haverford, trying to poison some gossiping biddy against Lucy. Henry clenched his fists and moved closer to the doorway, straining to her hear the whispered conversation.

"Pulling a horse's tooth, you say?"

"That's what I was told," Charlotte said. "I saw her come in myself, her frock filthy, wearing no gloves. It's a disgrace. Mr. Avondale says he saw her out this afternoon, riding astride with her skirts flying up about her ears. Can you imagine? The poor Rosemoors. It must be so humiliating to find themselves sponsoring such an embarrassment. Lord Rosemoor is a generous soul indeed."

"If it's true, then she is no lady, that's for certain."

"I've known from the moment I laid eyes on her that she was no lady," Charlotte said. "Certainly not fit for polite company."

Henry stepped into the doorway, his face livid with rage. "You, Charlotte, are not fit for polite company. I'll ask you to watch your tongue in my sister's home or you'll find yourself out on your ear."

"Lord Mandeville," she gasped, and Henry saw her companion, Miss Merrill, blush furiously. "Please excuse us, my lord. I didn't realize you were listening. Nonetheless, you can't expect us all to pretend as if she's a lady."

He stepped toward Charlotte, his finger pointed at her menacingly. "You, Charlotte, are no lady. Miss Abbington is ten times the woman you are, and I'll ask you never again to speak of her such or I'll—"

"You'll what, Lord Mandeville? Are you threatening me? I can't understand why a man in your position would stand up for a piece of baggage like her."

He advanced toward her and saw Miss Merrill shrink back, her eyes wide and mouth agape.

"I'm sure you can't, you're not quite clever enough," he bit out. And with that he turned and strode out, afraid he might physically assault her if he remained in her presence one more second.

He stormed into Frederick's study and poured himself a brandy.

Damn her.

This was his mother's fault, inviting Charlotte here against Eleanor's wishes. He'd managed to avoid his mother thus far, but he knew he would be forced to suffer her company at dinner. He hoped Eleanor was wise enough to seat them as far apart as possible. Otherwise, he'd likely...

He turned his head toward the sound of voices gathering in the drawing room, preparing to go in to dinner. He supposed he should join them. As he set down his glass and strode reluctantly toward the gathered guests, he couldn't help but wonder what other unpleasant surprises he'd be in store for as the evening progressed.

***

Hours later, Henry sat on a wide leather chair in his chamber, a smile dancing across his features and his heart singing merrily. Dinner had proven to be far more pleasant than he'd anticipated. Lady Charlotte hadn't joined them, claiming a sudden headache had incapacitated her, and his mother had been seated so far from him that he could barely see her, let alone speak to her. Being the highest ranked peer in the assemblage, he had gone into the dining room first, and, as he had supposed, his sister had broken with propriety and asked him to escort Lucy in. He had swelled with pride as he had taken Lucy's arm and led her toward the elegantly laid table. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen and every unattached man in the room had looked at him with envy.

The ease and speed with which she could transform herself never ceased to amaze him. It hadn't been more than two hours since he'd seen her last in her girlish white frock, her hair falling out of its pins and onto her shoulders. She'd looked lovely then, yes, almost angelic in a virginal, pure way. But at dinner...at dinner there had been nothing virginal about her appearance, nothing at all.

The cornflower-blue silk had hugged her every curve, her uplifted bosom straining against the fabric enticingly. A band of cream-colored lace crossed between her breasts, forming a deep V neckline that further accentuated their fullness. She'd worn her hair in an arrangement he'd never before seen her wear, but it suited her to perfection. Twisted at the crown, her hair spilled down her back in loose waves, down the train that fell from her shoulders and swept gracefully out behind her.

He hadn't been able to take his eyes off her as they had settled into their chairs and waited for the rest of the party to join them. He'd picked up his water goblet and sipped, his lustful gaze meeting hers over the rim. He heard the beating of his heart in the silence, and for a moment worried that he'd find himself unable to catch his breath.

Was that what they meant by the phrase _take your breath away_ , he briefly wondered, untying his cravat and tossing it carelessly to the floor.

Even the evening's conversation had pleased him. He smiled at the memory, savoring the pride he'd felt at Lucy's pluck in the face of obvious disapproval.

"Miss Abbington," Mr. Avondale had said, "I heard the most preposterous rumor. Word has it that you actually pulled a horse's tooth yourself this afternoon in Worthington's stables. Ridiculous, isn't it?" The conversation ground to a halt as all eyes turned curiously toward Lucy. Henry was surprised to see her smile as she laid down her fork.

"I'm afraid it's no rumor, sir," she said. "You heard correctly."

There were several audible gasps, and Miss Merrill turned to her nearest companion and whispered furiously in his ear.

"You see," Eleanor said, "Miss Abbington possesses unusual skills with animals. It's quite amazing, if you ask me."

"Just what kind of skills, Miss Abbington?" Lady Stanley asked with a frown. "Is it true that you are some sort of healer?"

"I wouldn't call myself a healer, your ladyship. I dabble a bit in veterinary arts."

Lady Stanley placed her napkin on her plate and studied Lucy with narrowed eyes. "Just what do mean, you 'dabble a bit'?"

Lucy tipped her chin in the air. "I mean that I diagnose and treat injured or ill animals."

"Yes," Jane added, "and she's gained a bit of a local reputation at home in Nottinghamshire."

"She's the most accomplished woman I've ever met," Colin interjected, his face suddenly stormy.

"That's fascinating, Miss Abbington," Selina said. "I'd love to hear more."

"Isn't it a bit"—Lady Stanley loudly cleared her throat— "unseemly?"

Colin's silver clattered noisily to his plate, and he shoved back from the table menacingly.

"I think it's grand," Mr. Nickerson put in, and Jane flashed the man a warm smile.

"As do I," Eleanor added, and Frederick nodded in agreement.

"Tell me, Miss Abbington, do you charge fees for your services?" Miss Merrill inquired, her face flushed.

Colin was suddenly apoplectic. "Why, I won't listen to such—"

"No, of course not," Lucy interrupted. "Although the villagers often insist I take a basket of eggs or a side of mutton in exchange. I don't do it for the compensation—I do it because I enjoy it."

All eyes turned toward Henry, as if they awaited his judgment on the matter. He cleared his throat then looked to Lucy with honest admiration. "I've seen Miss Abbington at work, and trust me when I say it is truly a sight to behold. She's exceptionally skilled, and my own stables have benefited from her talents. I allowed her to treat my favorite stallion and aided her in a breech foaling. I believe Miss Abbington sets a fine example for what can be accomplished by a lady when one chooses to put her mind to more useful matters than fashion or gossip." He looked pointedly at Miss Merrill.

Lucy looked to him, her eyes shining. "Thank you for those kind words, my lord."

And then he'd changed the subject, as smoothly and neatly as possible.

Clearly, the majority of his sister's guests had been scandalized. This didn't surprise him—he'd been a bit scandalized himself at first. But truly, what was the harm in offering her his support? Particularly since his words had visibly infuriated his mother. He relished the memory of her barely concealed anger and self-imposed humiliation.

His sister had forced him into this situation. He hadn't wanted to come, but now that he was here he was going to enjoy every last moment of Lucy's company. After all, what harm was there in enjoying this little interlude with her? It would be his last opportunity. Once he returned to London he would offer for Lady Helena. No use putting it off.

Rather then think upon it further, he reached for his sketch pad and charcoal and began scratching away at the paper, creating from memory a likeness of Lucy. He worked silently for nearly an hour, toiling away to make each detail perfect. The curve of her neck, the tilt of her chin, the swell of her breasts. As he painstakingly re-created the dress she'd worn that night, he couldn't stop his thoughts from straying to what those yards of fabric concealed—that perfectly formed figure of hers. Had she really allowed him to partially undress her in the carriage that night? Perhaps, what? Six weeks ago? It seemed so far removed from the present that he could barely believe it. It teased his mind like a fleeting dream—shadowy images of ripe, round breasts crowned by petal-pink coronets, just begging for his touch, his mouth. He groaned as he remembered the feel of her hand, boldly caressing the length of him.

Devil take it, she was there under this very roof, lying in bed, asleep. Would she be wearing some thin, transparent little night rail, her hair loose about her shoulders? He closed his eyes and imagined himself lifting the night rail over her head, his mouth tracing the path of the fabric as it slid across her flesh. And then, as she slept on, he'd gently part her thighs and find her sweet folds with his tongue... The erotic sensation this thought provoked sent flames shooting down his groin, and he resisted the urge to grab himself and take matters into his own hands, quite literally.

He set aside the charcoal, every inch of his body aching for her, burning with lustful desire. He reached up to wipe his brow; the room was so warm and close that he felt as if he would suffocate. He needed some air—a dousing in very cold water was what he truly needed, but some air would suffice. He closed the pad and pulled out his watch, surprised to see it was past two in the morning. Listening intently to make sure no one was about, he reached for his shirt and boots.

Minutes later he found himself out in the humid night without his coat, his shirt tucked haphazardly into his trousers. He stood beneath the branches of a tall, curving willow and took a deep, cleansing breath, relieved to find that the heat in his loins had begun to subside. He thought to head down the lane toward the meadow, but the corner of his eye caught a flicker of light from the south wing, near the garden.

Was it a candle? He moved toward the faint glow, squinting.
Chapter 17

Lucy looked at the candle she held in her hand, surprised to see how far down it had burned. How long had she been out there? She'd climbed into bed hours ago but found herself unable to sleep. It had been well past one when she'd stepped out onto the narrow balcony, hoping the fresh air would settle her a bit. But it was no use. All she could think of was Lord Mandeville— _Henry_ —somewhere under the very same roof. Her entire body covered with gooseflesh at the thought. It was wicked, she knew, but she couldn't help but imagine him lying in bed somewhere down the hall, bare chested, his lashes casting shadows upon his cheeks. What would it feel like, she wondered, to brush her lips across his sculpted chest? To trace a path down his stomach, and lower still, with her tongue? Her cheeks grew hot at the thought. She could feel his nearness in her very core, and it left her slightly breathless and more than a little bothered.

She sighed and leaned against the stone railing. It had been such a lovely evening. Even under Lady Stanley's scrutiny, she'd felt confident and self-assured, bolstered by Lord Mandeville's voiced approval. It was obvious that some weren't convinced and would never accept her talents as ladylike, especially for a girl of questionable breeding. But why should she care what they thought?

No, the night's only disappointment had been the look on Susanna's face when Lady Worthington had asked Henry to escort her in to dinner. The unhappiness in her friend's eyes had pained her greatly. Even worse, Lucy had found that she all but forgot Susanna as the evening progressed. Only after they'd come upstairs to retire had she been reminded of her friend's discontent. Susanna had looked to her with a mixture of surprise and distrust, as if she recognized that something had changed between her and Lord Mandeville.

Of course, Lucy could not put her finger on just what it was, but she felt certain that something _had_ indeed changed. She knew she should speak with Susanna, try to set her mind at ease, but she found she couldn't. Like a coward, she'd refused to meet Susanna's gaze and hurried off to her own bedchamber, glad she had a room to herself, several doors down from the Rosemoor girls'.

What was she going to do for the next two days? She shivered, even though the air was warm. She should go to bed. No use staying up all night worrying over it. She turned and reached for the door leading back inside, and was suddenly startled by a voice below.

"But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?" It was Lord Mandeville on the lawn, kneeling in the grass on one knee with his hand placed dramatically across his breast. "It is the east, and Lucy is the sun."

Lucy put her hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh, but she could not help but join in the jest. Whatever was he doing out there under cover of night?

"What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, so stumblest on my counsel?" she said.

He looked surprised as he rose to his feet. "You know Shakespeare?"

"Of course. I told you I was a bit of a bluestocking. Besides, my lord, it's not as if you've chosen something obscure."

"Well, then, perhaps I should I try some _Troilus and Cressida_."

"You can if you must, but I'm afraid it's not as fitting."

"Yes, perhaps you're right. It's practically the middle of the night, you know. Could you not sleep?"

"No, I was restless. I needed some air. And you?"

"Restless as well. I was out walking in the garden when I thought I saw a flicker of light."

"My candle." She held up the taper.

"I had to investigate, especially once I saw it was you. You look so lovely standing there like that."

Lucy looked down at her dressing gown, and pulled it tightly about herself. Dear Lord, she was standing there in her nightclothes. "I should go in. This isn't proper." Her stomach lurched at the thought of discovery.

"No, don't go. Not yet. I love your hair loose like that. It reminds me of the very first time I laid eyes on you, at Glenfield. I thought perhaps you were a servant of some sort."

Lucy laughed. "It must have been shocking, to find me attired as I was."

"Why is it, do you think, that ladies must always have their hair bound up, covered with silly caps or bonnets?"

"I don't know. I don't often question such things."

"Yet you often disregard such rules of propriety."

"I suppose you're right. I'm going to be a spinster, after all, so what does it matter?"

"Why must you be a spinster?"

"Why so many questions?" She couldn't help but smile.

"I'm only asking since you have so many ardent suitors."

"Oh, that." Lucy waved a hand dismissively. She couldn't take any of them seriously. "That isn't real, my lord. Truly, they don't know me at all. They only know the illusion that I present for their benefit."

For a moment Henry allowed himself to wonder if the Lucy he knew was the illusion instead. "Nevertheless, I'm sure you could wed a duke if you so desired."

"Yes, and give up what I love most? As I've said many times, I'll never do it. I thought _you_ , my lord, knew me better than that."

"I confess I'm not sure what I know where you are concerned. I do know, however, that you look like a vision standing there, your hair a golden halo. Perhaps I'm only dreaming. I will wake in my bed only to find this never happened at all."

"This is no dream, I assure you. Really, Lord Mandeville, I must go in at once. This is most improper. What if someone were to see us?"

"Well, what if they did see us? This is my sister's house, after all. They won't throw me out on the street."

"But my reputation."

"Of course, you're right. I mustn't forget your reputation. I will leave you, then, but first you must promise me one thing."

"Oh, all right. Tell me. What must I promise?"

"Tomorrow, after dinner, meet me in the meadow. We'll steal away for a ride. Perhaps I'll show you that abandoned cottage.""No, absolutely not. Have you lost your senses? I cannot do that." It was unthinkable.

"I shall stand here all night until you agree."

"I'll go inside at once, then." She turned and started to do as she threatened.

"Then I shall be forced to serenade you," he called up. "Loudly and most off-key. It will be quite embarrassing for both of us, I assure you."

"You wouldn't dare." Would he?

"I most certainly would dare."

He looked as if he might. "Oh, all right. I promise I shall try."

"And wear your hair loose like that."

"Will you leave at once if I say I will?"

"Absolutely."

"Yes, then. Now go. Good night, my lord," she called down with an easy laugh. "A thousand times good night." Lucy hurried inside and blew out the candle, sure she had been dreaming herself.

***

"If you'll excuse me, Lady Worthington, I'm suffering a terrible headache. I'm afraid I shall have to miss dessert. Aunt Agatha," she turned to her aunt with a frown as the woman started to rise and follow her out of the dining room. "Please, stay. Enjoy the evening. I'm going straight to bed. Bridgette can see to me."

"Are you certain, dear? You do look a bit peaked."

"I'm certain. I just need some rest." She'd never before lied so outrageously to her aunt. In all her antics, all her disregard of propriety, she'd never before done something so dangerous, so scandalous, as this.

She hurried to her room and gratefully accepted the cool cloth Bridgette laid across her brow before the maid disappeared back to her own quarters. The day's worth of nervous anticipation _had_ made her head begin to ache. She closed her eyes for a moment and wondered just how she'd managed to make it through the day. She'd awakened at dawn and paced the room whilst she waited for the rest of the house to stir and go down to breakfast. Somehow she'd forced herself to eat a bite or two, and then joined Lady Worthington and several other ladies for a tour of the baroness' greenhouse and orangerie.

Henry hadn't appeared at lunch, and she'd been almost grateful to Lady Charlotte when the dreadful girl had politely inquired about his absence. Lady Worthington had claimed he had business to attend to in Oxford and would return the following day. Was it true, she'd wondered? Had he forgotten their assignation? Or perhaps this was part of his plan, an excuse for his absence.

She spent the better part of the afternoon enthusiastically engaged in a game of pall-mall on the lawn. She had hoped it would pass the time and divert her thoughts, and she had been delighted to find that it had. She'd paired up with Colin and they'd effectively trounced the competition, but the highlight of the game was watching the way Susanna flirted openly with Mr. Richard Merrill. Susanna seemed quite taken by the handsome youth who had been her dinner partner last night. Lucy and Jane had giggled and nudged each other a dozen times while Colin had rolled his eyes, watching Susanna and Mr. Merrill eye each other like shy colts.

Dinner had been pleasant enough, though she'd done nothing more than push her food about her plate and watch the clock. And now the moment had arrived. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Would she really do it? Would she meet him? The question had been nagging at her all day. No use continuing to ignore it. Her stomach fluttered nervously. She wasn't a fool. She knew that it was likely to be more than innocent ride.

While her conscience screamed _no_ , her heart quietly persisted, and she felt herself capitulating. There was no longer any use in denying that she was eager for his kiss, his touch. She wanted it desperately. But was she willing to become his mistress? Because, she reminded herself, that's all she would be to him if she gave up her virtue.

She reached up to cover her eyes with the back of one wrist. How had it come to this? What would her papa think if he knew his daughter was considering giving herself to a man who would never marry her? Her dear mama would turn in her grave at the thought. Her cheeks burned with shame.

And yet...and yet she going to do it, wasn't she? She was going to meet him. She tried to think of it as an adventure.

Besides, perhaps he wouldn't show. Perhaps her imagination was running wild and he _did_ intend an innocent ride and nothing more. Either way, she wasn't going to shy away from the challenge, not this time. She would return home soon enough, never again to see him. The memory of his touch would have to sustain her for a lifetime. She pressed her fingers to her temples as her head throbbed painfully.

She threw the cloth off her forehead and stood on wobbly legs. Crossing to the vanity, she stood peering at her reflection in the mirror. She did look a little pale. She reached up to pinch her cheeks. There, that was better. Her hair had been arranged in a simple arrangement, one that could be easily undone with the removal of a few strategic pins.

It was time to go. She gathered her cloak and hurried out to the stables where she requested Thunder. As she galloped down the lane, the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon. She slowed her mount as she reached the meadow. Glancing around one last time to make sure no one was about, she reached up and released her hair from its pins. She shook her head and felt the weight of her tresses upon her shoulders.

Was he there? Digging a heel into Thunder's side, she led her horse toward the brook as the last light of day painted the sky with wide swaths of brilliant color.

And then she spotted him, sitting on the ground. One long, breeches-clad leg was stretched out in front of him and the other was bent at the knee, the sole of his boot resting on the grass. Reclining on one elbow, he held a sketch pad in his hands, his brows drawn together in rapt concentration. The tight fit of his fawn-colored breeches accentuated his powerfully built legs, and she could see the muscles in his forearm ripple as he worked. Something fluttered in her abdomen at the sight of him.

