

LIZZIE TEMPEST RUINS A VISCOUNT

by

Maggie Jagger

Copyright 2012 by Maggie Jagger

First published as Every Midnight, copyright 2007

Smashwords Edition

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Chapter 1

England, 1815

Lizzie Tempest owed the Beast nothing.

She glanced down the long drive to the gates. Unless the Felmont family had lied he was not due to return today, but that didn't make her feel any safer. The family always lied.

Lizzie looked up at the mournful faces staring down at her from the windows of Felmont's Folly and couldn't resist waving to them, forcing them to abandon dignity and return her salute. Ever since she had imprisoned one of them for debt, the other members of the noble Felmont family had grown more careful of offending her.

Gravel crunched underfoot as she made her way around the carriage. The air smelled of freedom and of her Cleveland Bays snorting and fidgeting in their traces, eager to start their journey. Sunlight glistened on the golden stone of Felmont's Folly as the great house rose out of the landscaped park painted golden by the dawn.

"Do get back in, Lizzie," Aunt Tempest called from the safety of her seat inside the berline. "If the Felmonts see you walking about, they might all troop out to say their goodbyes again. If I have to suffer their slings and arrows one more time, I shall be glad my husband has cut them off without a penny." Her voice faded into tremulous indignation. The lady had no wits to match against the Felmonts, who were masters of the veiled insult and the poisoned dart.

Lizzie gave a shudder. They were all conspiring against her. Even the two maids slowly searching the luggage for her aunt's missing shawl. They all conspired to keep her at the Folly until the Beast returned to claim it for his own.

He did not come to claim her.

She had not forgotten the horrid words he had used the last time she'd seen him. "My dearest Lizzie, I don't covet your money or your graceless manners. Consider yourself free from any engagement to me." He had stared with mocking sadness at her body, then leaned closer to whisper, "You could not tempt me to matrimony, not even in my wildest dreams."

Inside the great house the Felmonts waited for him, locked in verbal duels with each other. If they had been partial to pistols at dawn, the family would have died out long ago. The only thing they all agreed on was their need for her to marry one of them, to keep her fortune in the family.

Lizzie called, "I shall meet you at the gates, Aunt Tempest."

"Don't go by yourself!" Aunt Tempest cried, as if walking to the gates was perilous. "Wait until my shawl is found. Get in, Lizzie, I must insist."

"Let me replace it, dear Aunt Tempest," begged Lizzie. It was no use. She shrugged and laughed. "If you are not at the gates by the time I get there, I shall walk to Bath."

"Fortune hunters will capture you long before you get to the village," warned the irate lady.

Lizzie stepped resolutely onto the lawn. She had a dozen outriders waiting outside the gates to protect her.

The cool caress of wet grass felt like silk at her ankles. The sun played about her coal-scuttle bonnet and dark traveling dress. Anyone searching for the possessor of the Tempest fortune would never suspect her.

Inheriting her father's fortune had been both a blessing and a curse. Life was full of blessings and curses. Her widowed mother marrying Viscount Felmont had truly been a curse, but the blessing was his gothic stone mansion.

The great house called as she skirted the edge of the lake. For one last time she turned to admire its golden beauty, to love its towers and turrets with all her heart.

She might even visit the Folly again, when the Beast was laid in his grave. Not that she wished him ill, but it was impossible to save any Felmont from debauchery. So many of them had died from that awful disease!

Her duty to the Felmont family was over, though she'd reinstate their pensions if she could. Even the new viscount would not be refused financial aid, if he approached her soberly. She hurried across the lawn towards the distant gates. If the new Viscount Felmont wanted to ask her for money or thank her for saving the Folly, she'd prefer it done by letter.

Not that she feared him now. How young and foolish she had been. Time had cured her of loathing the Beast. She had not thought of him much for many a year. She'd been too busy trying to keep emotions at bay, to not weep and feel each death so dreadfully.

Calling him Beast in her thoughts was wrong, a childhood habit, and not useful at all.

A quarter of a mile away the gates opened. Thunder rolled low in the distance.

Not thunder. Horsemen raced down the drive, their mounts lathered. She watched them tear up the lawn as they spread out and galloped towards the Folly. She could clearly see Lord Felmont riding in front of his wolf pack.

Her heart began a thunder of its own.

If he thought she lingered waiting for him, she meant to disabuse him of the notion. Lizzie drew a shaky breath, gathering her dignity against his arrogance, against his disdain for her.

Now was not the time to let childish fears surface. At almost twenty-two, she was long past girlish palpitations. Let him say his worst in that affected drawl the family used for their insults. Nothing he said or did could be worse than what she had heard and seen in the last few years.

And what was the point of her leaving the outriders outside the park, if he meant to ruin the drive and lawn with his pack of inebriated friends. Some of them could hardly stay in the saddle. No doubt the new Viscount Felmont couldn't wait to begin his beastly debaucheries. Carriages full of whores likely followed him at a more sedate pace.

He dismounted and was momentarily lost to view in a noisy crowd of horses and men. His voice, a low rumble, drifted over the lawn. Raucous laughter greeted his words. He emerged near her berline to wrench open the door. Poor Aunt Tempest gave a cry of fright, which brought a cheer from Felmont's drunken companions.

Drat the man! What had happened to his manners?

Aunt Tempest's hand pointed in her direction from the carriage window.

Lizzie's legs froze.

Lord Felmont turned towards her. One man hurried after him. She forced air into her lungs and waited for them to approach. She wasn't afraid of him! Long gone were the days when she had struggled to not show her fear, or worse, faint at his feet. To her shame, she had done just that the day the Felmonts had celebrated her betrothal to him. Even her mother had found it vastly amusing, but those days were long gone.

He was hatless, an almost certain sign he was foxed. He moved with his odd loose-limbed grace, his long legs covering more ground than his companion. They left a silver trail in the morning dew coating the lawn.

Even the way Felmont walked towards her seemed insulting. She willed herself to be calm. He could only want to thank her for repairing the Folly.

He stopped. Close enough to touch.

His long dark brown hair had been bleached at the ends by a foreign sun, showing a strange reddish color, as if he had been singed in hell's fire and spat out. Maybe Satan had no use for him either.

He had a handsome face if the Felmont likeness could be overlooked, not that Lizzie intended to try. It was said the Felmonts got their long noses and high cheekbones from the first Viscount Felmont's gypsy wife, but then men always blamed women for everything.

She had always admired the Beast's mouth, wide and finely sculpted. No one had ever admired the Felmont nose.

His skin ran tight around his jaw, which had not seen a razor this day. His deep blue eyes looked down the length of his long nose at her. No, not really at her. He looked around her, to the side of her, and for a moment he studied her wet hem. One side of his mouth drew down in a quirk of disgust.

She stared at him as if bored by the sight.

"Miss Tempest, I am sorry to see you have not managed to escape your fate." His voice swirled around her like honey. She felt the sound of his words long before she made sense of them.

The breeze brought the scent of him to her nose. He had washed not long ago and changed his clothes. He smelled of soap from the Priory, as he always did. Of jasmine almost hidden by the low note of musk.

His hand reached out.

Lizzie retreated with dignity. She didn't want to be touched by anyone.

He had obviously called at the Priory to fortify himself with brandy, a scent that made her take a further step away from him. Not that a drunken Felmont was anything new to her.

"Allow me to introduce my friend, Rackham." He turned to the gentleman standing several yards away. "Miss Elizabeth Tempest, the woman who ruined me. The woman who has pretended to be engaged to me for these last six years so she could do as she pleased with the Folly."

The slender man stopped dusting at his disheveled town attire. He removed his hat to wave a greeting as if he stood miles away. His fair hair fell over his forehead with boyish charm—he was obviously not a Felmont male.

Quentin Seraphim Dacey Felmont, the fifth Viscount Felmont, the Beast from the Priory and now the owner of Felmont's Folly, smiled at her. He smiled at her like the Devil welcoming the damned and drawled in a soft voice, "My dear Lizzie, do I get a kiss of welcome? No? It is with great difficulty I hold myself back."