She dismounted a distance away and led her horse to a wizened old oak where Henry's own mount grazed. Clearing her throat uncomfortably, she ambled his way. The sheer delight, the unmasked happiness that she saw in his face when he looked up at her set her head spinning, her heart racing, her palms sweating.

Dear God, whatever was she doing?

Henry blinked, hardly able to believe it. He was sure his eyes were playing tricks on him. Had he conjured her image there with his sketch? He looked down at the page lying before him and then back up at the vision of loveliness standing before him in lavender, her glorious hair falling loose about her shoulders. She took a few hesitant steps toward him and he was paralyzed, unable to do anything but stare at her. He hadn't thought she'd come.

Finally, he reached a hand out to her. She took it and sat gracefully beside him, tucking her legs beneath her as she leaned curiously over his pad.

"What are you drawing out here in the twilight?" Her voice sounded stilted, forced.

"You," he said simply, and picked up the pad and handed it to her.

He heard her gasp as her eyes scanned the page.

"It's...it's beautiful, my lord. I was right, then. It _was_ me..." Her voice trailed off but he noted the amusement in her tone.

"Of course. You're my muse. I've started two canvasses already from my sketches. They're back at Mandeville House. James says this is my most accomplished work to date, and I have you to thank for that." He reached up to brush her hair back from her face with his fingertips.

She flipped through the pages, her mouth pursed and her eyes wide. "These aren't the drawings of an amateur, Lord Mandeville. They are precise, captivating. You're truly gifted. These should be displayed somewhere."

"No, I draw only for myself. I've shown no one, no one but James and Eleanor. And now you." He playfully tapped her on the nose. What an adorable little nose it was.

"I'm touched," she said, and even in the fading light he could see her eyes shining with unshed tears. "Truly I am."

"Besides, what would people think if they knew I'd drawn such intimate portraits of you?" Henry smiled, remembering how swiftly James had come to the conclusion that she was his mistress. As would the entire _ton_ , were they to see these.

Lucy's cheeks colored. "I suppose you're right," she murmured. "But this James Frasier—he must be an extraordinary teacher to have such an accomplished student."

"He is indeed, and I had plenty of time as a child to hone my craft. It occupied most of my hours, when I wasn't in the schoolroom."

Lucy looked up at him with curious eyes. "Tell me about your childhood, my lord."

He looked up at the sky, now dotted with twinkling stars. "Believe me, you don't want to hear it."

"But I do. You said you were ill. You look so healthy and strong that it's hard to imagine you unwell."

His whole body tensed at her words. And then all at once, the tension disappeared. He wanted to tell her— _had_ to tell her—everything. Never in his life had he so desperately wanted someone to understand him.

He took a deep breath and began his tale with the memory that plagued him most, that sordid spectacle in the maze and his mother's cruel words.

Lucy felt ill just listening to his words. "That's dreadful," she said. "I can't even imagine..." She trailed off, trying to imagine how a boy of twelve would feel to see his own mother in such a terribly compromising position. The blood rose in her face at once, her anger piqued.

"Oh, there's more. Much more. Are you sure you want to hear it?"

Lucy could only nod.

"I became frightened of the dark when I was no more than four. I woke up screaming several nights in a row, and finally the nurse went to my mother and told her. She thought my fear unmanly and sought to cure me of it in her own fashion—locking me in her trunk for what seemed like hours. She'd laugh while I gasped for air and screamed desperately, often until my voice was gone. At first my father protested her methods but she convinced him it was for the best, and he didn't press it. He didn't want to anger her. It became her favorite method of punishment, locking me in the trunk. I crept around the house, never knowing what misdeed would earn me the privilege of nearly suffocating to death. It's a wonder my lungs never burst. You can bet the nurse never again told my mother anything of that nature."

Lucy covered her face with her hands and shook her head. "But how...how could a mother treat her own flesh and blood so cruelly?" She dropped her hands and looked up at him with troubled eyes. What woman would want to torture her child that way, especially one so delicate? Now it made sense, it all made sense. How could Henry ever trust a woman when the one who brought him into this world—the one who was supposed to love him unconditionally—had denied him those assurances?

He shrugged. "Apparently my birth was painful and she suffered greatly. Eleanor was born first, you see, the strong, healthy twin. I came minutes later, breech, tiny and frail. Her only son, my father's heir, sickly and weak. She was left unable to bear another child."

"But that wasn't your fault." She reached for his hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"I know. She's a cold woman, Lucy. Cold and hateful. She had high aspirations for my father. He was brilliant, Lucy, the most brilliant man I've known. He was a serious student of philosophy, with progressive ideas on society and education. He was a poet, too—he could cast a spell with words. He could have influenced great changes in Parliament if he'd applied himself to it. He should have been a powerful man, an influential man. I'm sure my mother hoped that he would be. She covets wealth and position, things my father's influence could provide her, but it was never enough.

"Besides, he didn't care about any of that. He rarely took his seat in Parliament, hardly went to Town at all. I was his excuse for remaining in the country year in and year out. I'm sure in truth it had more to do with the fact that my mother cuckolded him at every given opportunity. My father wanted desperately to believe that she loved him as much as he loved her, and he didn't want to provide her with opportunities to prove that she did not." He rose and began pacing back and forth before her, not meeting her eyes.

She clenched her fists. "It was unfair of him to use you as an excuse." Perhaps Lord Mandeville was willing to place all the blame on his mother, but she felt his father had failed him, too.

"Perhaps." He bent and retrieved a broken branch from the ground, snapped off a twig and spun it absently between his palms as he paced. "I spent years listening to my mother belittle me for my illness, my smallness, my weakness, until I myself believed it to be the truth. And then, all at once, everything changed when I went off to Eton. For the first time in my life I found myself away from the restrictions of the family physician, away from my mother's criticism, able to take part in activities that I'd never before been allowed to try.

"I became a surprisingly good horseman, took up fencing. I excelled at my studies, took firsts in mathematics and Greek. I was hell-bent on proving to everyone, especially her, that I wasn't weak in mind or body. By the time I started Oxford, I'd all but overcome my physical limitations. I shot up to my present height, surprising myself as much as everyone around me.

"After university, I spent a few years traveling around, took a grand tour, trying to decide who I was and what I wanted to do with myself. It was only when my father became ill, when it became obvious that he would never recover, that I finally agreed to settle back in Essex, to take a bride and do what was expected of me."

"Cecelia Layton," Lucy said, gazing off at the full moon, now high in the sky above them, casting a silvery glow upon the meadow.

"Exactly." He snapped the twig in two and tossed it to the ground. "I spent three lonely years in Scotland after that debacle, growing more bitter and resentful each day. I resolved that I would never repeat my father's mistakes. That I would never be so foolish as to marry for love, or to let my emotions cloud my judgment. That I would be the powerful, influential man that my father never was." He stopped and turned to face her, his eyes glittering in the moonlight. "And I'm well on my way, Lucy, to becoming the man I want to be." He reached for both her hands, and she took them, rising to stand beside him. "Can you possibly understand?" he asked her.

"Of course I can. I'm only sorry you've suffered so much. Childhood is meant to be a happy time, a carefree time." A tear traced a path down her cheek, and she reached up to wipe it away as she thought of her own girlhood. Even after her mother's death, she had known little sadness, no despair. Her memories were mostly happy ones, something she'd taken for granted. A knife twisted in her heart. If only she could take away the pain, erase his hurtful memories. But that was beyond her power.

He grasped her shoulders and looked down at her, his gaze boring into hers. "Don't cry for me, Lucy. I don't want your pity. Just your understanding."

"And you have that, my lord. In spades."

He reached down and brushed her cheek with his thumb. "Thank you," he said. She held her breath as his head dipped toward hers. His lips pressed against hers, softly, almost chastely, before moving away. "Come, no more of this maudlin talk. The night is ours. What shall we do? A ride, perhaps?"

She let out a little gasp and pointed to the sky. "Did you see that? A shooting star." She hurried toward the edge of the brook. "Look, another one." High above her head, a trail of shimmering light drifted down through the heavens.

"It looks as if we're in for a show. Come here, you silly girl." He reached for her, but she dashed off alongside the brook with a peal of delight. The night was beautiful and she felt so very alive, as if every nerve in her body had been animated by the stars.

"Catch me, then," she called over her shoulder, sprinting off into the darkly shadowed night.
Chapter 18

Henry took off in pursuit, his heart significantly lighter than before. It didn't take him long to overtake her as they ran laughing through the trees. In seconds, he reached for her skirts and the pair tumbled to the grass, Lucy's protests belied by her giggles. He straddled her playfully, his hands pressing her wrists to the ground above her head. "I've caught you," he said. "You're not very quick, are you?"

"I'm half your size, my lord," she said indignantly. "Very well, you've proven your superior strength, now release me at once."

But he didn't want to move. She felt exquisite beneath him. Their eyes locked in a desperate battle for control, the connection so physical that it knocked the air from his lungs.

Finally her gaze moved away, beyond his shoulder to the sky above. "The skies are still falling," she whispered huskily.

With a groan of frustration, he released her and rolled over to lie beside her on the soft grass, one arm folded behind his head and the other reaching down to grasp her hand in his. They lay there together in silence for perhaps a half hour, gazing up appreciatively at the celestial canvas before them. When at last the brilliant display began to fade, he stood and pulled her body up against his. He could no longer deny his needs, nor squelch the roaring lust that threatened to topple his self-control.

"Will you come with me to the cottage I told you about?" His heart beat furiously in anticipation.

"Perhaps, but not just yet. Can't we stay here a bit longer, my lord?"

He pressed her face to his chest, his chin resting upon the top of her head. "Lucy, I told you before, no more of this 'my lord' nonsense." His voice was hoarse. "Call me Henry."

"No, I mustn't. You know it isn't proper, and you should call me Miss Abbington." Her voice faltered. He could feel the heat of her hands through the thin cloth of his shirt as she ineffectually pushed him away.

"Nor is it proper for you to allow me to hold you this way. We've already lost propriety. Several times, in fact. Call me by my given name." He pressed his lips into her hair, inhaling the warm scent. Almost on its own accord, his mouth moved to her temples where he felt her erratic pulse fluttering against his lips. Further down his mouth traveled, across her jawbone, closer and closer to her strawberry lips. A sigh escaped her as his mouth brushed hers, teasingly, begging for her permission, her capitulation.

He didn't have to wait long. "Henry," she whispered, her voice silky.

A growl escaped his throat as he crushed her mouth with his. She responded instinctively, reaching up to clasp his head toward hers. He roughly parted her lips with his tongue as he pressed himself fully against her, grinding his hips into hers as his tongue explored her now familiar mouth. He could feel her heart pounding wildly against his chest, and his own felt as if it might explode. No woman had ever made him feel this way. Normally a man of acute restraint, Henry wanted to devour her.

He needed her, all of her. _Now_.

He blindly reached behind her, found her gown's fastenings, and undid a few with desperate haste. Her bodice fell away. He tugged down her corset roughly pushed her shift from one shoulder, exposing one tantalizing pink peak. He expelled his breath, tried to rein in his lust. Gentle now, he circled the areola with his fingertip.

As soft and velvety as a rose petal in full flush.

The dull throb in his groin rose a full pitch as he watched her arch her back, her head tipped provocatively, her eyelids fluttering. He returned his attention to her beautiful breasts, rising and falling with each ragged breath she took. He brushed one hardened tip with the back of his hand and felt her shudder in response. She gasped as he took her in his mouth and suckled, gently at first, then harder, more insistently.

Could she feel how badly he needed her? He reached down, pulled up the hem of her gown, and slipped one hand under her skirts. He caressed the length of her thigh, soft as silk, and reached up further to push aside the cloth barrier between his hand and what he must have. And then he found it, the mound of springy curls, her hot, wet womanhood. He shuddered as he slipped a finger into her moist warmth. He vaguely heard her moan and call out his name as he buried his face into her neck. Slowly, expertly, he drew his finger out of her depths, caressing the bud at her entrance with his thumb, and then plunged in again.

Her eyes fluttered open and registered astonishment. "Henry, what...ohhhh, whatever are you...dear God." She moistened her lips with her tongue as she instinctively ground her hips toward his hand. Her breathing became shallow, rasping, and her entire body trembled against his. _So innocent_ , he thought, so artless in her response, in her pure and utter enjoyment.

"Dear God, Lucy, you must let me take you to the cottage. I _must_ have you."

Suddenly he felt her stiffen and pull away, gasping desperately for air. "Hen...Lord Mandeville, we must stop this at once. You've said...we can never..." Her eyes were enormous, her bottom lip quivering. "I thought I could do it, thought it would be enough, but...but, please, I beg of you." She tugged her dress back up. "I cannot do this."

Henry could no longer deny his heart. God help him, he loved her. He wanted to make her his, no matter the cost. Did she not know? Surely his heart told her what he could not with words.

"Lucy, marry me."

"But you said—"

"Damn what I said, I was a fool. Marry me." He took her hand, pressed it to his heart. Pressed his obvious erection against her. He couldn't do it, couldn't take her virginity without making her his wife. "Don't you feel what you do to me?"

Lucy's eyes flitted about nervously, indecisively. "Henry, I...are you certain? You realize I haven't much of a dowry? That you must allow me to continue...to..." she trailed off, a horrified look on her face in response to Henry's scowl.

_Bloody hell, what had he done?_ There were a dozen reasons why he couldn't marry her, and she'd named only two. He felt light-headed, almost drunk. He should have asked her to become his mistress, not his wife—offered to set her up in London and give her _carte_ _blanche_. He took a deep breath before speaking, carefully measuring his words.

"Surely you did not think me willing to allow my wife—"

"Of course I did. Why did you propose, then? You know I have no intention of giving it up. I've told you so many times. I made it perfectly clear." Unshed tears shone in her eyes.

He hated himself for what he was about to say. "Isn't it enough that I'm offering to marry you? My wife can't conduct herself like a common—"

"Do not say it, my lord." Her hands rose to cover her face. "Say you will reconsider—"

"No, Lucy. I will not yield, and I suggest you rethink your answer if you will not bow to my wishes." His mind was racing, pulling him in several directions. It _should_ be enough that he was willing to marry her. A girl like her should gratefully accept his hand, no matter what strings were attached.

"Your dress," he ground out, furious with himself. She silently turned her back to him, lifting her hair from her neck, and he fastened her gown with shaking hands. He needed to buy some time, to allow himself to think more clearly. He'd insisted on this ridiculous condition, knowing full well she'd never accept it. "Perhaps you should take the night to think upon it, and give me your answer in the morn."

Lucy nodded mutely.

"I'll send for you after breakfast and I'll have your—"

His words were interrupted by the clatter of hooves gaining upon them with alarming speed. Lucy vainly attempted to smooth down her skirts and Henry stepped back into the shadows, just as Colin Rosemoor thundered into the clearing.

"Lucy, there you are." Colin reined in his horse and swung to the ground. "Mother and Agatha have been searching high and low for you. I saw your horse in the meadow and..." He squinted and took in her obvious state of dishevelment—one shoulder of her bodice slipping down, the hem of her gown tucked into her garters, exposing a length of leg. "What the hell...Mandeville?" Colin looked around, his eyes sparking the moment he spied Henry lurking in the shadows.

Henry stepped forward. "Rosemoor, it's not what you think." He had no idea why he was denying the obvious. He'd offered to marry her, after all.

"It's exactly what I think, Mandeville. You're risking Lucy's reputation by taking her out here unchaperoned under cover of darkness. And considering the state of...of"—he sputtered—"virtual undress I find her in, you are quite lucky that it was I who found you. You," he said, turning back to a trembling Lucy, "should know better."

"Colin, I know it looks awful, but—"

"You're damn right it looks awful, Lucy."

"If you will only let me explain."

Lucy turned to Henry with pleading eyes. "Lord Mandeville," she said, and Henry noted that Rosemoor was _Colin_ but he was back to being _Lord Mandeville_. "If you will excuse us, Colin can escort me back to the house." Lucy reached for Henry's arm. "Please," she whispered huskily, "we will talk tomorrow."

"As you wish, Miss Abbington. I bid you both good night." He bowed, nearly blind with rage. Cursing himself, he set off to collect his things before returning to the house. Lucy had refused him—the thought echoed through his head as he returned to the open meadow. Refused to accede to his wishes. But that was what he'd wanted, wasn't it? He couldn't marry her. And yet her refusal aggravated him still, especially after everything he'd shared with her, every wound he'd opened tonight. And to cap it off, to have _Colin_ , as Lucy so intimately called him, chastise him, behaving like a jealous suitor and then dragging her off... He raised his eyes to the changeable moon and let loose a string of curses.

Why was nothing ever as it seemed?

***

Lucy shuddered and wrapped her arms about herself as Henry disappeared into the shadows.

"Lucy, you'll explain this. Now!" Colin barked.

"He...he offered for me," was all she could say, practically a whisper.

"I mean it, you'll tell me this instant why—" He broke off, his eyes wide with surprise. "He what?"

"He offered for me." She looked up into his disbelieving face with a smirk.

"You're saying he proposed marriage to you?"

"That's precisely what I'm saying, Colin."

His face burst into a grin. "I don't believe it."

"It's true."

"And...and dare I ask how you responded?"

"I said yes, at first." Lucy found she couldn't speak more than a handful of words at a time.

"At first?" Colin reached for her trembling hands.

"Before I realized he meant...he meant I must give it all up in order to marry him." She practically choked on the words.

Colin let out his breath in a huff. "Of course. I see." He clenched his hands into fists by his side.

"I'm to decide whether or not those conditions are acceptable, and give him my answer in the morning."

"I could kill him. What was he thinking?" He turned to look closely at Lucy; his eyes scanned her from head to toe as he swallowed hard. "Please, Lucy, tell me that you did not...that he did not—"

"No," she gasped. "No, Colin, I did _not_."

He sighed and wiped his brow. "What will you tell him, then?"

"I've no idea."

"Lucy, we must return to the house. Mrs. Stafford was near panic when she went to your room and found you weren't there. The whole house is likely looking for you by now. I fabricated some story about you frequently taking off for solitary rides to rid yourself of the headache."

Lucy nodded. "Thank you. I'm right behind you. Go on."

"No, I'll follow you."

She went silently to her horse and reached for the reins. Within moments she was galloping back down the lane, the sound of Colin's horse echoing behind her. Her tears were falling freely now, practically blinding her. Once she reached the stables, she dismounted and allowed Colin to return her gelding to the groom.

He returned at once and crossed to her side, taking her arm in his and leading her toward a secluded bench in the rose garden.

"Here, take a moment to collect yourself before we go in." He reached into his coat and produced a handkerchief. She took it and blew her nose.

"Oh, Colin, what shall I do? What shall I tell him?"

"Do you love him?"

The words fell against her like a weight. _Did_ she love him? And then she felt it, unfurling like a blossoming bud around her tightly guarded heart. Good Lord, she _did_ love him. She did. But could she give up her passion, her life, for him?

"I think I'm in love with him, Colin. I think I've been in love with him all along and just didn't see it. What am I to do? Even if I am able to"—she swallowed hard—"to give it all up for him...even if I can, what about Susanna? She'll never forgive me."

Colin took off his gloves and stuffed them into his coat before reaching up to her face, wiping away a tear with his thumb. "Lucy, please don't cry. If you love him—truly love him—Susanna will understand. She will come to understand," he corrected. "The decision is yours and yours alone. Don't let Susanna's infatuation influence it. Besides, you saw her yesterday making eyes at Mr. Merrill." He kissed her tenderly on the forehead. "You're...you're like a sister to me, Lucy, and I only want to see you happy. If Mandeville makes you happy, then so be it."

She reached her arms around his neck, burying her head in his coat. "Thank you, Colin. For everything." She pulled away and looked up into his handsome face. "I adore you, you know," she said, and planted a chaste kiss on his lips.

"I know. Now let's go, before Mrs. Stafford swoons again."

Lucy took his hand and rose to her feet. "Again? Oh no, tell me she didn't." A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

"Oh, she did. Quite dramatically." He chuckled as he took her arm and led her back to the house.

***

"What are you doing here?" Henry barked, looking up in surprise from his seat at his brother-in-law's desk and then looking away. He was unable to look at Lady Charlotte Haverford without feeling angry all over again. He clenched his fists in controlled rage. "Shouldn't you be in bed by now?"

"I needed to speak with you. In fact, I think you will find what I have to say quite, well, _interesting_."

"If you believe I have any interest in hearing anything you have to say, then you are gravely mistaken, Lady Charlotte. I will ask you to leave me at once."

"Not till you hear me out." She settled herself haughtily on a chair across from him, arranging her skirts neatly about her. He could only sit there and stare at her impertinence. "I will no longer play these games, Henry. You will marry me."

"Marry you?" he sputtered, rising to his feet.

"Yes, I have all but given up on your mother. Her influence over you must not be so great after all, no matter what she says. I went to her myself, you see, in the spring, just after you returned from Scotland. You must understand how embarrassing it is, a girl like me on the shelf for so long. She promised to do her best, and I suppose you would have had me if that deplorable Miss Abbington hadn't arrived when she did, throwing herself at your feet. But I believe you'll have me now."

He sat. Was she really saying these words? No woman of such breeding and position would dare say such things. She must be fit for Bedlam. "Have you lost your senses? Why ever would you presume something so preposterous?" He couldn't help but laugh. "I'm afraid you're too late, Charlotte. I've already made an offer, and I can assure you it was not your hand I requested."

"I'm fairly certain you'll reconsider your offer when you hear what I have to say about your precious Miss Abbington. Truly, even I'm a bit surprised at her audacity. Lady Worthington was even more shocked than I by what we witnessed tonight," she said with a smug smile.

_What the hell was she talking about_? Had she somehow seen him and Lucy together in the meadow? He rose and leaned against the desk, glaring angrily at the despicable woman. "Enough games, Charlotte. If you have something to tell me, then let's be done with it."

"I'm afraid she's played you for a fool, Lord Mandeville, even here at your sister's home. Not two hours past, Lady Worthington and I happened upon your Miss Abbington in a secluded spot in the rose garden, enjoying the intimate company of Mr. Colin Rosemoor."

The blood drained from his face at once.

"I see you are surprised." She arched one dark brow. "I cannot say I am. Yes, they were embracing one another quite ardently, and they kissed. Shocking, no? Your sister dragged me away and left them to their tryst, pleading for my silence. But I felt you should know the truth, before it's too late. She's a bit like your own mother, isn't she? Your mother and Cecelia Layton, all wrapped up in one pretty package."

Her words cut through his heart like a knife, but he would not give her the satisfaction, damn her. Damn her to hell. Damn them all to hell. All women were dishonorable, deceptive, damnable creatures. Even Lucy. Even his Lucy. He silently choked on his rage as he imagined her in Rosemoor's arms.

"Well?" she asked sweetly.

"Well done, Charlotte." He rose to his feet and applauded with a sneer. "Well done, indeed."

Charlotte looked triumphant. She stood and moved to his side. "Well, kiss me then. I shall return to London at once and announce our engagement immediately."

"My dear, I would rather kiss a snake. You played a good game, Charlotte, a good game indeed. But it wasn't Miss Abbington that I meant," he lied. "It's Lady Helena Waring I'll take as my bride, not you. Never you." He watched the color drain from her face as he strode angrily to the door. He paused in the doorway and turned to face her once more, the blood pounding in his temples. "The game's over, Charlotte. Checkmate."
Chapter 19

After a night of fitful, restless sleep, Lucy awoke to a vague sense of incompletion. She sighed in relief as the first golden rays of sunlight filtered through the drapes. Ah, morning at last. She thought of Henry, somewhere under this very same roof, and a sudden surge of emotion charged through her veins. _Love_ , she told herself. She was in love. She stretched languorously and folded her arms behind her head, lying back upon the pillow. A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth as she realized that this new emotion didn't change things. Could she give it all up for him—everything she'd worked so hard for? Could he truly mean to restrict her activities? He knew how much it meant to her, how unhappy she'd be without it. Surely she could convince him to reconsider.

What answer would she give him? An uncomfortable lump formed in her throat. As wonderful as this feeling was in her breast, this brilliant and dazzling thing called love, she could not tell him yes if he still insisted upon this ridiculous stipulation. Her heart fluttered. No, the price was too high—her independence, her identity, for God's sake. But he wouldn't—he couldn't—unless he didn't love her. She finally allowed herself to consider that painful possibility.

No, if he would not yield, then neither would she.

Hurrying to dress in her best morning gown, Lucy had Bridgette pay special attention to her hair arrangement. Her legs felt leaden as she walked down to the breakfast room and filled her plate from the sideboard with shaking hands. Several early risers joined her, but Henry was not among them. She found she had trouble swallowing her food and she burnt her mouth on her coffee. By the time Lucy finished her meal, the remainder of Lady Worthington's guests were ambling into the breakfast room, rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Careful to avoid meeting anyone's eyes or solicit any unnecessary conversation, she hurried to her room to await Henry's summons.

With a sigh, Lucy perched on a chair facing the balcony and picked up a novel to pass the time while she waited.

And waited.

After several interruptions from the Rosemoor girls and what seemed like hours, she set down her book and went to the window. The sun had risen high in the sky. It was near enough midday. Where was Henry?

She waited a bit longer, perhaps a half hour at most, and then could stand it no longer. She found some paper and a pen, sat at the small desk in her room, and scribbled a short note. She folded it and rang the bell for the butler.

The butler handed the paper back to Lucy with a frown. "I am afraid he has gone, miss. He left late last night."

***

"Lady Worthington, I'm embarrassed to come to you like this, but I find I must inquire as to your brother's whereabouts. We had an engagement this morning, and...well, he never showed nor sent word. I was told by your butler that he has left."

"Oh, dear. Miss Abbington, I'm afraid my impetuous brother has left me in a most uncomfortable position. I assumed he had spoken with you, as I suggested, before he took his leave."

"Took leave?"

"Yes. To London, I'm afraid."

She must have heard wrong. To London? Why would he leave without telling her, without having her answer first?

"He did not give you a chance to explain, then?"

"Explain? I'm afraid I don't understand." Her heart began to race; her brow broke out in a cold sweat.

"Last night after dinner I was forced to take a turn in the garden with Lady Charlotte, you see, and, well...how should I put this?" Lady Worthington twisted a handkerchief in her hands, her face drawn.

"As frankly as possible, madam," Lucy said in earnest."Yes, you're right. I'll be perfectly frank. Lady Charlotte and I happened upon you and Mr. Rosemoor in, well...in an embrace, of sorts. Some sort of tender moment in the garden."

Lucy could only gasp.

"Apparently she went straight to my brother and embellished the tale. She implied the embrace was more, well...more compromising than I myself believed it to be."

Lucy's legs felt weak, and she sank to the sofa. "Oh, no," was all she managed.

"Should I get you some water, Miss Abbington? Here, let me ring for the butler."

"No, I'm fine," she lied. Water would not help her. What she needed was a good, stiff brandy.

"I feel terrible for the role I've played in this. Henry sought me out, railing furiously, asking if it were true. Not knowing exactly what he was told, I admitted that we had witnessed you in Mr. Rosemoor's arms, but that I was unsure as to the nature of the embrace. I begged him to speak with you, to let you explain, but I'm afraid his anger dulled his sensibilities."

Lucy felt as though she might faint. Her thoughts were drawn back to the embrace, the kiss in question. It had been so innocent, nothing more than a sisterly kiss. Ironically, she'd been telling Colin that she was in love with Henry.

If only he'd given her the chance to explain. She rose to her feet. "I must go. Thank you for your candor, Lady Worthington, and let me assure you that what you witnessed was nothing more than one childhood friend comforting another. There was nothing untoward about it. I...I simply don't understand why Lady Charlotte would suggest such a thing."

But of course she understood perfectly. She wanted him for herself.

"I _am_ sorry." Lady Worthington patted Lucy's arm, her mouth drawn into a frown. "He is a stubborn, prideful man, and with his past experience...well, he is perhaps a trifle too sensitive."

She was obviously speaking of Cecelia Layton. "Perhaps," Lucy said, but this was nothing, _nothing_ , like that. He should have allowed her side of the story. She deserved that, at least. Could he possibly believe that she would run straight from him—from his proposal—into another man's arms? Lucy could bear the lady's sympathy no longer. She turned and fled.

***

"Lucy, dear, you look so pale. Are you certain you are well?"

Lucy looked up at her aunt, sitting across from her in the carriage, her brows knitted in concern. "I'm certain," she muttered, shifting her gaze to the window. The rolling countryside finally gave way to the bustle of Town, and she felt her anxiety mounting. She silently chided herself for allowing her emotions to show so blatantly. It was only her pride that was wounded, she reminded herself. She would have refused him, after all, had he insisted still on restricting her freedoms. Perhaps it was better this way.

She swallowed hard and dropped her gaze to her hands in her lap. She was surprised to see that they were trembling, but then, the past day had been so trying. She'd done a fine job of pretending nothing was amiss, and Jane and Susanna had been so pleasantly occupied that they'd not even noticed her discomfort. Only Colin had seen through her ruse. He'd heard of Henry's sudden departure and come to ask Lucy what had happened. She'd been unable to tell him, unwilling to open the wound, so she'd simply said he'd been called away and ended the conversation.

At least she still had her training at the college to look forward to. In little more than a fortnight she'd have secured her letter of endorsement from Professor Williams, and she'd be well on her way to independence. Everything had turned out exactly as she'd planned. She shook her head in hopes of clearing it and attempted a weak smile.

She could barely wait to climb under the silky sheets of her familiar bed, breathe in the scent of the garden's blossoms below. When she awoke tomorrow, she'd be fully restored to her normal self.

The happy chatter in the carriage came to a halt as they finally pulled in front of Rosemoor House.

"Oh, Lady Rosemoor. Welcome home." Peering out the window in the twilight, Lucy could see Mrs. Butler standing on the walk below, her two daughters behind her. Lady Rosemoor and Aunt Agatha alighted from the carriage and the girls clambered out after them and exchanged pleasantries with the Butler girls.

"Did you hear the news?" Mrs. Butler was asking excitedly. "I'm not at all surprised, not at all."

"Whatever do you mean?" Lady Rosemoor asked. "We've been away in the country and I'm afraid I haven't heard the recent _on-dits_."

"Lord Mandeville," the lady said with relish. "It is said that he's about to ask for Lady Helena Waring's hand." Gertrude and Portia nodded in agreement, their heads bobbing. "They made quite the pair last night at the Marsden ball," Mrs. Butler continued. "Why, they danced no less than four consecutive dances, and he held her shockingly close. I've a mind to bet that their betrothal will be announced by the week's end."

All the air left Lucy's lungs in a rush. She could hardly remember what happened next, except that she fled silently into the front hall with Jane holding her arm.

As she approached the staircase, the room began to spin. She reached for the balustrade to steady herself, gripping the polished wood with white knuckles.

"Oh, Miss Abbington, there you are." It was Penwick, holding out an envelope to her. "Mr. Wilton brought this letter for you yesterday. He said it was urgent."

Jane looked on with a worried frown as Lucy broke the seal and unfolded the missive with trembling hands.

She scanned the lines, barely seeing the words but understanding their meaning all too clearly. She was no longer welcome at the college. The faculty had learned of Professor Williams' tutelage and forbade him to continue, under threat of suspension.

She heard herself cry out as the letter fluttered to the carpet. No, it couldn't be true. It was all she had left, after all. Now there was nothing—nothing at all—holding her here.

The next thing she knew, she was in her bedchamber packing her trunks. Aunt Agatha tried to dissuade her, but she had threatened to hire a hack herself and make the journey alone in the dead of night if her aunt did not agree to accompany her home at once. She simply could not remain in London. She had to get home to her papa. She would leave on the morning coach.

Her gowns were thrown haphazardly into the trunk, bits of silk and lace in a jumbled heap. She gathered the stack of books from her bedside table and dumped them on top of the clothing without care. As she headed for the escritoire, she became vaguely aware of an insistent knock upon the door.

"Lucy," Colin called through the heavy wood. "I must speak with you."

"Come in, then," she said tonelessly and sank down onto the bed.

He closed the door behind him and stood before her with his arms folded across his chest, his neck and face a bright, angry red. "Lucy, you must tell me what happened. I swear to you, I can barely restrain myself from seeking out and strangling the bastard."

"I cannot tell you, Colin." She refused to let herself feel anything.

"Cannot, or will not? Lucy, you must. After what I saw, after what you told me? He proposed to you, Lucy. You cannot pretend it didn't happen. Why are they saying he's to marry Lady Helena and not you? Tell me something to keep me from calling the man out."

Lucy felt herself begin to shake and the angry tears returned with a vengeance. "Oh, Colin, you'll never believe what she's done."

"Lady Helena?"

"No, Lady Charlotte. That night in Oxfordshire, when we went back to the house, you and I, we sat in the garden and talked. We embraced, and I kissed you. Nothing more than a sisterly kiss, but Lady Charlotte saw us." She dropped her head into her hands. "She saw us, Colin, and she went straight to Henry. Whatever lies she told him made him angry enough that he left that night without a second thought."

"You mean to say that she told him that we—that you and I—Good God, Lucy, we are..." He shook his head wildly. "If she only knew the truth."

Lucy looked up at Colin. His face was white, his features drawn. "The truth?" she asked, her voice quavering. "Whatever do you mean?"

Colin began to pace, his arms stiff by his sides. "What I mean is...that is...bloody hell!" He stopped and pressed his fingers to his temples, his anguished eyes heavenward. "I do not know what to do, God help me."

Lucy shook her head in confusion. Poor Colin, his concern for her was so touching. And she _did_ love him in her own way. But not like she loved Henry. Never, _never_ , would she allow herself to love like that again. Colin would never hurt her as Henry had. Colin was everything that was good and true and honorable. All at once a brilliant thought occurred to her, like a shining beacon of hope.

She struggled to make her voice steady. "Colin, remember the day after the ball? You...you asked me to marry you then. I know I don't deserve you, but if you'll have me...oh, Colin, say you'll marry me." She reached for his sleeve, looking up at him entreatingly.

Colin stumbled back from her. "I can't marry you."

Lucy dropped her head in shame. One tear coursed down her cheek and dropped silently to the floor.

"Don't cry, Lucy. You must understand...this whole mess...it isn't what it seems."

She looked up into his tortured face. "Whatever do you mean?"

"I can't marry you, Lucy, and not because I don't love you. I _do_ love you, as a sister."

"Can't that be enough? Many marriages start with less. You said so yourself."

"No, you don't understand." He clenched his fists and turned toward the window, his face ashen. "Lucy, I can't marry you because you _are_ my sister." He said it so quietly that she was sure she had misunderstood.

"Your sister? Colin, that's nonsense." She stared at him in wonder.

He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a folded, tattered square of paper, and turned to face her. "I've been carrying this around, thinking I should return it to the solicitors. Perhaps you should have it instead. "

"Wha—what is it?" Her hands shook as she took the paper.

"I don't suppose you were ever to find out. Read it. You will understand." He sat down beside her as she unfolded the yellowed page and began to read.

The words on the page began to blur and, for the first time in her life, Lucy swooned.

Moments later she opened her eyes and blinked. Colin was patting her wrist, calling out her name. At once she remembered, and sat bolt upright. She saw the letter lying there on the floor like a serpent.

"Colin, can it be true?" she whispered. "Tell me it isn't true." Her heart was beating so wildly that for a moment she feared it would burst.

"I'm afraid it is. Here, lie back down. There were many letters, letters like this one. A whole packet of them. I read only two. Enough to confirm the fact that we are indeed siblings. Well, half siblings," he corrected. "We share the same father."

She lay back down, her head on the pillow, her eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling. "Does my papa know?"

Colin nodded.

"How long have you known?"

"I found out only recently, right after the ball, Lucy. Yours and Susanna's come-out. But don't you see? What Lady Charlotte saw was nothing more than a brother embracing a sister. Go to Mandeville and tell him. Then he will understand—he can set things right."

"No, I cannot. He had no faith in me. He just"—she paused to swallow— "he took her word without allowing me to explain. I don't want him to set things right. This doesn't change anything with Henry. It just means my whole life has been nothing but a lie."

"Your father loves you, Lucy. His love is no lie."

"I believe that is true, but... Oh, Colin, I need a moment alone. What I really need is a nice, long ride, but I suppose that is not possible at this hour."

He shook his head.

She settled for a long, hot bath instead. Lucy sat in the steaming water and tried not to cry, but it was useless. She had always cried at the drop of a hat. It maddened her because she felt tears were for the weak, and she wished to be strong.

But never had her heart ached so miserably. Her mother and Lord Rosemoor? How could they? She'd been so young when her mother had died, yet she had vivid memories of her, memories of a lovely, happy woman. She'd always had the notion that her parents had married for love, that their relationship had been full of warmth and obvious affection. Were her memories so flawed? She kicked the side of the tub in frustration as she tried to make sense of it all. Why else would her mother have married beneath her station, if not for love? They'd eloped, after all. Her papa was all she had, and yet they shared no blood. And what of Nicholas? Was he...was he a bastard like she was? She shuddered violently, despite the warmth of the water.

She squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled the soothing scent of lavender rising up from the steam. Her whole life was in disarray. She'd come to London hoping for some veterinary training, nothing more. And now that dream had vanished. She'd certainly never meant to fall in love. Truly, she hadn't really believed it possible. She'd always secretly worried that something was wrong with her, wrong with her heart. But no, clearly her heart was in working order, and now Henry had crushed it under the heel of his boot. And why not?