Lizzie shook her head, unable to find her voice. She did not doubt his difficulty, all Felmonts lived to satisfy their wicked urges, and they died for their sins.

He lowered his head to whisper in her sensitive ear, "As you refuse my kiss, I have only to decide which to do next. Burn the house down and let you watch, or help you escape and then burn the house down." He called to his friend, "Rax, how long do you think the Folly will burn?"

"Gracious, all day and night. Can't detain a lady for so long," Mr. Rackham said in an apologetic tone. "Or her horses, they are waiting, too. You had better let Miss Tempest go."

She didn't turn to thank him, not when the Beast held her mesmerized by his madness. Burn Felmont's Folly? Burn it! He was evil and insane, maybe the disease already addled his brain. Unless he tormented her for devilment, and hadn't he always done that! But she was not going to show him she cared about his threats.

"Be a gentleman, Rax," the Beast chided. "A lady must be given a choice."

In a soft rumble, he asked her, "What is it to be, Lizzie? Do you want to watch the house burn first or is it enough that you have ruined me?"

While she took a calming breath, Lizzie let his words dangle in the air between them. "I ruined you? How amusing."

There was no use answering a madman with emotion and she had no intention of letting him upset her. She said in a suitably bored voice, "As for the house, burn it to the ground if you must. It is full of your relatives come to welcome you home. Why don't you burn it down after they are safely out of it, and you are safely inside?"

Lizzie heard him give a low rumble of laughter. His obvious surprise at her words gave her a primitive satisfaction. The last time she had seen him, she would never have dared talk back to him. She had only managed to get one coherent sentence out of her mouth when faced with the Beast. Long ago, Lizzie had actually forbidden him to look at her face. By some strange quirk of his nature, he had never met her eyes since.

He stepped nearer. She stared at his chest while the brim of her bonnet grazed him well below his shoulder. Lizzie forced herself to look up at him. He towered over her, so close his boots touched either side of her feet.

Her heart thudded.

He snagged her waist with both hands to stay her retreat.

A gasp escaped against her will. He was so close that she could feel the heat from his body and almost taste the brandy on his breath.

His gaze drifted over her while she trembled in his grip. "Why didn't you leave when your mother died?" he asked, in a voice that echoed down to her waist encircled by his hands. "You could have escaped me then."

Lizzie couldn't tell if he caressed her or if her shivering made it feel as if he did. Panic rose in her breast at his touch. "Release me! I won't be held like a tavern wench."

She raised her hand and slapped his looming face as hard as she could. "Let go!"

She struck him with such force her wrist pained her. Her fingers stung, grazed by the stubble on his jaw. She feared she had lost some of her skin.

How did women stand being kissed?

His lean cheek showed the mark of her fingers. He winced, she was sure of it. The Beast released her waist and reached to tug on the ends of the ribbons under her chin. His forearms brushed against her breasts. Lizzie could have sworn she felt fiery brimstone singe her sensitive flesh through all her clothes.

Her bonnet slid off and fell to the ground. He kicked it away with one slow deliberate slide against her leg.

She stepped backwards to break the disturbing contact and to allow him to attack her hat, if it amused him. She could afford to buy as many bonnets as she wanted.

He followed her, his mocking blue eyes studying her simple coiffure. "Why did you stay? Did I err when I broke our engagement, my love? Do you wish to be mine?"

Her body trembled, not quite under her control, but she managed to answer him calmly, "I have not lain awake languishing for you, Quentin Seraphim."

He ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of amazement. This pleased her.

The first and only time she had ever called him by name, he had thrown her into the lake. He had fought every village boy who tried to taunt him with his name. They had been permitted to call him Dacey or Dace. Anything else he answered with violence.

He hated his name, Quentin Seraphim, because four baby boys had died at birth before him, so his mother had named him her fifth angel.

She should have called him Lucifer.

In a tone calculated to put the Beast in possession of the facts and bring him to his senses, Lizzie said, "The repairs to the façade were half finished when my stepfather died. To leave it like that was impossible. When your father inherited Felmont's Folly, he didn't have the funds to complete it. I did. None of this had anything to do with you."

"Did you really think your banker uncles would allow you to squander your wealth without demanding their pound of flesh?" he asked. "My flesh!" He gave a half shrug. "They already own yours."

He walked away, calling over his shoulder to his friend, "Let's burn it, Rax. I cannot pay for it."

Lizzie ran to bar his way.

The Beast swept her aside. She ran beside him, keeping out of reach.

"Let me explain, Beast." She dared call him Beast to his face. It gave her courage. "I will sign any document swearing the debt is mine. I assure you, I can afford it."

"But I cannot afford to pay you back and I'd rather burn in hellfire than marry a woman who hates me." He took her hand to pull her towards the house, retracing the footsteps still visible on the lawn.

The heat from his fingers burned through to her bones. The strength with which he compelled her to go with him frightened her. She lashed out and tried to hit his shoulder, having no wish to lose more skin to his jaw. He leaped out of the way. A glancing blow struck him. To her surprise, he staggered. His face turned ashen under his tanned skin.

His recovery was slow, only her wrist caught in his grip kept him upright. At last, he rose to his full height to tower over her. His gaze settled on her ear. He drew her arm closer to hold her against his side. "Let me speed you on your way," he rasped in a voice tight with pain. "Stay here, Lizzie, and we will both live our nightmares. Run as far as you can. It is your only hope."

Lizzie pulled away to stop the Beast's thigh from brushing hers. "Do you think I want to stay? Those are my Bays waiting for me. Let go!"

He dragged her closer. "Your banker uncles are the enemy, dearest Lizzie, not me. It is by their design that you are still here. They all plot against you. They want me to play the devil and force you to marry me, but I am giving you the chance to escape. Leave me to my fate, I am ruined."

She couldn't match his stride and had to run stumbling at his side. How did he manage to strip her of every ounce of dignity? How did he manage to return her to dithering childhood, when she had been so in awe of him, so fascinated yet repelled.

"Rax," he called to his friend, "I must find a way to persuade the lady to leave. Do you suppose, if I insist on a kiss, that might do it?"

A yelp of surprise came from Mr. Rackham as he hurried along beside them. "Dace, let her go. She has gone white with fright at the idea."

Lizzie twisted in the Beast's grip. "Stop pulling me and stop threatening me!"

"What a picture of domestic bliss we'd make. She has tried to kill me, Rax, have some sympathy."

Lizzie bit her lip. It was true. She'd been eight years old, determined to murder him before he had chance to drown her again. She'd offered the Beast poisonous toadstool tea. He'd had too much sense to drink it.

She stumbled over the edge of the lawn onto the drive. Where had all his friends gone? Why did the servants only stand and stare, didn't they see the danger she faced?

He captured her flailing hand to hold both her wrists in one large fist. "Easy, Lizzie, I am trying to help you escape."

Did he think she wanted to stay? He was devil and fool rolled into one!

"For heaven's sake! Dace!" Mr. Rackham shouted until the Beast turned his head from his mocking contemplation of her unraveling hair. "Ask Miss Tempest to marry you. There is no point burning it down if she'll have you. Lovely place. Breathtaking."

"We discussed this, Rax." The viscount had lost his drawl.

"Oh heavens, stop! Look at her face! She thinks you are going to commit violence on her person."

"I never look at Miss Tempest's face. She has forbidden me to do so. Besides, I have made it clear to Lizzie, I have no desire for her scrawny body. Never did have, never will. All I claim is a kiss." He avoided her kick to his shins.

They reached the door of her carriage. He opened it with a flourish and gestured to her aunt to get out. Aunt Tempest fled. Clutching her reticule, she escaped up the stairs into Felmont's Folly with undignified speed.

Lizzie called, "Aunt Tempest!"

The Beast pushed Lizzie towards the berline door. "The lady conspires against you. Flee while you have the chance. Alone!"