She had tried so hard not to love Henry, to push aside the feelings that had crept stealthily into her heart. She had denied it, railed against it. She shook her head sadly. She would go home, go on with her life, breed her horses and try to heal what needed healing. But her heart would never be the same. She knew of no cure that would save her.
Chapter 20

Henry sprawled on the sofa, one almost empty bottle clutched in his hand. His shirt was unbuttoned to the waist, his shirttails pulled from his trousers. He hadn't moved from this room, from this spot—except to relieve himself—since he'd returned from the Marsden ball. He'd shut himself in the darkened study and drunk everything he could get his hands on before slipping into a dark, empty sleep. Once he'd finally awakened, he'd started all over again. Empty bottles littered the floor. He was sure he reeked, but he didn't give a damn. He didn't give a damn about anything at the moment.

He heard the door rattle and opened one eye just wide enough to see his sister stride into the room and stand before him with her hands on her hips. "What're you doing 'ere, Ella? Can't a man shelebrate hish upcoming engagement in private? Dinja hear? I'm about to offer fer Lady Helena."

Eleanor's mouth was drawn into a tight line and her eyes flashed angrily. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Wha's it look like I'm doin', dear sishter? Drinking myself sloppy, that's wha' I'm doin'." He pushed the bottle toward her. "Wanna join me?"

"Get up this instant, Henry Ashton. Sit up and look at me." She roughly grabbed him by one arm and tugged him into a sitting position.

He slumped over and rested his throbbing head in his hands. "Whaddja go and do that for?"

"How long have you been drinking?"

"Hmmm...wha' day is it?" He had no idea. Mercifully, he'd entirely lost track of time. One day? Perhaps two?

"Snap out of it, this minute. You're going to tell me what's going on. How dare you sneak out of my home in the dead of night like that, without a word to me? Miss Abbington came looking for you the very next morning, you know, and I had the unpleasant task of telling her that my faithless brother took off in the night. Why didn't you speak with her first, give her a chance to explain?"

Anger flooded through his veins, clearing his head with its raw intensity. The clarity was too much for him to bear, so he took another swig of the dulling liquid. Eleanor stood and reached for the bottle, swiped it from his grasp, and threw it across the room. Henry jumped as it shattered against the fireplace.

"Wha's there to explain? She made her choice and she moved on. With alarming speed, I might add. Right inna the arms of Colin Rosemoor."

"Two childhood friends sharing a tender moment, nothing more. Miss Abbington herself confirmed it. She's not in love with Colin Rosemoor, you ass, she's in love with you."

He looked up at her sharply, his heart thumping against his ribs. "Did she say that?"

"No, not in so many words, but it was obvious. Anyone with two eyes and a fully functioning mind could see it."

His stomach fell. Every last ounce of hope drained from his body. "She doesn't love me. Besides, it's no use. I won't be like _him_." He lounged onto his back again, one leg carelessly thrown across the arm of the sofa.

"Are we back to that again? No, Henry, you've made quite sure that you're nothing like Papa, nothing at all. He was a dreamer, a romantic at heart. He wanted desperately to believe in Mama, in her love for him. He believed he married for love and he never wavered from that love, despite the painful truths he was forced to face. But you...no, you're nothing like him. In fact, you've worked so hard to ensure it that you know who you resemble instead? Don't you see it, Henry? You're like _her_."

Bile rose in his throat. "Damn you, Eleanor." His voice was hoarse, thick with emotion. "How dare you say that? I am nothing like her. I am my own man, nothing less, nothing more."

"Hear me out, Henry, and then if you wish never to speak to me again, so be it. But I won't let you continue to ruin your life without having my say. I know you as well as I know myself. My heart aches every time yours does. Never before have I felt your grief as I have these past few days. I've lain in bed awake at night, feeling myself pulled toward you, wishing to ease your suffering."

She reached for his sleeve, but he wrenched his arm from her grasp and turned onto his side, his back to her. He was silently seething, practically blinded by red-hot rage. He could barely catch his breath, and he refused to let her see his reaction to her words.

She sat on the chair beside the sofa. Her voice continued, gentle now. "But you must let me help you," she was saying. "Otherwise, there's no hope. It isn't what characteristics, what traits you've inherited from your parents that make you who you are. It's the choices you make, Henry, that decide what kind of person you become. You don't care for Lady Helena Waring. Instead, you're considering her for what she could do for you. For her connections, her father's power, her wealth. Just like Mama, Henry, don't you see? Papa's intentions were good, he just didn't choose wisely. But Miss Abbington is not Mama. Surely you realize that? You must know her heart is good and true. And she does love you—I truly believe that. I'm not blind. I see the similarities in her and Mama, both beautiful and a bit unconventional, and yes, both the daughters of commoners, lacking wealth and connections. But the similarities end there. Their characters are as different as night and day. You're in no danger—none whatsoever—of suffering our father's fate."

A twisting pain shot through his heart, making him inhale sharply. Dear God, she was right. She was right. He _wasn't_ any better than his mother. Why hadn't he seen it? His palms felt damp and clammy, and for a moment he thought he might be sick. He sat up, his eyes brimming. "Eleanor, what have I done? What have I become?"

Her eyes filled with tears, and she reached for him. He clutched at her desperately as he felt his own cheeks dampen. It took him several moments to rein in his emotions, to choke back the self-loathing that threatened to engulf him.

"It's not too late, Henry. Go to her, go to Miss Abbington. Tell her how you feel."

"I can't. How can I? It isn't yet settled, but I've made my intentions clear to Lady Helena's father." He buried his face in her neck, inhaling her familiar lemony scent. Immediately he felt soothed a measure.

"You're not yet betrothed to her, you said so yourself. There's still time. There must be some way to extricate yourself. Face a breach of promise suit if you must, but you can't marry her."

"No," he pulled away from Eleanor and shook his head, wiping his face on his sleeve. "I must uphold my honor, my duty." He stood on shaky legs, and began pacing back and forth in front of the sofa.

She grasped his wrist and urged him to sit. He slumped to the sofa and took her hand in his. He looked down and studied her hand—so elegant, with long, tapered fingers. He opened her hand and pressed his palm against hers, their fingers mirroring each other's. Hers came just short of the length of his—nothing like Lucy's tiny, delicate hands. No, when he held Lucy's small hand in his, it practically disappeared within his own. He swallowed and looked up to meet Eleanor's eyes. "Lady Helena is an appropriate match," he said at last.

"But...but Miss Abbington. What about Miss Abbington?"

"It's too late, Eleanor. I've ruined whatever chance we had."

"No, it's _not_ too late." She pounded her palm with one fist. "Go to her at once. Find her and tell her you love her."

"Simply telling Lucy I love her won't solve it. It's more than that."

Eleanor tipped her head back and sighed. "What now, Henry? What new obstacle have you imagined?" she snapped.

"She won't have me, not unless I promise to allow her certain freedoms that I'm not willing to concede."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"She's secretly studying at the veterinary college, did you know that?" Eleanor's face registered surprise. "Yes," he continued, "it's true. She'll only marry me if I allow her to continue running about, treating injured animals."

"So? What's so bad about her pursuing her talents, something she loves? Don't tell me you demanded she give it all up to marry you."

"Of course I did."

"You fool. It's why you love her, don't you realize that? Take all that away from Miss Abbington—strip it from her—and what do you have left? Not the same girl you've fallen in love with. Would you really want her that way?"

He shook his head. "Of course not. I can barely imagine her without it."

"Then why would you insist on such a thing? I don't understand."

"I've no idea why. I was angry at myself for succumbing to her, for offering to marry her. I suppose I was trying to punish her. I neither care what interests she pursues nor give a damn what anyone else thinks."

"Do you love her?"

"I do."

"And she loves you. I'm sure of it. Then there's no problem, as far as I can see."

Could she possibly be right? He wanted to believe it—his whole body strained to believe it. So his marriage wouldn't be a political alliance. So his wife wouldn't bring anything to the union—no prestige, no wealth, no land. No beneficial connections.

He could have those things if he married Lady Helena, but at what price?

His mind was spinning, trying to grasp the unfamiliar concept. Hell, he could barely think straight, his mind was so muddled from the liquor. If what Eleanor believed was true—if Lucy did love him, if she was honest and true, if she would never betray him—would he care if he lived out his days at Covington Hall, no richer, no stronger, and no more powerful than he was at this very moment? Could he possibly feel for a lifetime the way he'd felt every moment they were together in Oxfordshire?

That humid night, gazing up at her on the balcony in her dressing gown, laughing and reciting Shakespeare... That evening in the meadow, lying on the grass and gazing up at the stars... Had he ever been happier? He felt his chest tighten. No, he'd never been happier, never felt so carefree. And those precious minutes when he'd held her in his arms, tasted her sweet mouth, felt her soft body beneath his...those were nothing short of bliss. Would he trade it all, even for a dukedom?

Not bloody likely.

He made up his mind in an instant. He rushed to Eleanor and kissed her firmly on her lips, nearly knocking her over with his eagerness.

"Thank you, Eleanor," he said, and rushed toward the door.

"Wait, where are you going?"

"To Rosemoor House."

"But you can't, not like that."

"Like what?"

"Never mind." She shook her head. "Give her my love," she called as Henry raced out.

***

A quarter hour later, Henry found himself standing before the Rosemoors' townhouse in St. James, suddenly self-conscious. He hadn't a coat, nor had he shaved in days, and he reeked of liquor. Why hadn't he taken the time to clean himself, smarten himself up a bit? Bloody hell, he was coming to tell Lucy he'd been wrong—to ask her if she'd have him. The least he could do was come to her looking like a gentleman. He feared her protectors would never allow him past the threshold in his present condition, and truly he wouldn't blame them. As he paused for a moment before the door, trying to decide whether he should stay or go, the heavy oaken panel swung open and Colin Rosemoor stood before him, his face livid.

"What the hell are you doing here, Mandeville?"

Rosemoor never failed to raise his ire. "I've come to see Lucy." Henry met the younger man's angry glare with his own. He saw Rosemoor's gaze sweep over his disheveled form, disdain and disgust evident in his haughty countenance.

"You look like a beggar, Mandeville, and you stink to high heaven. Besides, she's not here. She's quit London, thanks to you. She and Mrs. Stafford returned to Nottinghamshire yesterday." He started to pull the door shut, but Henry planted one dusty boot in the doorjamb.

"You'd best get out of here, Mandeville, or I won't be held responsible for any damage I inflict. You've done enough, don't you think? You should have seen her, you bastard. She's nothing but a hollow shell," he sputtered. "You've taken a spirited mare and broken her beyond recognition. You've ruined her chances, sealed her fate."

Something in Henry snapped. "You know, Rosemoor, perhaps I was right after all. Everyone assures me the two of you are nothing more than friends, but you sound more like a spurned lover to me."

Rosemoor's eyes blazed. A vein in his temple throbbed visibly, and he clenched his fists tightly by his sides. Henry took a step back just as Rosemoor's hand flew out, his fist connecting solidly with Henry's left eye. The force startled him and knocked him to the ground, where he sprawled inelegantly. He reached up to rub his smarting eye as he muttered an oath.

Rosemoor stood over him, his legs planted wide and his arms folded across his breast. The anger in his eyes was palpable. "You bloody fool," he spat out. "Yes, I love her."

Henry smirked. Of course. He'd been right all along.

"Like a sister," he hissed. "Of course I love her, just as I love Jane and Susanna. You betrayed her over a brotherly embrace, a sisterly kiss. And then she arrives here amid rumors that you're soon to be engaged to Lady Helena, and as if that weren't enough, they'd sent word that she was no longer welcome at the college."

"Bloody hell," was all he could manage.

"Is that all you have to say?"

"I owe you an apology." He rose awkwardly to his feet, brushing dirt and dust from his trousers.

"It's not me you owe an apology, it's—"

"I realize that." Henry grimaced. "I came here today to tell her I was wrong, to see if she'd still have me. I _am_ a bloody fool, Rosemoor. You were right on that count."

"She loves you, Mandeville. Damn it to hell if I know why, but she does. Her heart's broken."

"I'll go to her at once."

"Damn straight you will." He saw Colin's nose wrinkle. "I say, though, old boy, you could do with a bath first."

"Where in Nottinghamshire might I find her?" He was surprised to realize he didn't know. He'd never asked.

"Ludlow House, in the village of Hollowsbridge. If you take the afternoon mail coach, you should be there in two days' time. But I'm warning you, if you do anything—anything at all—to hurt her, I'll find you and shoot you myself. Understood?"

Henry reached a hand out to Rosemoor, who took it warily. "Understood. You have my word as a gentleman. I know my actions of late haven't shown it, but I _do_ love her, and I vow never again to hurt her. Thank you, Rosemoor. I owe you a great debt."

"You do, indeed."

"If she'll have me, we'll name our firstborn son for you."

Henry could see the corners of Rosemoor's mouth flicker briefly. "I suppose that'll do."

Henry flashed a grateful smile before turning and heading home to pack his bag. After a bath, of course, and a bit of unfinished business with Lady Helena's father.
Chapter 21

"Dear, you must snap out of this." Aunt Agatha patted Lucy's cheek. "You've hardly eaten anything in days. Your cheeks look hollow, and those circles beneath your eyes...oh, my." She turned her head away from Lucy, a handkerchief clutched to her mouth. "I've summoned your father up here to have a look at you."

"No, Auntie. I'm fine." Lucy had avoided her papa since her return, not yet ready to face the questions she knew she must ask him. Thankfully, he'd been quite occupied attending to the young duchess' premature infant, born at Newcastle Abbey the same day Lucy and Agatha had returned home.

"You're _not_ fine, dearest, and I'm at a loss as to what to do. I know this past week has been rather trying, but if you could only tell me exactly what happened—"

"I'm sorry, Auntie, but I'm not yet ready to talk about it. Please understand. I just wish to...rest." Yes, that's all she wanted—some rest. But instead, each night as the sun disappeared beneath the horizon and the moon rose to reign in the skies she found herself pacing the floor of her chamber, unable to sleep. She'd spent the past week in bed, staring at the walls, too lethargic to get up, to eat, to do anything at all. Eventually she'd get over it; she'd get up and go on with her life. But...not just yet. After all, she'd lost everything in a single day. Her hopes, her dreams. Even her precious memories of a virtuous, faithful mother. All shattered to bits, just like her heart.

"There he is now. Oliver!" her aunt called out as the creaking stairs heralded her father's approach.

"Ah, and how is my patient?" Her father appeared in the doorway. "A bit out of curl, I hear." He moved toward the bed, his brows knitting together as his eyes swept across her face. "Good lord, little one. I had no idea..." He looked to Aunt Agatha with a frown.

"I told you, Oliver. She's quite unwell." She blew her nose loudly into her handkerchief. "I must go see if Cook has the broth ready," she said, hurrying out of the room.

Lucy submitted to a thorough examination, allowing her father to listen to her heart and lungs, check her ears and throat, her pulse. His worried expression did not diminish as he finished his task.

"I see nothing physically wrong besides a lack of nourishment and rest. Lucy, you must eat. You must tell me what's wrong. You're a strong girl—I've never seen you so despondent. What happened in London? What brought you home, and in this state?" He sat down on the edge of the bed and took Lucy's hands in his.

Lucy squeezed her eyes shut. "A bit of a broken heart, Papa, that's all."

"That's all?" He leaned closer, peered at her face anxiously. "I feel it's more than that, little one. There's something you're not telling me. You've been avoiding me since your return."

At last, the dam burst. "Oh, Papa, how could she? How could Mama do that to you?"

He looked taken aback. "Whatever do you mean?"

"I...I learned the truth about...about Mama. And Lord Rosemoor. Can it be true?"

He sighed and patted her hand. "Lucy, dearest, I hoped this day would never come. Yes, it is true."

"How could she? How could she do such a thing?" Lucy felt her cheeks burn as she reached for her papa's hand.

"Please do not think ill of your dear mother. I'll tell you, Lucy. I'll tell you everything, and then perhaps you'll understand."

Lucy nodded mutely, fearing the truth. Could it possibly be worse than what she'd imagined?

"Firstly, you must know your mother never wronged me. The indiscretion took place before I wed her, after all."

"Whatever do you mean? I was born more than a year after you wed."

"I'm afraid we weren't truthful about the date of our nuptials."

"But why?"

"Let me finish, little one. You see, I was your grandfather's personal physician in Shropshire. It was I who confirmed your mother's pregnancy. I do not know the details of her affair with Lord Rosemoor—I never wished to know. But your mother and I had always shared a measure of respect. As I'm sure you know, her love of literature and philosophy far surpassed her station. We often talked, discussed books. When Lord Wexley was faced with the situation of his daughter's ruin, he offered me her hand in return for my silence and my acceptance of her child. I was a bit despondent at the time, having just lost my own wife. You knew I was married once before your mother?"

"Yes, of course," Lucy murmured. His short-lived and tragic first marriage had never been a secret in their household.

"I agreed, but only if Sarah conceded to the match. I did not want to force her into the life of the gentry when she'd been bred to the nobility. But Sarah agreed. We eloped at once, and Lord Wexley set us up here in Nottingham. Ludlow House was part of your mother's dowry. As you well know, your mother's relationship with her father's family was quite distant."

Lucy nodded. She barely knew her mother's relations.

"As we set up household and awaited your birth, our affection deepened. She assured me that the affair with Lord Rosemoor was nothing more than a lapse, and that it would never happen again. I was uncomfortable when she wanted to take you to Glenfield to visit the year after your birth. But Lady Rosemoor was your mother's dearest friend, after all, and I could not deny her the continuance of their affection."

"But how could you forgive Lord Rosemoor?"

"I'm not certain I ever did. I couldn't bear his company. Many a year they invited us to join them in London. Your mother wished to go but was reluctant to travel to Town without me. I'm afraid I could never bring myself to go, unable to see past my jealousy. Yet, despite it all, Lord Rosemoor has given me my greatest treasure. You, my precious child." He kissed her on the forehead. "I have never once thought of you as anything other than my true child, and I shall feel the same until I am in my grave. You _are_ my daughter, Lucy. It was I who held and rocked you as an infant, I who kissed your scrapes and comforted you when you had nightmares. Not Lord Rosemoor."

"But Nicholas...is...is he—"

"Yes, dearest, Nicholas is indeed my own son, of that I am certain."

Lucy was relieved at this, although it meant that she and Nicholas were only half siblings, no more closely related than she and Colin.

"I will not lie and say our relationship was perfect. There was a strain, yes. Much went unsaid between us. But I did come to trust her, and I do believe she loved me. I know that she loved you with every breath in her body." He patted her hand again. "And that is all there is to tell you. Now, my child, will you eat something? Can I bring you up the broth Cook has prepared? Perhaps some toast and tea?"

Lucy nodded wordlessly.

A half hour later she sat up in bed, spooning the last of the broth into her mouth. She was surprised at how good the warm nourishment tasted. She sipped her tea appreciatively while her aunt sat by her side busying herself with needlework, the first smile Lucy had seen in days on the woman's face.

Lucy set down her cup as she heard the faint clatter of hooves in the distance, drawing closer. Aunt Agatha looked up, then went to the window to peer out curiously. "Why, who could that be? I'll be right back, dear. You just rest a bit." She collected Lucy's tray and hurried out.