She turned and braced herself against the doorframe, almost managing to unman him with a well-aimed kick. She dared not let him enter with her for fear of what he'd do to her in private. Felmonts never stopped at a kiss.

He pried her hands free. One of her ankles twisted and scraped against the steps until he lifted her up, as if she weighed nothing, and carried her into the carriage.

Lizzie fought him.

Not able to stand upright, he held her pressed up against his chest with her arms pinioned behind her back.

"Let go! Beast!"

He leaned low to place her on the seat. "One kiss, Lizzie, then I'll let you go."

She kicked at him furiously. Before she had time to realize how she'd managed it, he'd gone. She'd kicked him out. She'd won!

She called to her coachman to hurry.

Her horses started and the carriage shot forward with a jolt. If he were the last man living, she'd never marry that rude, depraved Felmont Beast.
Chapter 2

Dace knelt on the gravel. His shoulder ached like the devil, as though it were in shards. Pain scraped the weariness from his brain.

"Bad luck she got you on the shoulder." Rax eyed him with sympathy. "Thought I was going to have to send for smelling salts. Do you think it will work? Miss Tempest didn't really kick you in the ballocks, did she?"

Dace laughed under his breath for it was that or show his weakness and his despair. "Lizzie is my only hope. Damn all bankers! They have me netted, gaffed and gutted. They have only to salt me and watch the death throes." He eased into a crouch.

Dace heard Rax tutting over him with mock sympathy. His partner in the plots and pranks of their youth had an endless repertoire of sighs, moans, groans, tsks and tuts. "You are making those odd noises again, Rax. Learned 'em from your grandmother?" It suddenly felt as if all his years away with his regiment were but an inconvenient interruption to their friendship.

They had dined yesterday at White's on his way through London. He'd been furious at the news of his impending nuptials. Half the members, the determined bachelors, had insisted on attending the wedding. Even the wild ride, which had almost killed him, had not deterred them.

"Your bride is delightful. Wonder if I can't cut you out and marry her myself." His friend leaned down to offer him aid to stand. "Why didn't you explain it to her properly? Gracious! If that's how Viscount Felmont pays court to his bride, it's no wonder she wants nothing to do with you."

Dace grabbed Rax's hand and staggered to his feet. "I am the villain of the piece. It is the only role I have ever played for her. At least now Lizzie thinks she has a chance against me. If it came to a fair fight, she probably believes she could trounce me. I acknowledged every verbal hit and winced at every blow. Damn near fainted at her feet when she hit my shoulder."

He rubbed it and moved cautiously. " _Not lain awake languishing for me_. I didn't think she had it in her. Good for little Lizzie Tempest."

"If only the lady could be persuaded to languish for me. I think I'm in love." Rax sighed and scuffed his shoes in the gravel.

"You have to stop falling in love so easily. It only encourages women to think men are romantic." Dace wondered if he had enough strength to get up all those stairs to the doors. Scuttling into Felmont's Folly through the servants' entrance was hardly in keeping with his new status.

"You'll have to marry her, there is no other way. Why don't you throw yourself at her feet to beg for mercy?"

Rax was such an innocent, and decent to the core.

Dace made for the stairs with as much strength as he could muster. "Dearest Lizzie has no mercy to spare for a Felmont."

"What if her uncles force her to marry you and she jumps from the roof?" Rax walked with him. "You terrified her. Almost smacked you on the shoulder myself to get you to stop."

"Not if you value your life." The smile he gave showed enough menace to convey his threat.

"After seeing her, I can understand your revulsion," his friend said in bantering tones. "Fair of fortune and of face, pretty hair streaked with blonde, delicate features, elegant figure and worth twenty thousand a year, if she is worth a penny. Must admit, I can't see how you could bring yourself to marry her. She is a positive antidote!"

As all of Rax's five sisters were beauties and he should know better, Dace answered with a dismissive drawl. "Lizzie has not one iota of the playful spirit I want in a wife. Her blood turns to ice when she sees me. I doubt she will ever understand passion after what she has been through. Not after witnessing the wages of sin for love and desire, and burying the corpses." He glanced up at the main floor windows.

They were waiting for him. "Lizzie will never trust a Felmont. Who can blame her?"

Rax saw the faces staring down at them. "Gracious, that nose does run in the Felmont family. It doesn't look so bad on you. No rush to introduce me to your relatives. Why don't we go and see where the others have gone?"

Dace limped towards the stairs as if fatally injured, dragging his friend along in his wake.

Rax peered over the side of the ornate balustrade. "They've got her! Poor Miss Tempest! Dished before she got through the gates. That must be one of her uncles blocking the way."

"How did they get here so fast?" Dace watched the scene with dismay.

"How on earth are you going to ... to ... I mean...." Rax searched for the right word, "The nuptials, the wedding night—after frightening your bride half to death over a kiss?"

"Rax, there you go thinking inflaming thoughts again. Don't worry, there will be no wedding and no bedding. I am for the Americas if Lizzie fails me." His stomach knotted at the thought. Home from the hell of war to be greeted with threats of bankruptcy and social ruin. Home to the Priory to find he owned nothing but his soul.

He inched further up the steps. He couldn't bear to watch Lizzie's return. Rax gave a mournful sigh and joined him on the terrace.

None of the family came out to greet him, not even one of his young cousins. Keeping the doors closed in his face while he waited outside on the terrace heaped insult upon injury. He'd be damned if he'd knock to enter his own house. He looked up as if inspecting his property.

Whatever Lizzie had done to the façade, she had not changed the frieze over the pediment.

His friend stared upwards before walking backwards to get a better view.

Dace grabbed Rax by the arm. "Watch out for the stairs. They are winged victories. The first viscount loved 'em. The one in the middle is supposed to bear a close resemblance to his wife." Dace pulled Rax under the portico.

"Do you suppose she posed like that with her breasts exposed?" said Rax. "I wonder how many men have fallen down the stairs trying to get a better look. Very angelic. Modesty does not run in your family, obviously. Heavens!"

"Leave heaven out of it. Winged victories, all of 'em." Dace decided to give the inmates of the damned house a few more moments to open the doors. "There are no angels here in Felmont's Folly."

The doors swung wide. Two mismatched footmen stepped out and bowed before taking their positions on either side of the portico.

Footsteps echoed from the hall.

Dace peered into the interior to see the disapproving countenance of the house steward advancing towards him. Gordon had always been small and fierce. All the young Felmonts had felt the back of his hand for sins real or imagined. The years had shrunken the old Scot, but from the look of him they had not helped his temper.

Not even a welcome from Gordon! Dace stepped over the threshold to put his good arm around the old man's shoulders. "Don't stand there staring at me," he said in full Felmont drawl. "Damn it, Gordon, get everybody out of the house. I'm going to burn it down."

"I rather think you have to own it first, Lord Felmont." Only the old man's cascading white eyebrows were larger than before.

"Go to hell!" Dace patted Gordon on the back then bent to kiss him affectionately, in the French style on both cheeks.

Shock at his gesture showed on the house steward's lean wrinkled face. "Welcome home, my lord. Will the wedding be this morning?"

"Not unless Miss Tempest begs on bended knee, stark naked, swearing eternal love and all manner of earthly delights to entice me. I think she has deprived me of the ability to father children." Dace limped into the circular hall beneath the cupola.

Gordon gave a muffled chortle.

Dace gave Rax time to look around with the curiosity every visitor showed. His friend eyed the circular staircase that dominated the hall. It jutted out in a rising sweep to the upper floors without any visible means of support.

"Is the staircase safe? It will frighten the life out of me, if your relatives don't do it first." Rax stared at the family portraits on the walls with the expression of one noticing the nose for the first time.

Gordon asked, "Would you care to greet the family, my lord?"

"No. Lead me to the brandy." Dace stared up at the ceiling.

What in hell's name had Lizzie Tempest done? A scene of judgment day had been painted on the inside of the dome. Heaven at the top with a few amused angels, one of whom looked very much like the lady herself. All the sinners consigned to realistic torments were Felmonts. Dace craned his neck. Damnation!

All those miserable years he had devoted to ingratiating himself with his betrothed, and she had him painted as the devil in his own house!

"Lizzie has made a liar out of me," he drawled. If he looked like a devilish Felmont, he may as well sound like one. "Look, Rax, she gave me angels."

Good for clever Lizzie! A carefully planned insult designed to be discovered when it was too late for him to thank her for it. He owed her one.

Gordon led the way across the marble floor to open a gilded door with a flourish. "I'll tell them to ready the chapel for the ceremony. There is brandy in the library, my lord."

Escape was not to be so easy. His family appeared like wraiths in a graveyard. They drifted into the hall with expressions of great disdain on their long faces, angry with him for refusing to marry Lizzie and her fortune. Even his cousins gave him the Felmont stare, though Harry winked over the top of his mother's head.

Rax shied like a nervous horse.

Bertram Felmont limped forward, garbed in one of his old-fashioned frock coats, his hand rested lightly on his bejeweled cane. He gave a slight bow.

"Dearest Felmont." Sarcasm, permeated with vitriol, dripped from the thin mouth almost hidden by a long hooked nose—nothing had changed there. "What a shame you survived the great Bonaparte. We were doing so well without you."

Dace returned the bow with the slightest movement, a mere half shrug of disdain to save his shoulder unnecessary movement. "Cousin Bertram, you are still alive?"

A rustle of interest swept through the family at the veiled threat. One never had to spell it out for a Felmont.

The cane tapped on the floor. "Sweet boy." An unpleasant grimace accompanied the words. "If you cannot tempt Miss Tempest to your bed, with your so-charming personality, we are here to help you court her."
Chapter 3

Lizzie hid in the shadow of Felmont's Folly on a quest to bargain with the Beast. Morning dew still lingered underfoot close to the walls. Soon it would be discovered she had escaped from her bedroom through a jib door in the paneling. A convenient bolt-hole added at little cost when her stepfather went insane from syphilis and began to wander the house looking for her dead mother.

The stables crawled with the viscount's friends. They seemed to prefer the company of grooms to that of the Felmont family. Who could blame them?

She eased away from the golden stone to look up at the library window. She hoped the Beast had not drunk himself into a stupor in there. Drat the man! Why could he not just have explained the problem like a civilized man? Instead, he had to threaten to burn the house, and use his justified distress for an excuse to touch her. Yes, he did have reason to be angry, but he had no reason to blame her when she knew nothing about it.

Escaping from her bedroom had been easy. Escaping from her fate was impossible. She had not a penny to spend, but she was worth a fortune to any man able to force her into marriage. She did not need reminders from Aunt Tempest that the roads around Felmont's Folly were perilous.

Highwaymen terrified her since a French one had robbed her mother of the Felmont family jewels and he'd deliberately broken Lizzie's arm by stepping on her. No doubt, to make her mother obey him.

To be found wandering friendless surely meant a fate worse than death.

Lizzie had cleverly captured two of the youngest footmen to assist her when she almost fell over them on the service stairs. They were not happy to spy on the Beast, but by sheer force of will Lizzie had persuaded Charles Thwaite to balance precariously on his twin brother's clasped hands.

Arthur, teeth gritted, held Charles up so he could peer over the library's windowsill. The slope of the land, up towards the fell that loomed behind the Folly, meant there was no rustic layer under the north side of the house. Entering through the French doors on the low terrace was out of the question, they led to the reception room where a host of female Felmonts sipped tea and plotted against her.

If her uncles discovered her skulking in the shadows, the next time she met the Beast would be at the altar. Lizzie had to negotiate with him before then to have any hope of buying his good behavior.

"Arthur, you'll have to get me a ladder from the stables. There must be one there." She stepped closer to the wall, not wanting to be seen from the windows.

The young man gave a hiss of distress and released his grip on his brother's foot. They both landed in a heap on the grass at her feet.

"You can't go in the window, Miss." Arthur scrambled to his feet and helped his brother up. "You 'ave to go round by the door. Our Jim will beat us into tomorrow if we let you climb a ladder."

Charles, very red in the face, whispered something incomprehensible to his twin. They huddled under the window and seemed to speak a foreign tongue to each other. Frequent hand waving at the library window attested to the young man's distress at what he had seen.

Arthur shook his head, now as red in the face as his brother. "Never! Gawd!"

Lizzie interrupted, not daring to let her hysteria show. "What is going on in the library, Charles? Surely the viscount has not had time to debauch anyone yet?"

His words came out in a mad rush. "What is going on in there is something no gentleman should do to another gentleman. I am not going to say more, it's not proper. But I do think the doctor is checking 'im out for you, Miss Tempest." The reproof was plain in his tone of voice.

Lizzie colored to her ears. If her uncles could make him submit to so loathsome an examination, then they had him firmly under their control. There was no hope left. The viscount would be in no mood to listen to reason after that—not that he had ever listened to reason in his life.

But he was a Felmont, a poor Felmont. And what Felmont couldn't be bought for a large enough sum? Lizzie was going to have to bribe him or die in the attempt.

"We will wait a few minutes, then you must go back up and see if they have finished," she ordered.

But minutes later neither young man could be persuaded to risk it.

"Then I'll see for myself." What else could she do? If anyone caught sight of her, she was doomed!

Shocked, the twins refused. If she didn't prevail on them soon, they'd be off to tell the world where she was hiding.

Arthur asked respectfully, "Shall I go round by the door to see if our James 'as finished holding the viscount down, Miss? Shall I fetch him for you?"

"No. You are being most unhelpful. Clasp your hands, both of you, and lift me up to the window. My very life depends on it! Charles, Arthur, didn't your mother tell you to do as I bid you?"

Mrs. Thwaite, the twins' mother, had nursed the Beast at her breast then fostered him for seven years until he was sent to school. It was rumored she treated him like one of her own, which meant she fed him and beat him in almost equal proportions.

The Thwaite family had fallen on hard times recently. Lizzie employed members of the family to aid them. It had also annoyed the Beast's father—always a worthy cause.

Chastened, the two youths heeded their mother's command to obey her and braced themselves against the golden stone.

Lizzie stepped into their hands and within moments found herself clinging to the windowsill, trying to see over it. She was too short or those annoying footmen were not lifting her high enough to allow her to see inside the library. She clung to the golden ledge with her fingertips, looked down and whispered, "Higher...."

The window opened.

Strong hands plucked her upwards at an alarming rate. Lizzie's scream faded away to nothing. The Beast did not drag her into his lair. It was only James.

His handsome face wore a horrified look as he dragged her through the window. His presence reassured her that she did not have to face the Beast alone.

Her hip scraped against the edge of the stone sill. Her feet tangled with one another. James seemed not to know where to place his hands and dropped her as soon as she was safely through the window. The carpet broke her fall.

If only she had not landed on the Turkey rug, not far from the viscount's sprawling limbs. He glanced quickly at her ankles and then slumped deeper in his chair with his eyes closed.

"You are displaying your witchy sticks, Lizzie. I do hope nothing is broken. Be warned, the doctor has cold hands and no sympathy whatsoever," he drawled in a weary voice. His right arm lay in a sling across his chest. "If he tries to examine you, tell him I'll run him through. Damn! That didn't stop him from touching me, did it Jim?"

Lizzie covered her ankles. James Thwaite, under-steward and foster brother to the Beast, helped her to rise. The two men were almost the same age, but James was everything the Beast was not—safe, sensible and sober, with a nose of decent and modest proportions, with a character to match. She ignored his apology and just held his gloved hands until she'd recovered.

"I am sorry, Miss Tempest, I thought you were one of the twins. I saw someone peeping in earlier." James retreated to shut the window, leaving the rest of his rebuke unspoken.

He looked very much a Thwaite with his curly brown hair, which he wore cropped short. They were a handsome family. Lizzie had depended on his aid when her stepfather had raged in madness, she depended on him now.