She heard the front door open several minutes later, and...could it be? She thought her ears must be deceiving her... She could've sworn she heard her aunt call out, 'Lord Mandeville'.

_Henry_?

Henry took off his hat and bowed stiffly. "Mrs. Stafford."

"Goodness gracious, Lord Mandeville, whatever are you doing here at Ludlow House?" The woman looked flustered. His appearance here must be quite a shock, he supposed.

"I'm sorry to arrive unannounced like this, Mrs. Stafford, but I just arrived by post chaise and I must see Lucy at once."

"Is something amiss? Is it the Rosemoors?"

"No, nothing like that. But I must speak with her."

"Well, my lord, I'm afraid that Lucy is doing quite poorly at present. I'm not sure that she's up to visitors, and besides, she might not wish...that is to say, I mean..." She cleared her throat uncomfortably, refusing to meet his gaze.

"It's all right, Mrs. Stafford. She might not wish to see me. I accept that. But please, make her understand how vital it is that I speak with her."

"I must say, Lord Mandeville, the poor girl has suffered quite enough at your hands. I'm not certain I'd like to convince her to see you." Her features hardened, her mouth set in a tight line. Her disapproval was evident.

He reached for the woman's hand, grasped it firmly between his. "Please, Mrs. Stafford. I was wrong, terribly wrong, and I must set things right with her."

The old woman's eyes became damp and she sniffled before her mouth curved into a weak smile. "Let me speak with her," she said, leading him to the parlor to wait.

His heart raced and his palms grew damp in anticipation as he took a seat. It had been a long journey—two tedious days— and he'd gone over and over what he would say to her in his mind. Yet now that the time drew near, he was second-guessing everything, unsure what he could possibly say or do to make things right. Would she forgive him? He'd never stopped to consider the possibility that she might not.

When Mrs. Stafford finally reappeared, her face looked pinched and she was wringing her hands nervously. He stood expectantly.

"I'm afraid, Lord Mandeville, that she has refused to see you. I tried, my lord, but she is resolute. She is a terribly stubborn girl, my niece. I'm afraid you must give her some time, that's all."

"I'll come back tomorrow. The chaise left off at an inn in the village. I'll stay there for the night."

"Yes, well, I meant perhaps more time than that. You see, she's just had quite a shock, and I'm not sure she's yet up to hearing what you have to say. Perhaps in a few weeks."

"A few weeks?"

"I'm afraid she isn't herself these days. She needs some time. She's not well."

He felt the blood drain from his face. Perhaps she was seriously ill. He raked a hand through his hair. "Not well? Is it serious?"

"No, nothing that time won't mend. Please, my lord. Come back in a fortnight."

"No, I shall return in the morn. Thank you, Mrs. Stafford. I know you tried your best. I will see you tomorrow. Perhaps by then she will be ready."

For two days he appeared at the doorstep of Ludlow House, only to be turned away. "Please, just give her time," Mrs. Stafford said over and over again until he could no longer bear it. If she needed time, then he would give her time. He couldn't deny her whatever she needed, not after what he'd done to her. What was a fortnight when they had the rest of their lives to spend together? He would go to Covington Hall and wait till she was ready to hear him out. He donned his hat as he stepped into the lane, looking up one last time at the vine-covered façade of Lucy's home.

A curtain fluttered in a first-floor window, and for an instant Henry was sure he saw a halo of golden hair framed in the glass before the fleeting image disappeared. A sharp pain wrenched his gut. How could he make things right if she wouldn't speak to him, wouldn't even see him? He kicked a rock, sending it flying in the air with a puff of dust, before setting off on foot toward the village inn.

Lucy moved from the window when she saw him look up. Had he seen her? She hoped he hadn't. She sank to the moss-colored velvet chaise longue and forced herself to breathe normally. Would the man never give up? She'd been nothing short of a prisoner in her own bedchamber these past few days, afraid to venture past the safety of the house lest he find her alone. Perhaps now he would return to London, where he belonged. She fiddled absently with the embroidery on the hem of her frock.

A knock sounded upon her door.

"Yes," she called out.

The door opened and Aunt Agatha peered in, a frown darkening her features. "It's just me, dear. He's gone."

"Thank you, Auntie. I'm sorry to leave you to such an unpleasant task."

"Well, I think perhaps he is returning home at last. Do you not think...that is, is it not possible for you to hear him out? To give him one chance to say his piece?"

"Why should I?" Lucy sat up abruptly. "Did he give me a chance to say my piece before he believed Lady Charlotte's lies?"

"What you say is true, but he only wants to tell you he was wrong."

"Well, of course he was wrong, the fool. Never again will I allow him the opportunity to hurt me." Her cheeks were burning. She was glad he had come to his senses. Perhaps now he knew how it felt to be cruelly rejected, cast aside without thought.

"I'm sure you feel that way now, but with time—"

"Time won't change my feelings, Auntie."

"If you're certain, then." She reached over and patted Lucy's cheek. "He's a good man, Lucy. I know he is. He made a mistake—a terrible mistake—and I hope he realizes what a dear price he's paying for it."

Lucy hoped her aunt was right, that he realized he'd made a terrible mistake. She hoped he was miserable. Most of all, she hoped she'd never see him again. It was the only way she knew to protect her damaged heart. And yet there was a giant void in her chest, an empty place that would remain that way as long as he was missing from her life. Whatever was she to do?

***

Lucy wriggled her feet out of her boots and tossed them to the grass, then slipped down her stockings and rolled them over her ankles. Raising her skirts to her knees, she tentatively dipped one toe into the water. She shivered as the cool ripples rushed over her foot. She couldn't resist glancing down appreciatively at her bare legs, growing more defined with muscle. Each day she felt physically stronger than the day before. She waded further into the shallows, the refreshing water cooling her ankles. If only her emotional well-being was recovering so rapidly. She went through the motions of returning to her life as it once was, but she felt hollow inside.

Princess ambled over and dipped her head into the water for a drink. "It's nice, isn't it Princess? I suppose we should be getting home, though, hadn't we?" The horse eyed its mistress curiously, and whinnied in response. Lucy laughed and looked at the sky. The afternoon sun had moved toward the horizon. Yes, the hour grew late, and she'd promised to help Aunt Agatha plan next week's menu before dinner. Roast pheasant tonight, her favorite. It _was_ good to be home, she reminded herself. This was the life she was meant for, not the glittering world of the _beau_ _monde_.

A half hour later, she led Princess to her stall and pitched a square of hay through the door. She brushed her hands and wiped them on her skirts before peering into the remaining stalls to make certain Nicholas had hayed the rest of the horses. Just as she finished her inspection, her brother came running breathlessly into the barn.

"Lucy," he called out, "you have a letter."

"Thank you, Nicholas." She smiled at her brother and took the envelope he held out. "Have you taken a look at Princess lately? Look how defined she's become. The new diet is clearly working. I can't understand how you allowed her to become so flaccid."

"Well, what do you expect?" Nicholas's brow was knitted over green eyes so much like her own. "No one was riding her all these months. She's your mare, after all, and you can't expect me to go around on a mount called Princess now, can you?"

Lucy laughed. It felt so good to laugh again. "True enough, but that's no excuse for not exercising her properly. Honestly, Nicholas, I thought I was leaving her in good hands." She saw him frown as he followed her out of the barn.

Moments later, she stepped into the house and inhaled the succulent scent of roasted fowl. Her stomach grumbled noisily in reply.

"There you two are." Aunt Agatha stepped into the parlor, wiping her hands on her apron. "Dinner's nearly ready. So much for helping me with next week's menu, Lucy."

"I'm so sorry, Auntie. I lost track of time."

Her aunt shook her head, her eyes raised to the ceiling. "Isn't that why I pinned a watch to your pelisse? Nicholas, have you seen your father?"

"He's in his study," Nicholas said. "I'll fetch him. Aren't you going to open your letter, Lucy? Who's it from?"

Lucy turned over the envelope in her hand. "This is the Rosemoors' seal, so it's from Jane, I suppose." But it looked like Colin's hand. Curiously, she broke the wax as Nicholas hurried off toward the study.

She opened the page and smoothed it with shaking hands. Her eyes scanned the neat script, and a knife twisted in her heart as she took in the terrible words. On weak legs, she sank to the sofa with a cry of despair.

"Lucy, what's wrong?" Aunt Agatha hurried to her side.

"It's Henry. Lord Mandeville. Colin says he's been injured, perhaps mortally wounded."

"Oh, no, I think I'm going to swoon!"

"Please, Auntie," she cried out sharply, "you mustn't swoon now."

Aunt Agatha nodded and closed her eyes. Lucy watched as the woman swallowed, gulping the air convulsively. Finally she found her tremulous voice. "Goodness, dear, does Colin say how?"

Lucy turned the page and read on, her vision blurring as tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. "Returning home from Hollowsbridge. His post chaise was attacked by highwaymen and...Dear God!" She dropped the letter and it fluttered to the ground. "He was stabbed. It's grown infected and they aren't sure he'll survive." She covered her mouth with the back of her hand, afraid she was going to be ill. Aunt Agatha dropped her head into her hands.

Lucy rose from the sofa on shaky legs. "I must go to him," she said, her voice a whisper.

"Yes, Lucy. I'll help you pack your things at once."
Chapter 22

Three full days passed before Lucy arrived in Essex following a brief stop in London. Both Colin and Jane accompanied her to Glenfield while Susanna remained in London with Lord and Lady Rosemoor for the Season's final weeks. Heavy rains had slowed their progress since leaving Town, and Lucy's patience was wearing thin. She was grateful for the company as the carriage bumped across the rain-rutted road toward Covington Hall—toward Henry. She tightened her grasp on Jane's hand as the yellow stone walls rose up in the distance. They were nearly there.

"Colin, tell the driver to hurry. Please." For a moment, Lucy considered throwing open the door and jumping down to run the last half mile as fast as her feet would carry her. It had been days since they'd heard any news. What if...what if he hadn't pulled through? No. Lucy shook her head vigorously. He must have; had he left this world, surely she would have felt it in her heart. He was still alive—he _had_ to be.

She tried valiantly to swallow the lump that had been in her throat for days now. It felt as if her whole being was straining against her skin as the conveyance bumped along the lane and turned into the drive, passing through the iron gates. She dropped Jane's hand and began to wring her own in anticipation as they slowed and—at last—pulled up in front of the great house.

Lucy leapt from the carriage, heedless of the thick mud staining the hem of her traveling gown as she ran to the foot of the steep front stairs, pausing briefly to catch her breath. She turned to see Jane lift her skirts and carefully pick her way across the flagstones, Colin guiding her by the elbow. Unable to wait a moment longer, Lucy skimmed up the stairs and rapped loudly on the door.

It seemed an interminable time before the door swung open. The somber-faced butler eyed her with raised brows before Jane and Colin stepped up, flanking her protectively on either side. "Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Rosemoor, Miss Rosemoor," the butler said, smiling wanly. "I suppose you've heard of my master's misfortune."

"Good day, Chadwick. Yes, we've heard. What's the prognosis?"

"I'm afraid, sir, that it looks rather bleak. An infection has taken hold..." The butler choked on his words, his eyes becoming watery. "And he's quite ill with fever. It doesn't look well at all."

Lucy stepped forward, her legs trembling so violently that she feared they would buckle. She reached for Jane's arm. "I must see him," she whispered.

Chadwick looked at her sharply, his bushy gray brows drawn together.

"This is Miss Lucy Abbington, Chadwick, a close friend of my family's," Colin offered. "And of Lord Mandeville's, as well. I'm certain he'd wish to see her, if it's at all possible."

Chadwick studied her for a moment before perception lit his pale eyes. He offered Lucy a stiff bow. "Of course, miss. Please, come in and have a seat." He led the trio to the front parlor and disappeared. Lucy watched his departure, frustrated by his slow, shuffling gait.

"He's a strong man, Lucy," Colin said, laying his hand upon her sleeve. "If anyone can survive this, he can."

Lucy squeezed her eyes shut. "This is entirely my fault. If only I hadn't turned him away. I'll never forgive myself if he—"

"Don't say it, Lucy, nor think it," Jane cut her off. "You have to believe he's going to survive. This isn't your fault."

"Of course it's her fault."

The three of them looked up in surprise as Lady Mandeville strode into the room, her face drawn into an ugly sneer. "My only son is lying there, practically on his deathbed, and there's no one to blame but her."

"How dare you?" Jane said, rising to her feet, one hand resting on Lucy's shoulder.

"No, how dare she come here and disturb us? Please leave, Miss Abbington. Henry has made it quite clear that he has no desire to see you—ever. Your presence here is unwelcome and likely to disturb him further."

"Does he know I am here?" Lucy's voice trembled.

"Of course, and he asked that we send you away at once. I'll ask you not to disturb us again. Good day." She turned and left them standing there, staring at one another in open-mouthed surprise as they listened to her footsteps fade away.

"So it is true," a voice called out, and Lucy looked up as Lady Worthington hurried into the room, her face pale and her eyes red-rimmed. "Chadwick told me that Miss Abbington was downstairs, but I could barely believe it." She hastened to Lucy's side and grasped her hand. "I had to see for myself. Mr. Rosemoor, Miss Rosemoor." She nodded politely to Colin and Jane before returning her full attention to Lucy. "Whatever my mother has said to you, I hope you'll realize that she speaks only for herself."

"She said Henry doesn't wish to see me." Lucy choked on the words.

"I find that difficult to believe, Miss Abbington, as my brother has barely regained consciousness in more than three days."

Lucy dropped her head into her hands as a sob tore from her throat. "Please tell me he's going to live."

"I...I wish I could tell you that, but his condition is terribly grave indeed. But don't give up hope just yet. He's a strong man, and bullheaded to boot. I can't imagine him giving in so easily. I would take you to him, but it would take a battle to get you past my mother. This is her home, and I'm afraid I cannot..." Her voice trailed off and she shook her head sadly. "Besides, he wouldn't even know you were there."

Lucy nodded wordlessly. Dear God, was it really so bad? Or was Lady Worthington attempting to be kind, not wanting to admit that her brother had sent her away? Her stomach began to churn. Whichever was the case, it wasn't good—wasn't good at all.

"Are you staying at Glenfield?"

"Yes," Colin answered for her, "she'll be staying with us awhile."

"I'll do what I can, Miss Abbington, to get you in to see him, but I can't promise anything. Just give me a few days." Lady Worthington reached her arms around Lucy's shoulders and hugged her close. "I know he'd wish to see you," she whispered into her ear before releasing her. "I'll send word if there's any change in his condition."

"Thank you," Lucy murmured, her vision blurred by unshed tears. To come this far—to be this close to him yet unable to see him, to touch him, to tell him that she was wrong, so very wrong to have sent him away... The pain tore at her heart, ripped at her lungs. She wasn't certain she could bear it. But there was nothing more to do—nothing but to go to Glenfield and await news.

"Mr. Rosemoor, Miss Rosemoor, thank you for coming, and for bringing Miss Abbington here. Your friendship means so much to me at a time like this." She bent her head toward Colin's. "Please take care of her," she said. "She needs you now more than ever." And with that she was gone, leaving only the scent of lemon verbena behind.

***

"Lucy, Lucy..." Henry tossed his head from side to side, the pillow uncomfortably damp beneath his cheek. Where was Eleanor? He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt heavy, leaden. He reached out blindly for his sister's hand.

"Ssshhh, hush now," a voice said, and a comforting hand brushed his forehead. The hand felt so soft, so cool. He struggled again to open his eyes, to make out the face looming over his. Damn it, it felt as if every inch of his body was afire.

Slowly, the face before him came swimming into focus, and he recoiled in shock. He tried to sit up, to move as far away from her as possible, but he could barely move a muscle without experiencing exquisite pain. His mind was spinning, working to grasp the situation before him.

What was his mother doing in his bedchamber?

And then it all came back to him, washing over him like a dousing of cold water. He'd gone to Nottinghamshire to see Lucy but she'd turned him away, refused to see him. He remembered dozing in the post chaise, awakening to a bloodcurdling scream from above. There had been a struggle—he'd tried to force off the masked men but there had been too many of them. And then he'd felt it—the cold, hard blade piercing his flesh, slicing through skin and muscle. And then...nothing.

He forced his eyes to focus. He looked down and saw the evidence of his injury—a bloodied bandage covered his left side from his shoulder to his ribcage. Gingerly, he reached across his chest to touch it, flinching at the pain from the movement.

"There now, son. Try not to move."

He looked up and eyed his mother coldly.

"I should go call for the surgeon. He'll be delighted to hear you've awoken. You've had us all so worried, Henry."

He said nothing, wondering again where his sister was. He vividly remembered her voice, telling him that Lucy had been there, that she had come to see him. He hadn't been able to respond, but he was sure he had heard her. "Where's Lucy?" he managed to rasp, his voice faltering from disuse.

"Lucy? You mean Miss Abbington? Why, I've no idea. In Nottinghamshire, I suppose, or wherever it is she hails from."

"No, she was here."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken. Now lie back. Here, let me put this cool cloth back on your head."

"You're lying." She had to be. He struggled ineffectually to sit. Damnation, the pain tore at him, taking his breath away.

"Shh, calm down. Ask your sister if you don't believe me. Eleanor insisted she send word to the girl, though I've no idea why. I saw the letter myself. Miss Abbington's disinterest was evident in her lack of reply." She stood and backed away from him. "Let me get the surgeon."

Could it be true? Bloody hell, he couldn't think straight, couldn't make sense of it all. His stomach lurched; he thought he might start retching. He squeezed his eyes shut as his whole body succumbed to a violent bout of quakes. He'd truly lost her—lost her for good. He wished the steel blade had found its deadly mark. A life without the woman he loved would be nothing more than a living death.

The surgeon bustled in, a wide smile deepening the lines on his face. He reached for Henry's wrist, felt his pulse, and nodded approvingly before reaching up to lay the back of his hand on Henry's forehead. "The fever has broken at last," he said, then busied himself with removing the bandage and dressing the wound.

Henry looked up at the woman standing an arm's length away, studying him intently. He hated her, despised her with an intensity that almost frightened him.

Where was Eleanor? Why had Lucy forsaken him?

He didn't want to think anymore. He closed his eyes and wearily accepted the laudanum the surgeon spooned into his mouth. Within moments, the draught's effects took hold, and he began to feel as if he were floating. "Lucy," he whispered softly, and then remembered she wasn't there, that she wouldn't come.

With a heaving sigh, he gratefully drifted back into nothingness.

***

Opening the door to her bedchamber as softly as possible, Lucy held her breath and peered out into the darkened hallway. Turning her head first to the right, then to the left, she tentatively extended one breeches-clad leg beyond the threshold and paused. The floorboard creaked at the contact with her boot, and she sucked in her breath and froze. She stood there in the doorway—still as a statue—for perhaps a minute or two, unable to discern any sounds in the house besides the wild beating of her heart. Cautiously, she set off on tiptoe, glancing about nervously as she made her way across the hall and carefully picked her way down the stairs.