The Beast gave a low laugh. "Dearest Lizzie, were you spying on me? Perhaps you have lain awake languishing." His gaze swept over her, lingering only on her hand rubbing her hip. "Are you hurt?"

Lizzie stopped easing her pain. She tried to restore herself to some modicum of dignity. A straggling lock of hair fell over one eye. She stroked it back behind an ear.

The Beast was in his shirtsleeves, showing her his powerful shoulders. At the throat, his shirt was open enough for her to see a little of his chest at the neck. She could even see slightly through his shirt. He wore nothing underneath it but a bandage for his shoulder. Where was his coat? A gentleman did not display himself like this in front of a lady.

A fire burned in the hearth to counteract the morning chill. The new rugs gave a warm note to the golden slate floors. It was not her fault that no books lined the walls. The Beast's father had taken them when he had looted everything else movable.

The viscount closed his eyes. Did he mean to doze off in front of her?

He had shed his boots and now he stretched out his long legs. Clad in dark buckskin that fit him like a glove, revealing the muscles of his legs and the rounded swellings of his horrid male parts, which no doubt ruled him. His stocking-clad feet toasted by the hearth while he rested his head on a tapestry cushion, looking like an oriental despot with his high cheekbones and long Felmont nose.

Lizzie smoothed the creases from her dark dress and composed herself so she could speak calmly. "I have a proposition to put to you, Felmont."

A weary upraising of his left hand denied her speech.

Its effect was immediate. Drat the man! Her knees began to shake. What was she going to do? Why should he listen? She was doomed.

He said, with a strange glint in his eyes that did not bode well, "Only going to listen if I can look at you, Lizzie. Can I? It has been over ten years since you banned me." He crossed his legs at the ankle and turned a little in his deep chair to examine the pattern in the carpet next to her feet.

He had obeyed her command not to look at her face, only to show her how foolish she was. It had not helped diminish her fear of him. "Yes, you can look at me."

His gaze slid over to her feet then traveled up her body. She felt suddenly as if she had not enough clothes on. He lingered with a despairing expression at her breasts and then looked upwards to stare into her eyes. It made her shiver to feel the intensity of his gaze—not a Felmont stare of disdain—could it be a look of longing? It made her frisson of fright worse to think she might be the object of his lust. Whatever he felt, he swiftly hid it as his mouth quirked down in a wry smile.

"Thank you, Miss Tempest, I have seen enough. The door is over there." He studied her reaction to his insult with an innocent expression on his face.

"Beast!" she muttered, stifling an urge to say more. Of all the men in England, he must be the most annoying.

Her anger made her feel better, stronger. The tremble in her knees ceased. She resisted the urge to swat him.

"The problem, dear Lizzie, is that I am not beast enough." He glanced over her head at James. "Get the lady a chair, Jim."

James took care to place the side chair so she could look at the viscount's profile while he stared at the fire. She felt safer keeping him in sight.

"Care for a brandy, Lizzie?" the Beast asked, as though he knew she was in need of something to steady her nerves.

"Thank you, yes." Lizzie could only hope it helped.

"Will you join us, Jim?" asked the viscount.

James refused with a shake of his head. He brought two small satinwood tables nearer their chairs for their glasses, then stood behind her, on guard, as he had so many times before.

Her very first taste of brandy burned her throat on the way down. She coughed. "I must talk to you, Felmont, about marriage." There, she had said it.

His long face lit up with amusement, or was it relief?

"Be careful, Lizzie." He studied the shifting embers. "I have precious little resolve left to refuse you. If you've just had an earful of threats from one Tempest brother, know that I received some choice words from the other. I am bankrupt. My father's fortune, small as it was, has gone to repay part of the debt to you. I no longer own the Priory and have not their permission to live there."

"So I have just found out. I'm very sorry for your loss. My uncles told me nothing about ruining you." Lizzie took another deep breath. "We must make a pact. I am willing to solve all your financial problems."

"Are you sure the price will not be too high?" The Beast rubbed his shoulder. "Open the window, Jim, I can't abide the smell of liniment."

"I regret striking you on the shoulder, I didn't know you had been wounded there. I'm sorry for the pain I caused you," Lizzie apologized fervently and hoped he wouldn't offer to show it to her. She was relieved to see him sip his brandy with no threats of vengeance or thoughts of exposing his wound. A vague nod was his only reply.

She looked to see if James had returned to stand behind her. Lizzie gave him a quick encouraging smile before returning her attention to the Beast.

"I see Miss Tempest smiles on you, Jim. It is more than I ever had from her. Go and see if Rackham has managed to escape the aunts." He waited for the under-steward to obey him.

James didn't move. She knew he wouldn't leave her.

"Are you refusing a direct order?" For some reason the Beast found his question amusing. He laughed out loud. "I should fire the lot of you. Worst servants I ever came across."

"Please be quiet, Felmont. They will hear you outside. I want you to know the Thwaites will always have employment in my house." Lizzie hastily added, "Wherever that might be."

The Beast obeyed her command for only the second time in his life and lapsed into a gloomy silence.

Lizzie hurried into her first attempt to buy a life of safety away from him. "If you feel yourself trapped, without resources, then let us marry and lead completely separate lives. You shall have half my fortune to spend as you wish."

"If I married you I'd get all of it, and you into the bargain." His tone made clear his distaste for her. He appeared to have gone into a sulk, staring at the fire.

"You don't get me, absolutely not—except in the legal sense, not in the physical one. Besides, you have made it perfectly clear I turn your stomach." Her own churned at the thought of close proximity to him. "However, if you did marry me in name only, I'd let you have two-thirds of my fortune. You'd be free to do anything you liked. Live in any house, do as you wish. I'd live far away. Scotland, perhaps."

"Let me remind you of what I want, so you can stop trying to buy me with your fortune." He sighed and leaned an elbow on the arm of his chair. "Please do not mock me for my simple needs. I want a wife, children, and a home. I want to fall in love and marry for love. I want to have a family, Lizzie. A family of my own. A wife I can love, who loves me. Not one who tries to poison me. Not one who hates me. Not one who prayed for my death every night of her life, or so you said."

"I was eight! You threw me into the lake then waded in to drown me." She was not going to let him get away with rewriting their history.

"I was trying to rescue you, Lizzie."

"I would not have needed rescuing," she snapped, "if you had not thrown me in!" The lock of hair fell down over her face. She pushed it back with the wrong hand and if James had not reached out to take her brandy, she'd have poured it over herself, and it would have been the Beast's fault.

"Pax, dearest Lizzie. I apologize for the lake and for the countless times I tormented you by my presence. If you'll forgive me, I promise you may keep all your fortune under your control, if you agree to bear my children."

His low voice vibrated through her. The Beast wanted her to share his bed? A rush of dizziness swept over her. She could barely get words out through her clenched teeth.

"Never! You may have all my fortune, if you let me live apart from you." Drat the man! Now was not the time for her voice to start quavering.

"I need an heir, Lizzie. I want to have legitimate children. If we marry, you have to bear them." He stared over at her with a frown creasing his brow. "Lizzie, don't look at me as if I have a forked tail." His sigh reverberated down to her toes. "Don't look so scared, I'll trouble you as little as necessary." He gave a muttered curse, "Hellfire and damnation. This is useless. I cannot do it."

The viscount put a protective hand on his shoulder and got out of his chair with a look of such disgust on his face that Lizzie shrank back until her chair creaked.

James brushed past to shield her from view. "You had better lay on the divan, my lord, if you know what's good for you. I want you to remember Miss Tempest has been kindness itself to us."

"Go to hell, Jim. If you start _my lording_ me, I'll throw you in the lake." The viscount swayed on his feet while James dragged the long divan nearer the fire, closer to her chair. "You're right, I should lie down. Wouldn't like to faint at Lizzie's feet at the thought of marrying her. That wouldn't be polite at all."