She crossed the foyer on silent feet, pausing again at the front door. Holding her breath, she listened intently, then heaved a sigh of relief. No one had heard her. Her hands shook as she reached for the doorknob and let herself out into the warm, still night. With one last glance about, she fled down the front steps.

"What in God's name are you doing, Lucy?"

She gasped in surprise, one hand clutched to her throat, as Colin stepped out of the shadows. "Goodness, Colin, you just about frightened me to death."

"I'm sorry," he said, "but it's not under normal circumstances that I find you outside, clad as you are, at three in the morning."

Lucy's gaze traveled over Colin, taking in his rumpled coat, untied cravat, mussed hair. He wasn't wearing a hat and he smelled strongly of a masculine mix of brandy and tobacco. She couldn't help but smile. "And I might ask what you're about, sneaking around in the middle of the night. You look as if you've had a rough night. Not out gambling again, I hope."

"Gambling?" he sputtered, his face reddening. "Who told you—"

"Ah, so it's true, then."

"I've no idea what you're talking about. Besides, don't change the subject. Where do you think you're going at this hour?"

"I couldn't sleep. I thought I'd go for a ride and watch the sun rise."

Colin eyed her suspiciously.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Please, let him believe the lie.

"Rubbish, Lucy. You're lying to me. Tell me the truth before I drag you inside by the ear."

She hesitated.

"And I will do it, you know," he threatened, moving closer to her side. "Don't force my hand."

Lucy let out an exasperated breath. "Oh, all right. Fine. I thought to ride over to Covington Hall."

"Covington Hall? Whatever for?"

"It's been more than a sennight, Colin. I can't wait any longer. I'm taking matters into my own hands. I've got to try to see him myself."

"But Lady Worthington sent word just two days ago that he's much improved. Besides, what were you planning to do? Just waltz through the front door in the middle of the night and demand to see him? Be reasonable, Lucy."

"I'm tired of being reasonable." Lucy shook her head. "I need to see him. _Now_." She knew Lady Worthington was trying her best, but her patience was fast unraveling. She didn't know how but, by God, she _was_ going to see him. Tonight. "Just let them try to stop me," she said, placing her hands on her hips defiantly. She tipped her chin in the air and leveled a challenging glare at Colin.

He stared back at her, his mouth slowly curving into a smile. "May God save anyone who gets in your way, Lucy Abbington," he said. "Very well, then. I'll help you. We need some sort of a plan, however. You can't just push in the door and storm your way through the house. Let me think..."

She ran to him and threw her arms around his neck. "Thank you, Colin."

"Yes, well. I think you're turning me into a hopeless romantic. How can I refuse to aid your cause when it's clear you love him? Let's go. We'll think of a plan while we ride. Hush, quiet now. Follow me."

In minutes she found herself astride her favorite mare, galloping along the riverbank toward Henry's estate, but her nerve began to falter as the walls of Covington Hall took form before her in the hazy moonlight. How would they do it? They were sure to get caught. She shook off her doubts as she and Colin dismounted and stealthily made their way on foot the last hundred yards. There had to be a way. She was prepared to do whatever was necessary.

Colin stood under a gnarled old oak, one hand stroking his chin thoughtfully. Finally he pointed to a first-floor window. "That's the master bedchamber, I'm near enough certain of it."

Lucy looked up and nodded. "It's perfect, then. I'll climb the tree and try the window."

"Have you lost your wits? It's a good three feet from the closest limb to the window. How will you get over? Besides, we've no way of knowing whether it will hold your weight."

"Of course it will. Come, Colin, you'll help me. Climb up behind me, and I can hold onto your hand while I reach up to the window. You can help push me in."

"You've gone mad."

Lucy let out an exasperated breath. "It'll be just like when we were children. We've climbed trees higher than this one, many a time. Just stay a bit behind till we reach the window." Without waiting for his reply, she hurried over to the tree and began feeling around for footholds. The knotted trunk was perfect. She nimbly began scaling up to the lowest limb.

She heard Colin grumble in protest as he followed her lead. "I can't believe I'm doing this. We're likely to break our necks, you know. Or worse yet, get shot."

"Shhh," she called down as she made her way higher, closer to her goal. "I'm nearly there. Here, is this it?"

"That's the one. The master's room."

"Ooof, ouch. Here, take my hand." She reached out to Colin, and he grasped her hand in his. As soon as she'd tried to squeeze his hand, it slipped from her grasp. "Blast it, Colin. Take my hand."

"I'm trying. You're too far."

"Well, then, come closer."

She saw Colin look down at his feet, at the narrow limb supporting them.

"It will hold," she assured him.

"I hope you're right."

"I'm right. Here, closer."

"You know, you'll owe me dearly for this. Risking my neck for you, and all. And for what? For _love_."

"I'll name my firstborn son for you, will that do?"

"I suppose. There." He grasped her wrist firmly.

"All right. Now just let me move closer to the window." She took several shuffling steps until the windowpane was even with her chin. She stood on tiptoe, leaned closer, and peered in. The heavy curtains were parted slightly, and she could distinctly make out the draped bed against the wall with a supine form under a white sheet. Her gaze traversed the length of the form, and her breath caught in her throat when she saw the face resting upon the pillow. "This is it, Colin," she whispered. "You were right. Hold me steady while I open the window."

She curled her fingers into the slit between the two panes and effortlessly pulled open the window. Oh, this was far too easy. "Move closer, Colin," she whispered. "When I hoist myself up, give my backside a good shove." She grimaced as she heard him suppress a snort of laughter. Mustering as much strength as she could, she pulled herself up on her elbows into the window. "Now," she called out. He gave one sturdy push, and Lucy toppled head over heels into the yawning opening, right onto her bottom on the floor below.

She saw Henry's body jerk, and then he sat bolt upright.

"Oh," she exclaimed, and then clapped a hand over her mouth.
Chapter 23

"What the hell?" Henry called out, his voice thick with sleep. Lucy watched in horror as he rubbed his eyes and made as if to swing one leg over the side of bed before he groaned and slumped back down upon the twisted bedclothes.

She used her palms to push herself to her feet and hurried across the room to his side. "Henry, oh, dear God, are you all right?" She stood by the side of the bed wringing her hands, afraid to touch him. He lay motionless, the sheet wrapped around his lower half, naked from the waist up. A wave of relief swept over her at the sight of the rise and fall of his chest as he drew in ragged breaths. Her eyes skated to the bandage that covered a goodly portion of his left side. It pained her to see it, tangible evidence of his injury.

Just as she remembered, a light dusting of curly hair darkened the upper third of his torso, and Lucy's gaze involuntarily followed the wispy trail down to where it bisected his taut stomach and finally disappeared below the sheet. She blushed furiously at the sight, but found herself unable to tear her gaze away. She reached for his hand, felt him flinch before he allowed her to raise it to her burning cheek.

"I must be dreaming," he muttered. "This can't be real."

"You're not dreaming, Henry. I'm here." She thought her heart would surely burst as he caressed her cheek.

He opened his eyes, struggled to sit. "Lucy, is it really you?" He blinked a few times and then rubbed his eyes with his fists. "No, it can't be. It must be the laudanum playing tricks on my mind."

"I assure you, my lord, this is no opium-induced dream. I'm here, in flesh and blood. I've been trying to see you for more than a week, but she wouldn't allow it."

"What time...is it morning?"

"No, I'm afraid it's the dead of night. I snuck in through the window. I hope you're not angry."

"Bloody hell, of course I'm not angry. I've been hoping, praying, that you'd come to me. What made you change your mind?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

He shook his head. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. Just let me look at you." His eyes swept over her face, and she could feel the heat from his gaze. "Let me hold you."

She sat on the edge of the bed and allowed him to pull her head down toward his chest. Stretching her legs out, she gingerly laid her cheek next to his right shoulder. She could hear his heart thumping against her ear, its rhythm mimicking her own. She inhaled his warm musky scent, barely perceptible over the sharp medicinal smells.

How she longed to open her heart to him, to tell him how desperately she loved him, that she was wrong to have sent him away. But no, this wasn't the time for recriminations and regrets. He needed to mend himself, to regain his strength and vigor. But dear God, she loved him. The thought that she'd nearly lost him—that she could still lose him yet—caused an icy coldness to flow through her veins.

"Mmmm, this is perfect," he murmured as he reached up to stroke her hair. "You're perfect. You smell just as I remembered—of lavender and leather, a perfectly intoxicating combination. You're just the tonic I need, Lucy. Here, can't you stay? Take off this..." he smoothed a hand down her linen-covered back, down her breeches-clad backside, and up again to her hair. "...whatever this is you're wearing and lie back down beside me. Stay the night. Stay forever."

His speech was becoming slurred, and she knew then that he wasn't entirely in his own mind. She desperately wanted to believe these words came from his heart, but she knew it was the opium speaking. No, she'd wait till he drifted back to sleep, and then she'd steal back through the window, back to Colin, secure in the knowledge that he was indeed alive and well. Nothing to do but savor this moment. She pressed her lips against his neck, into the hollow just above his collarbone. She parted her lips slightly to taste his saltiness while she reached a hand up to cup the back of his head, her fingers tangling in his hair.

He groaned in reply. "Oh, Lucy, God help me—"

"Henry, what are you doing up at this hour? I heard voices, and...oh!"

Lucy rose awkwardly to gape at Lady Worthington standing there in her dressing gown, one dark braid lying against a pale shoulder. Henry's sister reached her hands up to her mouth in surprise and dropped the taper she was holding to the floor, where it clattered noisily. Lucy rushed to her side, her boot finding the flame and extinguishing it with one small stomp.

"Dear Lord, Miss Abbington, what are you doing here?"

"Please accept my apology for frightening you, Lady Worthington. But I had...I had to see your brother and I could think of no other way. I assure you nothing improper was happening."

She smiled and reached a hand to grasp Lucy's. "I should think not, not in his present condition. But how on earth—"

"Lucy, is everything... Oh, Lady Worthington." Colin's head appeared above the windowsill. "Good evening." He reached up as if to tip his hat, a puzzled expression flitting across his face as he realized he wasn't wearing one.

"Well, that answers my question."

"So very sorry to disturb you," Colin called out cheerfully.

Lady Worthington looked around furtively. "Shh, everyone must be quiet or you'll soon be discovered." She went to the door and pressed her ear to it. "Miss Abbington, as sorry as I am to say it, you must go at once."

Lucy nodded and rushed over to Henry's bedside, reaching for his hand. He grasped it firmly, then raised it to his mouth and gently kissed her palm. "Thank you, my sweet. If this was just a dream, it was a damn lovely one."

"Please take care of yourself, Henry. You must get well."

He nodded as his heavy lids fell back across his eyes.

Lucy hurried to the window. With one last glance over her shoulder, she shimmied back through the opening. She had both feet firmly on the limb below when Lady Worthington stuck her head out and whispered down to her.

"Miss Abbington, on Thursday morning my mother has an eleven o'clock appointment in the village. She should be gone a few hours at the very least."

"Thank you, Lady Worthington."

"Until then, I usually find that I'm a terribly deep sleeper. Especially around, oh, two in the morning."

Lucy couldn't help but grin. "Just don't lock the shutters," she called out before scampering back down the tree and out into the night.

***

"Mmmm, it's that same lovely dream again." Henry shifted his weight and turned his face toward the hand that was softly stroking his cheek. "The one where a beautiful woman steals into my room in the dead of night."

He heard a quiet laugh as the warm body fitted itself against his side. He inhaled deeply. _Good Lord, it really was her_. He tipped his chin down and kissed her hair as the heat rose in his loins. A smile stretched across his face.

_Good to know it's all in working order_.

"Did you climb through the window again?" The sleep-induced fuzziness in his brain was finally clearing.

"Yes, didn't you hear? I fell to the floor in a heap again. I've got bruises on my backside as it is from the last time."

He closed his eyes and savored the mental picture of her lovely little backside, bruises or no. He couldn't resist reaching down to stroke her bottom. "Here, let me see."

"Ouch! No, that's quite all right." She wriggled and pushed his hand away. "You mustn't touch me like that, my lord."

"Is Colin Rosemoor standing outside the window, watching us?" he bit out, stung by a sharp barb of jealousy, no matter how irrational.

"I suppose by now he's sitting under the tree." Her voice was suddenly cold, clipped. "I assure you he's not spying on us, if that's what you mean." She started to move away from his side, but he pulled her close again.

"Do you love him, Lucy?" As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

She stilled at once, every muscle rigid as she perched on the edge of the mattress. "Yes."

His blood ran cold.

"He's my brother," she continued, her voice a whisper.

"What do you mean?" His pulse accelerated. Had he heard correctly?

"Exactly as I say. Colin Rosemoor is my half brother. Lord Rosemoor is my father."

"Are you certain?" He couldn't hide the surprise from his voice.

"Of course I'm certain," she snapped. "Colin has...proof. I've seen it with my own eyes, and my fath—the man I've always believed to be my father has confirmed it."

"How long have you known?" he asked, reaching for her hand. His mind was reeling, full of questions.

"I only learned the truth just before I left London." Her voice quavered perceptibly. "Colin has known a bit longer, since just after my come-out. I think I've always felt it, in my heart. Still, I could barely believe it. I don't understand how my mama could..." She swallowed hard. "How she and Lord Rosemoor could do such a thing. Lady Rosemoor was my mother's dearest friend."

Henry swallowed, his estimation of Lord Rosemoor diminished substantially. "Do Miss Rosemoor and Miss Susanna know?"

"No, and it seems so unfair. I...I have two sisters, yet they cannot know."

Suddenly it all made sense—Lucy's close bond with Colin, his fierce protectiveness. She loved him, yes. _Like a brother_. If he had been able, he would've jumped up and shouted. Instead, he reached for her hand and stroked her palm with his thumb. "It's not such an unusual occurrence amongst the _ton_ , you know."

She sank back against the pillows as she expelled a heavy sigh. "So I'm told, but that doesn't make it any less painful. My whole life has been a lie, don't you see? I'm only now beginning to accept it, beginning to understand who I truly am."

"Now I see why Lord Rosemoor saw fit to sponsor you. At least he's attending his duty, trying to see you married well."

She sat up in a huff. "Married well? Hah." She folded her arms beneath her breasts. "I've no wish to be part of the _ton_."

"There's much to be said for marrying well, Lucy."

She sprang to her feet at once, her cheeks inflamed. "It's worse than you supposed, isn't it? Before I was just a simple country physician's daughter. Now, I'm nothing but a...a bastard. How lucky for you that I never had the chance to accept your proposal before you found someone more acceptable in my stead."

"No, you misunderstand." Had she thought he meant...? With an impatient shake of his head, Henry leaned over and reached for her with both hands, clutching at her sleeve as she wrenched from his grasp. The pain in his shoulder cut through him like a knife. He fell back to the bed with a groan, gritting his teeth against the sharp, throbbing ache.

Lucy flew back to his side, one hand over her mouth, her eyes filled with tears. "Henry, oh, I wasn't thinking."

"I'm fine...just a little twinge," he lied as he tried to force his mouth into a smile and waited for the agony to subside.

It didn't.

"Should I call for Lady Worthington?" She bit her lower lip, her brow knitted as she peered into his face.

He took a deep breath and reached for her hand, squeezing it as if his life depended upon it.

"No." The pain tore the breath from him. "Laudanum," he managed to gasp. "Please." He pointed to the dark glass bottle on the table beside the bed. She retrieved it in a flash, her fingers nimbly uncapping it, then held it out to him. He took a swig of the bitter, sherry-laced liquid, wincing as it burned its way down his throat.

"Some water?" she asked, and he nodded in reply as she filled a glass from the pitcher with visibly trembling hands.

He gulped down the water in one long draught.

At last he found his voice again as he handed her the empty glass. "Just lie back down beside me," he rasped, collapsing back against the pillows. "No more arguing—we have so very little time together as it is. I'll explain..." He broke off and took a deep breath as the effects of the laudanum began to dull his mind. "I'll explain later. For now, just let me hold you a bit longer before you disappear through that window."

She nodded and hovered tentatively on the edge of the bed, her entire body tremulous. "I'm so very afraid that I'll hurt you, Henry. I feel so helpless, so powerless, unable to do a single thing to ease your pain. If you were a horse, even a dog, I'd know just what to do, but... Papa is the physician, not me."

"I don't need you to do anything but lay here beside me, my sweet." He reached for her hand and brought it to his mouth. He kissed one fingertip, then another. "I feel myself growing stronger every minute I'm with you." The laudanum was starting to slur his words.

"I'm glad," she said, a smile flitting across her face, the uncertainty in her eyes beginning to fade.

"Are you?"

"Of course."

"Then show me how glad you are. Kiss me." He felt almost drunk, and he wasn't certain if it was the drug's potent effects, or simply her presence.

"I really don't think—"

"Kiss me, Lucy," he interrupted.

"But your sister is just next door, and your mother is down the hall. Either could come in at any—"

He silenced Lucy with his mouth, cupping the back of her head with both hands. Gently, he took her lower lip in his mouth and teased it with his tongue. At last giving in, she tipped her head back with a moan and parted her lips. He plundered heedlessly inside, savoring every sensation—her taste, her touch, her scent—until the sweet ecstasy overwhelmed him, sending his head reeling and his breath coming too fast. He pulled away and fell back against the bed, closing his eyes as the room began to spin. He felt her weight shift on the bed beside him, and then the gentle pressure of her mouth on his forehead.

"Just rest, Henry," she said softly. "I'll lie down beside you until you fall asleep, and then I must leave. Poor Colin's probably down there dozing on the lawn. I can't leave him there all night."

Henry swallowed and nodded, drawing her body down beside his. "Your brother?" he mumbled sleepily.

"My brother." She snuggled against his neck, her warm breath soothing his senses, her fingers lightly stroking his hair. He wanted to take her in his arms, to show her just how much he loved her, just how little her parentage mattered to him. But not yet—not just yet. He was so tired, so damned tired. His eyes began to droop and he struggled to stay awake, to enjoy just a few more precious moments with her.

When he opened his eyes again, the dazzling morning sun was streaming in through the open window, the curtains fluttering in the breeze. She was gone. Turning his face toward the pillow, he inhaled deeply and smiled.

Lavender and leather.
Chapter 24

"Miss Abbington, I'm so delighted to see you." Lady Worthington strode into the drawing room and took Lucy's hand in her own.

"I can't thank you enough for allowing me to come today." Lucy smiled up at the woman with genuine affection. Even in a simple muslin day gown, Lady Worthington's regal beauty shone bright. Her deep indigo eyes—so much like Henry's—were full of warmth and welcome. No matter what came to pass, Lucy would never forget her kindness.

"Let's not waste a single minute—I'll take you right up to Henry. I don't know what magic you've worked on him, but he's much improved since he saw you last. His color has returned and he's finally up and about."

Lucy followed the baroness out into the marble-tiled great hall, under a massive curved stone arch, and up the stairs, smiling broadly the whole way. She couldn't believe she was actually going to see him in the light of day. It had been so long, so terribly long.

"The physician says that by next week he should be able to start walking the park. He's like a caged animal, desperate for escape."

Lucy grimaced. "I can only imagine." They passed through a wide gallery where portraits in ornate gilded frames lined the deep-blue walls. She couldn't help but peer up in amazement at the sea of faces watching her. She stopped short at the likeness of Henry that graced the hall. She stood under it, blinking, barely able to breathe. Painted as if he were off for the hunt, he wore a tall hat and a long, camel-colored coat that brushed his polished boots. His expression was one of noble hauteur, his hooded eyes piercing.

"He looks rather gruff, doesn't he?" Lady Worthington asked with a smile. "And there we are, as children. Henry's old art tutor, James Frasier, painted this one."

Lucy's eyes followed the direction of Lady Worthington's arm. A boy and girl, perhaps no more than eight, smiled down in their finery—the boy in short pants and the girl wearing a white organdy frock bedecked in ruffles and ribbons. Lady Worthington looked much the same; it was easy to see that she would grow to be a great beauty. Yet Henry... Lucy bit her lip. He was a good head shorter than his sister and dreadfully slight and sickly looking. Although a smile was upon his lips, his eyes were shadowed, haunted. _Even then_. Lucy closed her eyes and sighed, her heart aching for the suffering he'd endured.

"Come," Lady Worthington motioned for Lucy to follow, and she complied, following her to a heavily carved door. The baroness stopped and rapped smartly.

"Come in," Henry's voice called out, and Lucy followed Lady Worthington inside.

Henry was standing at the window, clad in fawn-colored trousers and a white linen shirt, his back to them. "The air is changing. Autumn will be here before we know it, Eleanor."

Lady Worthington cleared her throat. "Henry, you have a guest."

He spun around, his mouth widening into a grin as his eyes settled upon Lucy standing there at his sister's side. "I don't believe it. Where is my guard this morning?" He looked over her shoulder, out to the hall.

"At the modiste. I'll leave you two, then. Let poor Miss Abbington play your nursemaid for the next hour or two, God help her." She pulled the door closed and Lucy heard her steps fade down the hallway.

"Poor Eleanor," Henry said with a shrug. "I suppose I've become a bit difficult. I'm tired of being an invalid."

"Well," she said, "if I'm to be your nurse then you must tell me what you need. Some water?" She gestured toward the crystal pitcher and glass still sitting on his bedside table.

"No, no water, thank you." He grinned wickedly at her. "A sponge bath, perhaps?"

Lucy grinned back. "You, my lord, are pressing your luck."

"Come, let me hold you." He held out a hand to her, and she complied. He put his arm around her waist and they stood silently gazing out at the glorious day. Sparrows flitted through the tree before them, calling out gaily to one another. One alighted on the windowpane, cocking its head to the side as it appraised the room's occupants. Obviously unimpressed, it flew off with a chirrup to join its companions.

Lucy was awash in happy contentment, wishing she could remain there all day, watching the world go by outside the window. She sighed contentedly and leaned into Henry's side.

"This is my favorite time of year, you know," he finally said, breaking the companionable silence.

"Is it?" She looked up to his profile, taking in the noble lines of his proud nose, his full lips, his strong chin. Her heart fluttered in her breast at the sight.

He nodded in reply and reached for her hand, interlacing their fingers. "When I was a boy our village held an annual autumn fair, just after everyone returned from Town. I've no idea why they stopped holding it." He looked down at her and smiled. "Perhaps I should look into renewing the tradition."

"That sounds like a lovely idea."

He looked pensive. "It gives the local nobility an opportunity to mix with the townsfolk, the farmers. To see their children, speak with them. Perhaps then they'll understand why educating them is so necessary."

"I know Lord Rosemoor wholeheartedly agrees with you. Perhaps word of your local efforts will aid your cause in Parliament."

"You're right. I'll speak with Rosemoor as soon as he returns from London."

"They returned just yesterday, with some exciting news, at that."

He looked down at her curiously. "Tell me."

"Susanna is engaged. To Mr. Richard Merrill."

"Is that so? Are the Rosemoors pleased with the match?"

"They're delighted. Apparently it's a love match—something sparked at your sister's house party and the two have been courting ever since. They'll be married in little over a month's time. I'll stay for the nuptials, and then..." Her voice trailed off and she looked down at her hands. She felt her chest contract. "And then I must return home." How would she do it? How would she leave him, knowing she'd never again see his face?

Henry's gaze remained fixed on the window. "How do you find Covington Hall?"

"It's lovely, Henry." She'd never before seen a grander home.

"It pleases you, then?" His brows were drawn.

"How could it not?"

Henry only nodded, almost distractedly. He cleared his throat and turned toward her purposefully, reaching for her hand with a smile.

He opened his mouth as if to speak but closed it again as a distinctly feminine voice sounded just outside the door. "I got halfway to town when I realized I'd left my reticule in my room. Here, let me look in on Henry one last time."

Lucy looked to Henry with panicked eyes.

_No_!

The door swung open and Lady Mandeville stood there openmouthed. Her look of utter surprise was quickly replaced by a twisted mask of fury as her cold eyes swept the room and took in the scene before her.

"Why, you little slut," she spat out. "What do you think you're doing, sneaking around here? Get out! Get out at once, before I—"

"No, Mother, _you_ get out." Henry released Lucy's hand and strode angrily across the room, glowering at the despicable woman. Lucy scuttled to the window, gripping the pane with damp palms.

"What do you mean, get out?" Lady Mandeville narrowed her eyes at Lucy. "This is my home."

"This is _my_ home, Mother, and if you have a problem with Lucy's presence here, then I suggest you remove yourself at once."

"Do you mean to say...am I to believe that you are choosing this...this piece of baggage over your own mother? Your own flesh and blood?"

Henry nodded savagely. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

Lucy was too shocked to speak, to move. She remained by the window, wondering why she had ever thought Lady Mandeville handsome. She was nothing short of ordinary, and with her features contorted as they were right now, she was even unattractive.

"And what shall I tell Lord Corning? How will the duke take the news that his future son-in-law enjoys dalliances in the country whilst Lady Helena remains in Town?"

Henry shrugged. "I don't care what you tell Lord Corning. I'm not marrying Lady Helena. Yes, Corning and I discussed the possibility, but we never entered into an agreement. In fact, before I left London for Nottinghamshire, I paid the duke a call and told him my intentions. Towards Lucy, that is."

Lucy's heart soared, her veins flooded at once with relief and delight.

The color drained from Lady Mandeville's face. Her lips thinned and her eyes narrowed to slits as she visibly quivered with rage. "Still a weakling, no better than your fool of a father," she spat out. "You came so close, so very close to becoming the man he should've been. You could have had Lady Helena Waring, the darling of the _ton_ , and all the benefits of her connections and wealth. By God, if she wouldn't do, you could have had Lady Charlotte instead. Indeed, you had your pick of the _ton_ 's finest ladies. But no, instead you choose _this_."

Lucy shrunk back against the window's casing, her back pressed against the glass as Lady Mandeville's vicious gaze returned to her, her cold eyes filled with disgust.

"You're a fool, Henry Ashton. I did my best to keep her away, you know. After your accident, Eleanor insisted she write to her. I offered to post the letter to this...this creature," she sputtered, "and I put it in the fire instead, where it belonged."

With a roar, Henry kicked a spindle-legged chair, and sent it flying against the wall with a splinter of wood.

"How dare you, Mother!" a voice called out.

Lucy looked to the doorway and saw Lady Worthington there, clutching the cut-glass door handle, her cheeks stained scarlet.

"How dare _you_ take up for her, Eleanor!" She turned on her daughter, her face livid. "Haven't I taught you anything? Do you want the Mandeville title to remain in obscurity forever? Do you want our family name tarnished by a mere country nobody like this?"

"Miss Abbington is as fine a lady as I've ever met," came Lady Worthington's vehement reply. "And if anyone's tarnished the family name, it's you."

"Get out," Henry growled, stepping toward his mother menacingly, his hands balled into fists by his sides. "By God, you better remove yourself from my sight this instant or I swear I'll—"

"Henry, don't. Your injury," Lady Worthington chastised, reaching for his arm. "She will go."

"I won't be so easily dismissed," Lady Mandeville bit out through clenched teeth.

"Is that so?" Henry retorted. "Much to the contrary, Mother, it appears that you _have_ been dismissed."

"Come, I'll help you pack your trunks," Lady Worthington said sharply.

Lady Mandeville's head snapped from her son to her daughter, and then back again, her face awash in fury. "You'll come to regret his, Henry. Mark my words." She whirled around and stormed out of the room, her slippers tapping an angry staccato down the hall.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Abbington," Lady Worthington said. "You must excuse me. I'll see that she's off at once, Henry." With a sigh, she followed her mother out.

Henry stood in the doorway facing Lucy, his features an unreadable blank.

A smile began to form at the corners of Lucy's mouth and then spread slowly across her face. Her heart pounded so erratically that she feared it might burst.

Henry opened his arms and Lucy rushed into them. She pressed her cheek against the soft linen of his shirt, her eyes closed tightly. Inhaling his scent, she could feel the heat of him seeping through the cloth, warming her face, spreading down to her toes.

Neither of them spoke. They stood—clasped together, their hearts beating in perfect rhythm—for what seemed an eternity.

"I suppose we're all alone," he said with a smile.

Lucy tilted up her chin. Tingles raced up her spine at the mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Good," she answered. "Then kiss me."

"You realize your reputation will be in tatters?" Henry said with a grin. "The door is wide open, and servants talk."

Lucy only shrugged. "Amazingly enough, I find that I no longer care what anyone says about me."

"Is that so?" He pulled her closer still, and Lucy could feel the rigid proof of his desire pressing against her.

His mouth took hers, roughly, possessively. Their bodies melded into one as their breaths mingled, and she opened to him, boldly invading his mouth with her own tongue.

At last he drew away, and it took Lucy several seconds to recover her breath and regain her equilibrium. He reached for her chin and tipped it up, his hands stroking her burning cheeks as his eyes sought hers.

"I hope that you can someday forget the words my mother said here today. If she'd been a man, I'd have called her out. As it is, she's lucky I didn't wring her neck."

Lucy reached her hand up to his mouth, covering his lips with her fingertips. "Shh. No more. It's forgotten." She stepped back and smiled broadly at him. His eyes searched hers, full of questions. She answered them with her own gaze, drinking in his deep blue eyes as if she'd never get enough, certain that all the love she felt for him must be evident in her countenance. For how could it not be? She was practically bursting with it. She loved this man so deeply, so completely, with every last inch of her being, right down to the very core of her soul. He made the world a more colorful place, the sun shine more brightly, the moon glow more intensely.

As if he'd read her mind, he spoke at last. "I love you, Lucy Abbington—so desperately it hurts."

She sucked in her breath as he sank to one knee, took one of her hands in his and placed it against his cheek.

His eyes sought hers, and the intensity—the raw emotion—she saw in them made her breath hitch in her chest. "I never understood the value of love," he continued. "I always thought it was something to be avoided, something that would hobble a man. But now I see I was wrong." He turned her hand over and gently kissed the palm.

"I admire you more than I've ever admired anyone, and I want nothing more than to love you till my dying breath." He peered up into her face. "Please say something, Lucy. I can't stand it another second, wondering if you feel the same."

At once she burst into tears. At last she'd heard the words she'd been so very desperate to hear. She couldn't think clearly...couldn't speak. Her relief was nearly too much to bear.

Henry rose awkwardly and released her hand. He stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Lucy forced herself to staunch her tears, to find the words to set his mind at ease. She reached blindly for his hand, brought it to her heart.

"Of course I love you, Henry. More than I ever imagined I could love anyone. Dear God, when I thought I'd lost you..." She shook her head wildly. "I couldn't have borne it."

He folded her into his arms and clutched her head to his heart. He kissed her hair and took a deep, ragged breath. "Say it again."

"I love you, Henry."

He smiled then, and for the first time since she'd met him, the shadows lifted from the blue depths of his eyes and the furrow in his brow smoothed out. It was as if all his troubles had been erased.
Chapter 25

"Slow down, Henry, this isn't a race." Lucy laughed as she skipped to catch up to him.

He immediately shortened his stride to match hers. "Sorry. You've no idea how good it feels to be outside again, breathing fresh air. It's a beautiful day."

"It _is_ a beautiful day, isn't it?" Lucy tilted her face up to the perfect, cloudless sky. She was certain that Covington Hall's park was perhaps the loveliest in all of England. The hum of crickets filled the air and the scent of honeysuckle carried pleasantly on the breeze. They passed through a cluster of flowering autumn cherry, tender pink blossoms littering the ground beneath their feet. A song thrush called out gaily, as if it were heralding Henry's return.

It had been a lovely week since Lady Mandeville's hasty departure from Covington Hall, and they'd been able to properly court. Lucy had come each day to spend the afternoon with him, beginning with a short turn in the garden and invariably ending with a cup of tea and a game of chess—usually under the watchful yet approving eyes of Lady Worthington. They hadn't spoken much, just enjoyed the companionable silence, and Henry grew stronger each day.

Yet there was something inexplicably different about him today, some new gleam in his eye. A palpable air of expectation, perhaps because today the physician had at last given Henry leave to venture beyond the garden. Finally he could escape out to his estate's vast park, so long as he was careful not to overtax himself.

As he was doing right now.

"Slow down, Henry. Please, you'll overexert yourself and then where will you be?"

He didn't slow his pace one bit.

"Back in the bed again, that's where," she called out after him. She huffed and hurried to catch up as he began ascending a steep, grassy slope. They'd been walking for nearly an hour. She shook her head and quickened her gait. "Where are we going?"

"There's something I want to show you. It's not much further." She noticed his breathing becoming a bit labored.

"Are you sure you're up to this? Come, let's go back down to the glen and rest a bit. It's lovely by the river, Henry."

He stopped and smiled. "I love it when you call me by my given name. Besides, I'm certain I can make it. I've done it hundreds of times, oftentimes in no better physical condition than I am now. Come now, Luce, stop acting like a nursemaid. Here, watch your step. The brush gets a bit thick. We're nearly there."

Lucy lifted her skirts above her ankles and picked her way through the brambles, following him further and further up the slope. At last, they crested the hill. Lucy blinked and shook her head. She could only gasp at the magnificent sight before her.

The ruins of a small, stone chapel crowned the grassy hill, the sun slanting through the one wall that was still standing and casting long shadows on the ground. She dashed to the center of the ruins and stood amidst the moss-covered stones, her hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun as she gazed off to the horizon. She squinted, her breath catching in her chest. Could it be...? Yes! She could see the sea in the distance.

She shivered as tiny pricks of gooseflesh rose on her arms. The place felt magical, enchanted, as if something wholly good radiated from the ground, gathering her in its comforting embrace. She untied her bonnet and tossed it to the ground, then opened her arms wide and spun in a circle, lifting her face to the sky.

"You like it?" Henry called out, laughing easily as he joined her at the summit.

She stopped spinning and looked to him with a grin. "It's wonderful, Henry. Just what is this place?"

"I've no idea. No one's ever mentioned it and I've kept it my secret, my hideaway. I used to come here as a child. I brought Eleanor once, but she didn't see the magic in the place. I'd sit up here for hours, gazing at the sea, drawing, dreaming. I haven't been here in years."

"I love it, Henry."

"I knew you would. Come, you must see this."

She followed him to a tree on the far side of the clearing. The bark had been peeled away near the base, leaving a smooth, bald surface. Henry reached into his pocket and produced a handkerchief and then gently rubbed the wood till it shined. "There, can you see it?"

She peered closely and saw it—a crude, childish carving of a figure on a winged horse. She looked more sharply and saw that the figure was a woman, curls streaming out behind her, a halo encircling her head. "It's beautiful."

"It's you. I never before realized it until I saw you standing there in the ruins, your hair shimmering like a halo in the sun. It's you, it was always you."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"When I came here as a boy I always imagined the same vision, the same image that I carved here into this tree. A beautiful young woman with golden curls would be my savior. She'd ride up on her winged horse and use her magical powers to heal me, to make me strong and whole. I'd walk down from here a new person, able to finally enjoy life, enthusiastically, without reservation."

She shook her head in confusion. "But what does that have to do with me?"

" _You_ were my vision, Lucy. I've imagined you, dreamt of you, drawn you my entire life. Don't you see? You've healed my heart, made me whole again. With the knowledge of your love, I'll walk down from here today a new man, a changed man."

Lucy felt a lump form in her throat. "This place must truly be magical, for I feel it, too. Yes, there must be magic in the air." She looked to the heavens, felt the bright sun warm her face. "Kiss me, Henry. Make me yours, forever, right here in this enchanted place."

He did kiss her, slowly, tenderly, lovingly. Finally, he drew away from her, untying his cravat. He unbuttoned his coat and waistcoat and shrugged them off, his eyes never leaving hers. Eagerly, she reached for the buttons on his shirt and began undoing them, one by one, and peeled away the linen in anticipation. She flinched when she saw his wound, now nothing more than an angry red scar. Tentatively, she reached for it, traced a finger down the raised surface. She moved closer, touching her lips to it. She drew her mouth away and unfastened her pelisse with trembling hands.

Time seemed to stand still as he came to her. He released her hair from its pins, and reached behind her to unfasten the row of buttons on her frock. With one small tug at the shoulders, it fell to the ground with a swish. She stepped out of the rose-colored folds and stood before him in nothing but her thin cotton shift, stockings, and boots.

He arched one brow, a smile dancing at the corners of his lips. "No corset?"

"Not today." Lucy shrugged.

"How disappointing," he drawled. "Have you any idea how many times I've dreamt of standing before you, unlacing you, your skin revealing itself to my hungry eyes inch by glorious inch?"

"You've unlaced my heart—my passions—bit by bit. Isn't that enough?" she teased. "Perhaps you could unlace my boots, instead."

With a wry smile, he knelt before her and unlaced one boot—slowly, deliberately—then the other, before slipping them off her feet. Reaching under the hem of her shift, his fingers found the top of one stocking. He looked up at her, his smile dazzling as he tugged it free from her garters. Lucy bit her lip, savoring the caress of silk as he slowly, painstakingly rolled the stocking down the length of her leg and slipped it off her foot. Her heart started racing, and she could barely stand the anticipation as he reached for her other leg. Seconds later, she felt the breeze stir and she shivered as the warm air brushed provocatively against the bare skin of her legs.

His eyes seemed to smolder as he untied her shift and pulled it over her head in one quick motion. Lucy stood there proudly, naked in the golden sunlight, totally unashamed. She saw his gaze travel downward, over her breasts, to her stomach, and then down to her toes. She tipped her head to one side, her mouth curving into a smile at the frank admiration she saw reflected in his face. Her own eyes were drawn to his arousal, straining against his trousers, and she stepped toward him, reaching for the flap.

"I want to look at you, Henry," she murmured, "as you're looking at me."

He groaned and pulled off his boots then fumbled with his trousers before roughly shoving them down and stepping out of them. His challenging eyes met hers as he straightened to his full height and stood motionless.