The Beast reclined perilously close to her knees. He spoke in a low, cajoling voice. "Carry on bargaining with me, Lizzie, it's most entertaining. Takes my mind off the pain. Where had we got to? Oh, yes! You get to keep your money, though you'd have to pay the bills. There never was a Felmont who could manage money. I get to have children. Seems fair to me. You can hope you will conceive quickly. You can be sure I'll strive mightily to do my part." He turned to look at James. "I'm not putting you to the blush, am I?"

Lizzie squirmed on her chair to better face the Beast. "You can have children with your mistress. You could visit me in Scotland and return with the babies, pretending they are ours."

Groans came from the Beast, even James gave a snort.

"Do you really think your uncles will be satisfied with us marrying and leading separate lives? Society will think I have shunned you." He paused to stare above her head at James who seemed to be mouthing words to the viscount behind her back. "We can only hope our children get your nose, not mine. What was your insult? My satanic nostrils?" The corner of his mouth curved in a half smile, he tilted his head to one side. "What is that noise?"

Lizzie had not noticed. She could hear it now. The servants were taking chairs to the chapel. Her mother had wanted a conservatory to adjoin the ballroom. Asking for a chapel had been an easy way to pry the funds from Uncle Tempest. Felmont's Folly had the only consecrated conservatory in Christendom.

There was Uncle Percy leading a search party as he called her name. The last place they would think to look for her was in here with the viscount. She had to make him see sense.

"Jim, go and tell them to work quietly. Tell them I am asleep, refreshing myself for the wedding night." He turned to her. "Lizzie, there is really no need to get agitated. We'll just have to hope I recover from your violence eventually or there can never be any activities that make children." He waved James away. "Out, Jim. We must have our reunion another time. I think Miss Tempest means to have me, and these negotiations must be private."

"James." Lizzie darted after the under-steward. "You will wait by the door? In case I need you?"

"Of course, Miss Tempest." He called to the viscount, "Treat her right or you'll get a clattering from Ma, my lord."

"Out Jim! Lizzie, come back here. How can we get married if you won't be alone with me?"

The door closed. Lizzie returned to stand behind her chair. "I have not agreed to marry you, Felmont. Unless you agree to a marriage in name only, I shall never marry you."

The Beast sat up to stretch his legs along the length of the divan. He looked almost sympathetic. "The one thing I wanted, the one thing I dreamed of to keep me sane in the madness of war, was my home with a wife and children to love."

He gave a weary sigh. "I am ruined financially and socially if you don't marry me and I forfeit everything I yearn for if you do. Bargain with me, Lizzie. Negotiate some way for us to have children together. At least give me that. I swear you will not have to suffer me often if you cannot stand my touch."

A tear slid down her cheek. She firmly quelled another by scrunching her toes fiercely inside her shoes, a useful trick learned in trying times. "If I did marry you, Felmont, and we–," she gulped a frantic breath of air. "And we had children together. I'd expect you to be faithful to me. Do you really expect me to allow you to catch a disease to infect me?"

She knew he understood exactly what she feared and why she feared it. Her mother had caught syphilis from her Felmont husband and they had both died from it.

"I am aware of the dangers and will take every precaution needed to keep us both safe. If you deny me a mistress, you'd have to share your body with me." He spoke in a soothing voice as if he didn't speak of wickedness, as if they were talking of breeding orchids or roses. "Are you sure you want that? Wouldn't it be easier to just bear my children and let a mistress take care of the rest?"

He picked up his glass from the table beside him. "To be honest, I must warn you I yearn for a woman's love, to have and to hold, whenever it pleases me to please her." He seemed to drift off into sinful thoughts. "Can you satisfy those urges in me, dearest Lizzie, or would you deny me my wants and scold me for them?" He gave a look of mock sorrow as if he sympathized with her plight. "I think you must agree to a mistress."

"It would not be—when you please or how you please." Lizzie had heard of some of the disgusting ways men used women when her stepfather had raved in madness.

Lizzie held her head high and lied like a Felmont. "I shall never marry you if you insist on a mistress. As for your appetite for sin, I might consent to endure it occasionally. Once a month is all I offer. Surely you can live with that? It isn't as if you find me the least bit attractive."

Lizzie saw him try to quell his laughter as he signaled his refusal of her offer.

She slid into her chair before she spoke again. "Then once a week, if you are going to insist on being depraved."

He gave a half shrug with his one good shoulder. "Lizzie, I'm a Felmont. I can only promise not to bother you more than I have to."

"No! There must be rules!" She arranged her dark skirts to make sure her ankles were not showing.

"Set them at your peril," he warned in a gentle voice. "If you insist on fidelity, you get all of me and I get you, to please as often as I yearn to. Think well before you demand fidelity, Lizzie."

He set down his glass as a tremor shook him. A drop of brandy drizzled down to wet his hand. "Tell me your rules, and they had better include every day and every night, or allow me a mistress."

Every night? To use her as he pleased? It cheered her to think he found her so unattractive that he shuddered with disgust at the idea. How could she endure him? Yet she must give in to get him to live by her rules in this matter, to win some measure of safety. She'd agree to whatever she must to be safe from that dreadful disease. There was no choice about marrying him, so she had to make him agree to be faithful.

How often was the least he'd need her? Every night if she had to, but not every day. Surely even Felmonts could find other interests during the day?

She took a deep breath. "I will come to you at midnight and you can behave like the Beast you are. After you have finished sinning, I shall return to my room and you will have to wait until the next midnight to satisfy your horrid urges." What was she saying? Could she even endure it once? How was she going to stand his attentions night after night?

The fire sighed in the hearth as he whispered, "Every midnight? You'd come to share my bed?"

She answered in a rush. "I shall leave after you have finished and you must content yourself with waiting until the next midnight. I shall not be importuned any time you feel like using me. My mother was never left alone."

Lizzie shuddered at the thought. "I could not live, worried you might decide to have an urge. Never knowing when, and fearing to be subject to your lust at any time, Felmont. I could not endure it."

"So we are agreed, every midnight you will sin with me?" He propped his chin on his hand, devilment written on every plane of his face, though he tried to hide it.

"Stop looking at me like that," she snapped.

"Like what, Lizzie?"

"As if you are having an urge!" Lizzie couldn't meet his amused gaze. "Be warned, I shall leave you if you are not faithful. That is part of the pact. You must agree to let me go."

"Dearest Lizzie, I shall agree to your terms on one condition. During the day we appear to be a devoted couple. You do not abuse me verbally. You dine with me, every meal including breakfast. If I cannot have a wife who cares for me, then let me have one who pretends to. If you drink tea at any time, night or day, you must invite me to join you. And, Lizzie, you must never strike me."

"The same rules apply to you." She tried to think of something she could deny him.

He placed a hand on his heart. "I have never struck you, Lizzie."

"You have never stopped verbally abusing me, not for an instant." The look of injured innocence on his long face made her furious. "If you wish to share my tea, then you must agree to drink only the brandy I pour for you. And you must promise the instant you stray—I am free."

"Agreed!" He leaned forward to toss the dregs from his brandy glass into the fire. Flames blasted from the hearth as if she'd made a deal with the devil. "Say it, dearest Lizzie, and let there be peace between us from now on."

"Agreed!" She had only to catch him being unfaithful to be free of him. Felmonts were neither faithful to their wives nor discreet in their affairs, and they died from the consequences, as she might.

"Shall we seal our pact with a kiss, dearest Lizzie?" He paused to smile at her. "If you are going to turn pale at the thought of kissing me, it is with relief I remind you that I am injured and unable to manage my husbandly duties tonight. You must be gentle with me and pray I recover eventually."

Perhaps she had damaged him for life! No, she didn't wish him harm, she just wanted to be safe from his Felmont nature.

"Dear betrothed, as you are fitter than I, it is your duty to cross the few feet of carpet that separates us and kiss me. On the lips, dearest Lizzie, or our pact is useless, for if you cannot do that then I cannot marry you, because all your promises are lies."

Feeling lightheaded, Lizzie struggled to her feet. She walked over to him on shaky legs. The Beast smelled of liniment mixed with brandy. He slid down to rest his head on the back of the divan and closed his eyes. She bent over him and hesitated on how best to approach close enough to kiss him.

She leaned over him. Her troublesome lock of hair fell down to hit him squarely on his long Felmont nose. His eyes flew open. She gave a gasp and held onto the divan for support. "My apologies for startling you, Lizzie," he said through gritted teeth. "If I may point out that you are holding my injured shoulder."

He moved her fingers to pull her lower and lower, until at last her lips skimmed over his.

She had kissed the Beast.

His bristly chin had not touched her. She had managed it quite well. The thumping sounds reverberating through her were from the servants moving chairs in the ballroom, not from her cowardly heart.

His warm fingers stroked her hand.

"What are they threatening you with, Lizzie? It must be something truly awful. What is it?" His concern sounded sincere. For that reason alone, she answered.

"An insane asylum. Uncle Tempest says if I don't marry you, I make him look foolish for allowing me to save Felmont's Folly. Bankers live by their reputations, you see, he will have me locked up."

Lizzie pulled her fingers away to stop his disturbing touch. "I must marry you, Felmont, to escape a worse fate."
Chapter 4

Flowering plants lined the walls, tall palms in pots waved over the golden marble floor. It was the strangest place of worship Rax had ever seen. He perched on his seat in the middle of a row of Felmonts feeling like a one-winged sparrow amid a flock of hungry crows.

The windows went floor to ceiling in a manner more suited to a conservatory than a chapel. Rax stared at the large fountain in the center. It seemed an oddity but at least it had a religious theme, if the water trickling over the half-naked angels was anything to judge by. He forced his gaze away from their moist caresses.

The viscount swayed away from the bride like a man on his last legs. Rax watched Dace's masterful display of weakness with an envious eye, not that it fooled him. He simply appreciated the skill involved and wished he had it. Poor Miss Tempest grasped the bridegroom by his coat in yet another attempt to keep him by her side.

For a moment it had been touch and go. Miss Tempest seemed to have lost her courage, judging from the expression on her face when she entered the ballroom on Dace's arm. A condemned criminal facing imminent execution could not have looked any more reluctant. Only Dace's show of weakness had calmed her.

Rax glanced around with apprehension. The masked lady seated behind him was in hot pursuit of someone. He sincerely hoped she did not breathe so noisily on his behalf.

The bride, distracted by Dace's antics, managed to recite her vows while she concentrated on not letting him topple off the dais. They were perilously close to the edge.

Lizzie felt a strange calmness descend on her as if she watched herself from a distance. She was immune to bad odors after years in the sickroom. The smell of the vicar's rotting teeth, which had sent her bridegroom reeling backwards, did not affect her at all. How on earth had the viscount served in Wellington's army?

A mere unpleasant odor could not remove the expression of calm dignity from her face. The dreadful faintness had passed. She had decided it was best not to think of Felmont as the Beast, lest it slip out of her mouth by accident. Calm dignity worked best with Felmonts, and name calling was very undignified.

He murmured some words under his breath, forcing her to raise her voice to drown him out. Her vows to love, to honor and to obey him cost her nothing to say, for she had no intention of keeping them.

The vicar's invitation for the Beast to recite his vows drew only silence. Had he changed his mind? Lizzie looked up at him hopefully. He stared at her as if he had just noticed she was there and was not happy at the discovery.

She let go of his coat. He could fall off the dais for all she cared. His left hand came up to curve around the back of her neck to hold her close to him. It shocked her. Her heart missed a beat.

"Listen to the words, dearest Lizzie. I say them for you because you bargained so delightfully. Look at me." He waited for her to look up into his eyes.

The Beast began his recitation. All the while, he stroked the nape of her neck in an unsettling caress.

Lizzie paid no heed to his words until the dreadful, "And with my body I thee worship."

There were a few titters of laughter from the family. The cold shakes started in her legs. They moved upwards at an alarming rate. Only the Beast's distracting hand kept her from fainting at his feet.

Bertram Felmont's voice rose above the others. His remark about a sacrificial lamb being restrained for slaughter was offensive enough to earn a glare from the vicar. That rebuke did not stop the rest of the Felmonts from bestowing praise with their laughter.

Uncle Tempest, the elder of her two uncles, also the most choleric, rose to the bait. His threats to never invite the family again did nothing but encourage Bertram Felmont. A small private income made him independent of the Tempest fortune.

Lizzie felt sick, her skin grew clammy. She could not marry the Beast, but he did nothing except pull her closer and closer towards him. The walls began to tilt away from her.

The vicar's voice rose nervously, "I now pronounce you man and wife."

It was too late to protest.

"Kiss her! Kiss her!" echoed through the chapel. What a pity they had not married in a church, where the thought could not have been voiced.

Cool lips fastened on hers—she felt as though she were suffocating. Lizzie opened her mouth slightly to take a breath. The Beast moved his lips to follow hers, letting her breathe inside the kiss. The scent of him surrounded her. Not unpleasant, when compared to the vicar's.

This was the only kiss he was ever going to get, unless he wanted to kiss at midnight. Lizzie doubted very much if kissing were part of those awful duties she had agreed to in the library.

Both his arms went around her. The kiss ended. She rested her forehead on his chest for lack of a better place to recover from her dizziness, though she was careful to keep the rest of body her away from him.

He whispered close to her ear, "Remember, Lizzie, from now on you are my _loving_ _wife_ or our pact is broken. Be careful or you will find yourself mine to do with as I please, whenever I please. Pretend you care for me, my own dearest wife."

Drat the man! She had not thought of the consequences of _her_ breaking the pact.

No answer came to mind, though anger roiled through her. It made her feel better. Stronger. She raised her head to glare at him only to find his lips claiming hers once more.

Cool and still.

Lizzie had seen the distasteful sight of her mother and stepfather kissing. It had been nothing like this. He did not bite at her lips, neither did he make sucking noises. He moved not at all. He did not force her towards him, only the warmth from his hands coaxed tingles to rise up her spine until she shuddered away from him.

A cheer began, rising till it rang from the gothic stone ceiling as the viscount's friends gave voice to their happiness. Easy for them to celebrate! It was not their necks in the noose of matrimony. It was hers.

Cries of, "Lady Felmont," rang from the great hall as the servants cheered the news that she was safely wed and now belonged to them.

Even the family deigned to smile, looking pleased as cats with a mouse secured by claw and fang.
Chapter 5

Lizzie hid in her bath as midnight chimed.

She studied the turquoise walls and gilt-edged rococo plasterwork.

To her distress, the roundels illustrated Greek myths, all of them of naked women subject to violent men. Everywhere she looked women suffered men's brutality. Felmont's father had commissioned the decoration of this suite of rooms to satisfy his depraved taste, though he had never lived there. She had consented to stay at the Folly only if he kept to the Priory.

If she survived the night, she meant to have the rooms redone. It helped to calm her, to think of restoring the walls to the Folly's golden stone.

The great house grew quiet.

The family must have settled early in their rooms this night. How she was to face them at breakfast the next day, if Felmont recovered enough to ravish her, was beyond her incoherent thoughts. She could not depend on his promise not to touch her. Felmonts always lied.

The minutes ticked by. He had insisted her bed must not be slept in this night lest his reputation be ruined. Safety from his Felmont appetite was guaranteed only by his injuries, his weariness and his distaste for her.

The wedding breakfast had begun at noon. Her introduction to the viscount's friends had been enlightening. If he had searched London for the infamous, he could not have found a pack of more debauched, licentious noblemen. Their antics filled the newspapers with scandal.

No doubt they still continued their revelry, but not in Felmont's Folly. The great house was full. The Beast's friends had departed to the next county, to one of the Duke of Saint Sirin's residences.

The bath water cooled uncomfortably.

"Lady Felmont." The sharp rap on the door startled her. "Lady Felmont! His lordship says he is ready to retire. Now, my lady, if you would be so kind as to join him."