Lucy boldly raked her eyes across his form. He was beautiful, as beautiful as she'd imagined, as if he'd been carefully sculpted from the finest marble. He was thinner now, but sinewy and taut.

She could stand it no longer—she had to touch him, to feel him against her skin. She reached out and drew him to her, felt his manhood press against her stomach as she buried her face in his chest. A raven cawed in the distance, barely audible over the pounding of his heart. She inhaled the scent of his sun-warmed body, masculine as ever, mixed with the fragrance of the wild, climbing sweet pea that traced the stones of the ruins.

"Dear God, Lucy, I don't know if I can hold back. I don't want to hurt you."

"Don't hold back, Henry." She felt as if she were slurring her words, so drunk was she on his touch, his scent, the feel of his body against hers.

He sank to his knees, taking her with him, his mouth devouring hers. She felt a strange dampness between her legs as his fingers found her folds, parted them gently, and then she felt his fingers stroking her depths. She shuddered violently and pushed him back toward the bed of clover blanketing the ground. He reached back to brace himself, but as his elbow made contact with the turf, she felt him flinch and heard him cry out.

Her heart skipped a beat and she pulled away, horrified. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" She tried to scramble to her feet but he pulled her back against him.

"No, don't stop. I'm perfectly fine. I just need to..." he bit his lower lip and turned so that he rested on his uninjured side. "To be mindful of it, that's all." With a groan, he flopped onto his back. She saw him squeeze his eyes shut. "Dear God, not now," he muttered. "I cannot stop now."

"Just lay there, Henry, don't move. Tell me what to do." She wrung her hands nervously. Should she head back to the house, send for the surgeon? No, she couldn't leave him here.

He opened his eyes and smiled wickedly at her. "I'll do more than tell you what to do, my sweet. Climb on top of me and I'll show you."

Relief flooded through her, and she was surprised to find herself obeying his command. Gently, she straddled him, moving so that she felt the tip of his manhood pressing against her entry. She braced her hands against him and threw her head back, ready to sheath him.

"Lucy, no. Wait." He struggled to sit. "I don't want to hurt you."

Lucy shook her head, her hair falling across her shoulders, tickling her breasts. No, it wouldn't hurt. Nothing he could do to her could possibly hurt, she was certain of it. A smile flickered at the corners of her mouth. She wanted him, all of him. _Right now_.

"Wait," he cried out, just as she pushed her hips toward his in one long stroke. She didn't stop until their stomachs touched, until he was fully sheathed inside her. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. A fleeting, burning sensation was immediately replaced by an exquisite feeling, one her mind couldn't begin to describe. Slowly, carefully, she began moving up and down, riding him, her breath coming faster as her movements quickened and a pool of pleasure began welling inside her, swelling and growing, taking her toward...something. Something wonderful, something magnificent.

He reached a hand out to cup one breast, his thumb and forefinger encircling one nipple. She tried to wrap her mind around the delicious sensations coursing through her. She'd never in her life felt so flooded with raw emotion, so filled with love. Dear God, how she loved him. She had no idea, none at all, that she could ever feel this much love for someone. It engulfed her, encircled her, bewitched her.

She tipped her head back, feeling as if she were about to burst, as if she were perched on the edge of the world, about to tumble into space...

She opened her eyes as she heard Henry groan, a primal sound that emanated from deep inside him. "Dear God, Lucy," he called out, and then his mouth went slack as he clutched at her, his nails digging into her backside as his hot seed spilled forth inside her.

And then...she fell into the abyss. She moaned in reply as wave upon wave of pleasure coursed through her, rocking her. Her insides pulsed exquisitely, leaving her weak and trembling. Her head fell forward, her hair spilling across his torso. When she finally caught her breath, she tipped her chin up and saw him watching her, that same wicked smile on his lips. She couldn't help but grin back.

"I didn't have to tell you what to do, after all," he said.

"Did I hurt you?" she asked, her brows drawn as she reached for his scar and brushed it tenderly with her fingertips.

"Quite the contrary. I hope I didn't hurt you."

She shook her head. "What I just felt was as far from hurt as imaginable." She flinched as she rolled off him, feeling painfully empty without him inside her.

Henry pushed himself to a sitting position with his good arm and eyed her appreciatively as she lay beside him on her side, propped up on one elbow with her head resting in her hand. She'd put her nearly transparent shift back on but it fell from one shoulder, exposing most of one alabaster breast. The hem was tucked up to her thighs, revealing the graceful length of her bare limbs. She looked gloriously wanton, entirely unabashed, and yet angelic at the same time. He'd never seen anyone as lovely as she was at that moment, her skin still flushed pink from their lovemaking, her eyes glowing as if someone had lit a flame behind them. If only he had paper and charcoal with him so that he could draw her, capture this moment for eternity.

He felt the unfamiliar sting of tears in his eyes. This had been making love. What he'd done in the past with other women—women whose names he could barely recall—was nothing more than an empty act, devoid of emotion and lacking connection. Never had he experienced the intimacy—the joining of body and soul—as he had just now, with Lucy. _His Lucy_. Nothing in the world would make him give this up, give her up.

It was time to secure his future, seal his fate.

"Well, Miss Abbington, I suppose you'll have to marry me now." He trailed a fingertip across the fabric covering her flat stomach and one deliciously rounded hip.

She smiled up at him mischievously. "Not really, for no one has caught us in this compromising position now, have they?"

"Well, if you'd prefer, you may remain there in your undergarments, and I'll go fetch someone—anyone—to witness your ruin. Perhaps the vicar? I suppose Eleanor would suffice." He reached for his shirt but she took his hand and pulled him back to her with ringing laughter.

"No, you needn't do that," she said.

"Then say you'll marry me, Lucy. This time I won't let you out of my sight until you agree to be my bride."

"Really, you would let me sit here like this, until—"

"Yes," he interrupted, "so please do us both a favor and say yes. Now." He roughly pulled her into his lap and kissed her.

She tore her mouth from his eager one. "Henry, if you truly believe that my pursuits would be a hindrance to your—"

He cut her off with a kiss.

"No," she said, dragging her mouth from his. "Let me finish. I must say this."

He skimmed his eyes down her body as she sat up earnestly on her knees, her mouth drawn, her brow furrowed. Whatever she had to tell him was obviously important to her—it was important that he hear her out. He kissed her hand. "Go on, then."

"When you first proposed, I couldn't concede, couldn't give up what I thought I loved most in the world in order to have you. You see, my studies, my pursuits, have been my saving grace, the one constant in my life. Just two years past, I fancied myself in love with the Earl of Sherbourne's youngest son. I thought he loved me, too, but I soon learned that he thought me nothing more than a diversion. He told me plainly that he'd never marry me, that he could never marry a girl like me."

"I'm sorry," he said, reaching out to stroke her chin.

"Don't be sorry. His words nicked my ego, but not my heart. No, instead I was furious. I became more and more convinced I'd never marry, and I began to further flaunt the social conventions. I threw myself into my activities, not caring what anyone thought. People began to talk. I suppose that's why Papa decided to send me to London for a Season."

"Remind me to thank him for that," Henry said.

Lucy smiled. "When I met you, it was the same thing all over again, don't you see? I refused to recognize my true feelings for you, convinced it was nothing more than another childish infatuation. I believed still that nothing was worth the price of my freedoms."

"And now?" he asked.

"And now..." she reached a hand to his cheek and he covered it with his own. "Now it's reversed itself. Nothing..." she paused to lean forward and lightly kiss his lips, "is worth the price of giving up what I love most. _You_. Before, I could not fathom a life without my freedoms. Now, I cannot fathom a life without you."

He reached up to finger one of her curls, soft as silk. He closed his eyes and again saw the image he'd sketched and painted so many times throughout his boyhood—the figure on the winged horse. How had he not he seen it from the start? Why had be been so blind?

"I'm not saying I'm happy about it," she continued, her lips pursed. "Perhaps I could just be more discreet, not so public about what I do? I realize it's truly not befitting a marchioness, but still... If it's at all possible that my pursuits would hinder your political ambitions, then I'll stop. I'll even put up with the Season as best I can. It's amazing, isn't it?" She leaned toward him and grasped his forearm with a laugh. "If you'd told me a year ago I'd be saying these words today, I would've called you the worst liar."

"I'm sure you would have. Now, darling, it's my turn to say my piece. You've no idea how I appreciate what you've just told me, the sacrifice you're willing to make on my behalf. But it doesn't matter to me. Truly, it never did. You can hang up a shingle for all I care."

Her brows flew together. "But then, why?"

"I've no idea why I insisted on such a ridiculous, pointless stipulation. I panicked. I was being stubborn, nothing but an ass insisting you give up what you love most. Without it, you wouldn't be the Lucy I fell in love with, the Lucy I adore." He brushed her cheekbone, more prominent than he remembered, with his thumb. She was so beautiful. So very soft and beautiful, so smart and capable, so utterly amazing.

And she loved him.

He had never felt as filled with awe as he did at that very moment. "I saw what my life would be like without you, Lucy, and I didn't like it one bit. Just continue being yourself, my sweet, and let the _ton_ think what they will. I'll be Prime Minister in no time with a woman like you by my side."

Lucy reached for his hand, clasped it tightly to her breast. Her emerald eyes, dry for once, scanned his face before settling upon his eyes, her gaze steady and triumphant. "Then yes, Henry. Yes, I'll be your bride, but only if you'll marry me right here, in this very spot." She dropped his hand and spread her arms wide. "I can think of no more magnificent a place to say our vows than this."

She was right. It was the perfect place to speak the words that would join them, that would bind their hearts for eternity.

A phoenix would rise from these ashes.

Henry nodded in agreement, and with a desperate urgency—and virility—he'd never before felt in all his years, he took her once more, there on the grass beneath the ruins, the warm August sun smiling down happily upon them.
Epilogue

"Lucy, sit, darling." Henry said, fussing over her like a hen. "Stop pacing. You'll tire yourself."

"I cannot help it. I'm so restless, so ready for this babe's arrival." Lucy stopped and patted her belly affectionately. "It should be any day now."

"I should hope so, or we shall have to widen the doorways for you to pass through."

She swiped playfully at his sleeve. "That wasn't very nice. I will sit, though. My feet ache terribly." She sank gratefully, but not so gracefully, onto the chair he offered. The sound of happy laughter mixed with Fortune's raucous barking rang through the air, and Lucy smiled contentedly.

"So Eleanor says your mother is quite happy with her new marriage. More at peace than she's ever seen her, she says."

"I'm glad. I must say, though, I have no idea what she sees in that dandy."

"Is he such a dandy?"

"Don't you remember, at your come-out ball? The affected lisp, the gaudy purple coat?"

"Oh, I'd forgotten. Encrusted with jewels, it was. Garish, at best."

"And no doubt paid for with my own funds."

"I'm sure you're right. You're more than generous with her allowance. Thank you for giving her another chance."

"It's taking some time. I'm not certain she deserves it. I'll never forgive her for my childhood."

"I don't blame you one bit. But you're a better man for having moved past that. And Sarah needs a grandmama." Lucy swallowed a painful lump in her throat. "Especially now with Aunt Agatha gone."

Henry took her swollen hand in his and kissed her palm. "I miss her, too."

Lucy nodded in reply, blinking back the tears. She knew that he did.

"Just look at her," he said, his face a mixture of pride and adoration. Lucy followed his gaze and watched their daughter Sarah toddle after her older cousins. "So beautiful. So much like her mother." He shook his head with amusement as the girl plopped to the ground in a heap of white organdy. The dog loped to her side to investigate.

"Whatever is she doing?" he wondered aloud. The two watched in wonderment as Sarah pulled a ribbon from her dark curls and began wrapping it around the dog's foreleg.

"Sarah, whatever are you doing to Fortune?" Katherine asked her cousin.

"He had an ouchie," Sarah replied matter-of-factly. "I fixed it up with a bandage."

"Silly girl, that's no ouchie. That's just a spot. Fortune has spots, you know." Emily shook her head solemnly.

"I'm hungry," Freddie said, for the second time in a half hour.

Lucy laughed. "Does your sister never feed her son?"

"It would seem that way, greedy little devil," Henry answered.

"And girls can't fix dogs, besides," the bad-tempered Freddie added with a scowl.

Henry looked to his wife with a grin, then cupped his hands to his mouth and called out to his nephew, "Oh, yes they can. Cats, too. And horses, sheep, grouse—"

"Stop." Lucy laughed. "And besides, I'm quite sure I've never fixed a grouse."

"Freddie looks just like my father," Henry said, his face serious again.

"Really?" Lucy asked. "You know, I don't believe I've ever learned your father's given name."

"Is that so? It was Branford."

"Branford? I like it. 'Oliver Branford' sounds lovely, doesn't it? If it's a boy."

"It does. 'Branford Oliver' sounds even better. But I'm certain it will be another girl, as beautiful and bright as Sarah."

"Another girl? No, I think it will be a boy. Your heir, Oliver Branford. The, what is it? The eighth Marquess of Mandeville?"

"Seventh," he corrected.

"Really, only the seventh? Are you sure? Then you're only the sixth?"

"I am the sixth. Quite sure. My firstborn son will be the seventh, and the Earl of Roxleigh upon birth." He stroked his chin as his brows drew together. "Hmmm, firstborn son...I'd nearly forgotten."

"Whatever are you talking about?"

"A promise I made to a friend in regards to my firstborn son."

With a smile, Lucy remembered a promise of her own she had made to a very dear friend. She shook her head. No, she wouldn't tell Henry of it now. She'd wait till after the babe was born.

"Forget boys, anyway," Henry said finally. "Such odious creatures. Might turn out like his father. Girls are much better." He looked to his daughter with a grin. "No, this shall be another girl, but what fun we shall have trying for an heir the next time."

What an about-face Henry had made with his attitude toward the fairer sex since she first met him. Lucy couldn't help but shake her head in amazement. "And what shall we call her, if _he_ turns out to be a _she_?"

"Henrietta?" he said with a devilish grin.

"Surely you jest," Lucy said with mock indignation. "How about Vivian?"

"Vivian? But that's a boy's name." He shook his head.

"I know, but it's always sounded so feminine to me, after all. A strong, smart girl could handle the name."

"Georgiana?" he offered.

"No, too hard to spell," she said. "Perhaps Isabel?"

"Too French. Sophia?"

"Too foreign. Well, let's hope it's a boy, then." Lucy felt the baby shift. She reached for Henry's hand and placed it atop her belly. He lightly stroked her stomach with his fingertips.

Lucy reached up to finger the necklace Henry had given her at Sarah's birth. She'd worn it faithfully ever since. He'd had it designed in London, a single figure atop a winged horse, crafted from gold. Filigree curls tumbled about the rider's head, and small emeralds marked the eyes. He'd told her it was gaudy, perhaps a bit tasteless, as he'd presented it to her, but her heart had swelled at the meaning behind the token. She felt the sting of tears prick her eyes at the memory.

He saw her touching the necklace. "Ah, the gift. It might be hard to top that one, but I've tried my best. You said the baby will be here any day— perhaps I should give you your gift now?"

"Now?"

"Follow me out to the stables." He stood and offered his hand to assist her up.

"My gift is in the stables?"

"So to speak," he said, enigmatically.

Lucy rose awkwardly and took his arm, waddling uncomfortably. She sighed in appreciation as they neared their destination. What lovely stables they had here at Covington Hall, following her renovations. MacLaren had balked at first but now conceded that the ventilation was a brilliant idea.

Princess hung her head out the window as she munched her straw, and the mare whinnied in greeting as her mistress passed by. "A good day to you, Princess," Lucy called out with a smile. Princess reminded her of Ludlow House. She laughed, remembering her dear papa's relief when she removed a goodly portion of her menagerie to Covington Hall.

"Wait here one moment." Henry released her arm and dashed off, leaving her standing there in the lane as he disappeared from sight. Moments later, he reappeared, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

"Now, close your eyes." He reached for her arm.

"Close my eyes? I'm awkward enough as it is, don't you think?" She stumbled forward a few steps, then allowed him to steer her around the bend, to the front of the stables.

"You may open them now."

She did as she was told, and blinked a few times. She shook her head. Nothing appeared different. He gestured upward, and she raised her gaze to the doorway above. A smile lit up her face as she saw it hanging there above the double doors.

_Her shingle_.

Lady Mandeville was carved into the wood, and below it in smaller letters, Practitioner, Veterinary Arts.

She clapped her hands together with delight. "Henry, it's marvelous. I can't believe you did this. What will everyone say?"

"I don't give a damn what everyone says. I'm proud of what you've accomplished, Lucy, and I want the world to know it."

She reached over her belly to hug him. "Thank you, Henry. I'll never forget this."

"You've given me so much, Lucy. There are neither trinkets nor tokens nor jewels enough in the world to show you how grateful I am you came into my life. How can I ever repay you?"

"Well, darling," she said, wide-eyed. "For starters you could find Eleanor and help me to our bedchamber."

"What?" he asked with surprise.

"My waters just broke." They both looked down at the small puddle forming beneath her slippers.

Just eight hours later an exhausted Lucy lay on the bed, propped up with pillows and smiling contentedly at the wrinkled, squalling infant she held in her arms. Henry sat beside her, unable to take his eyes off the child.

"A son," he said, peering between the infant's legs for the fourth time in the past quarter hour. "I just can't believe it."

"I told you. Mother's intuition." She smiled a smug smile as she put the child to her breast. "About his name..."

"Yes, I wished to speak to you about that myself. I know we decided upon Oliver Branford—"

"Branford Oliver."

"Yes, whichever. But you see, I'm afraid I made a promise years ago—"

"Yes, but I've already promised—"

"What?"

"Who?" Puzzled blue eyes met questioning green ones over the babe's head.

"Colin," they said in unison.

The baby made a soft mewling sound and waved tiny fists in the air, apparently pleased with the name. Henry leaned over and planted a kiss on the top of Lucy's fragrant head, and then on his son's damp one. "Mmmm," he murmured, inhaling deeply. "Heaven."

Lucy smiled as she looked from her husband to their son, Colin Branford Oliver Ashton, the would-be seventh Marquess of Mandeville. Just then the door creaked open and a squeal of delight heralded young Sarah's gleeful flight to join her family upon the bed. As the girl clambered up into her father's lap to have a look at her brother, Lucy closed her eyes and sighed deeply. Henry was right.

This _was_ heaven.

### Look for these other titles by Kristina Cook,

### available now in all digital formats!

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About the Author

Kristina Cook is the author of more than a dozen books for adults and teens, ranging from historical and NASCAR romance to paranormal and contemporary young adult fiction (also writing as Kristi Astor and Kristi Cook). When she's not writing a book or reading a book, she's probably online somewhere, talking about a book. Kristina lives in New York City with her husband and two daughters, but in the summer months escapes with them to sunny Miami, where she lounges on the beach and teaches creative writing classes at Miami-Dade College.
Copyright © 2004, 2014 Kristina Cook Hort

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