It was Molly, James's sister. A widow left to make her way in the world on the death of her soldier husband.

Lizzie's companion and her dresser were waiting for her in Bath, sent on ahead to rescue what was to have been her new home from the chaos of trunks and boxes. Using Molly as her maid had been James's suggestion.

"I'll be out in a moment." Lizzie swished the water as if she was still busy bathing.

"You said that fifteen minutes ago, my lady."

A great pounding began on the wall by her head. Felmont's bedroom adjoined her dressing room.

He called through the wall, "You have five minutes to get in here or I am coming in there to fetch you, dearest wife. I have not slept in two nights, let us not make it three."

Lizzie got out of her bath and hurriedly dried herself. The thought that he might break in to find her naked, frightened her more than the idea of facing him clothed.

She dried her thin body, glad there was nothing about it to incite his lust. The maid had laid out the lightest muslin nightrail Lizzie possessed. She fastened every pearl button on the bodice, it was too late to call for another. A wisp of matching dressing gown and slippers did not make her feel any less naked. She pulled on a pair of long, pale kid gloves. They made her feel safer, she did not want to touch him accidentally.

She opened the door of her dressing room quietly. Molly hurried over to her. The maid had partially covered the Thwaite curly brown hair with a starched white cap. A bright-eyed confident woman, she was not many years older than her brother James.

Molly said in a rush, "It does no good to get him in a state, my lady. Just let him get it over with, if you don't mind me saying so."

Lizzie could not find the words to answer this gross impertinence. She had seen Molly twice before—once when she was interviewed for the position of housemaid, and once in the under-steward's office, when Lizzie had fled there to consult James.

The trouble with allowing house servants to replace trained personal maids was that they really didn't know the difference between the appropriate things to say and the distinctly inappropriate.

Molly rattled on, "You just go in there like you own the place, my lady, as you do. Don't let him walk all over you. Start off as you mean to go on. Open that door and walk in like the lady you are. Flinching from him only makes him worse."

Lizzie was tugged by her arm to the door of the adjoining bedroom. She had never been manhandled by a maid before.

"Just take a deep breath and go on in, my lady. Show him you aren't afraid of him."

Lizzie did just that. She took a deep breath, grasped the handle of the door and pushed it open with as much force as she could muster and followed it through into the bedroom.

He was standing on the other side of the door, clad in a long white nightshirt. The edge of the door hit him on the shoulder, his injured shoulder. His long satanic face loomed over her, his white teeth snarled in a grimace of pain.

The Beast let out a howl like a mad dog. His eyes rolled back in his head as he fell against her. The door slammed shut with her inside.

Her night attire, caught in his grasping hands, ripped open. The pearl buttons flew in an arc. The material tore down the front with a hiss, pulled from her naked body as he fell clutching it.

Lizzie screamed. She screamed and fled, avoiding his flailing arms, leaping out of the circle of skirts, which were all that remained of her clothes. Wearing only her gloves, she ran naked away from him, giving high shrill shrieks with each breath out of her tortured lungs.

Her slippers flew off. She stumbled over them. They hindered her efforts to reach the Beast's dressing room. Her screams robbed her of breath, her legs grew leaden. She moved as if in a nightmare, struggling, straining to reach safety.

The Beast was going to kill her. She'd never survive his retaliation. Never!

His dressing room door gaped before her. With one last scream, Lizzie tripped over her own feet to sprawl naked on its cool tiled floor. She scrambled to her knees to glimpse him writhing in agony on the floor, clutching her night attire to his face.

Lizzie slammed the door shut and fumbled with the lock. Why wouldn't it lock? Why?

Sobs began, which did not help her task. Any moment now the Beast's fury might overwhelm his pain and he'd crash the door open to revenge himself on her nude and trembling body. If only he'd die from the pain! If only she wasn't naked!

Lizzie heard the lock click home. But surely it was too flimsy a lock to keep out the Beast. He could kick doors open. Men could do that, she'd seen his father do it—splintering wood with powerful blows. She looked around frantically for a weapon to kill him with. There was nothing, only a bar of soap from the Priory and a comb.

A gentle tapping on the door evoked a great shudder amid her sobs.

"Lady Felmont, it's James. Molly is here with something for you to put on. If you'd open the door, she will enter to help you dress."

"Where is he?" She managed to get out the words only because James always made her feel safer.

"The viscount has fainted again. We can't get him off the floor. He asked for laudanum, my lady, when he came round for a moment."

The Beast was unconscious. If he was helpless on the floor, he could not touch her. Her spirits rose for an instant then were dashed to pieces at the thought of his vengeance.

Lizzie unlocked the door. The gloom of the dressing room hid the worst of her shakes from the maid.

Molly helped her into a long winter nightdress. "Never you mind, my lady. His lordship only got what he deserved. Lud! Standing by the door after shouting for you to come to him. If he'd waited in bed like a civilized man, he'd have been enjoying your company instead of lying on the carpet moaning."

Lizzie fiddled with her gloves, trying to pull them higher than her elbows.

Her sobs finally stopped. She avoided deep breaths to keep the shuddering in her lungs controlled.

Venturing out took a little longer.

"Is he still on the floor, Molly? Go and see."

Moans and curses floated through the half-opened door when Molly poked her head out to look.

"Yes, my lady, he's sitting on the carpet, resting his back on the door to your bedroom. I think his nose has stopped bleeding now. He must have landed on it. Lud, what a mess. Not that it looks any worse than before." The maid gave a merry laugh. "Don't you worry, I wager the viscount is more scared of you than you are of him right now."

Lizzie edged out to see for herself. The Beast was seated, as Molly had said, leaning against her door. He dabbed at his nose with the remains of her nightdress, into which he had bled copiously. His nightshirt showed scarlet stains about the shoulder, where he'd rubbed it with gory fingers.

When he saw her, he lifted a hand and gestured to her to approach him. "Come and see what you have done to me, dearest wife, light of my life. One of us may as well get some pleasure out of this night. It promises to be an endless nightmare. After torturing me like this, you will never mention me throwing you in the lake again. We are even."

Loud knocks on the bedroom door disturbed the Beast's soliloquy.

Uncle Tempest shouted, "What is going on in there? Do you think you'll see a penny of her money if you use my niece ill? If she begs to go with us in the morning, I'll see you ruined, so help me! Bloody nobility! The bloody French had the right bloody idea!"

The Beast rose to his feet. His nightshirt covered him to mid-calf. He groped his way to the door, wiped his nose one last time on her clothing, and held it tucked in his hand. He opened the door and blocked the view into the room with his body.

Her uncle gave a gasp of horror. "Bloody hell! What is that? Give it to me at once!"

The Beast's arm jerked as her nightdress was pulled from his hand.

"You bloody bastard!" cried Uncle Tempest. "How dare you mistreat my niece? I wish you'd died over there!"

"Keep it as a souvenir, Tempest. You jump to conclusions that do not flatter me," the viscount said in a voice icy with fury.

"I'll see you hanged for this!" Uncle Tempest choked on his spleen.

The sound of Bertram Felmont's cane tapped closer.

"Ah, Cousin Bertram," the Beast drawled, "You disturb your rest to see how we fare? How kind."

"Not at all, sweet boy. My, my, they say reluctant virgins always bleed the most. What a relief it must be to have it over with." Bertram Felmont's scathing tone was not muted by the soiled nightdress thrown at the viscount's feet.

The Beast kicked it out into the hallway.

"Go to hell, both of you!" he shouted, goaded beyond control. "Get out of my house. Lizzie is mine now!" He slammed the door closed. It was by great effort he stood upright.

Uncle Tempest roared through the door, "I'll give my niece the power to beggar you! She'll beggar you! So help me God!"
Chapter 6

Lizzie held out a dose of laudanum for the Beast. She stood as far away from his bed as she could and willed her hand not to tremble and spill any from the glass.

James and Molly had gone to their beds, leaving her alone with him. Their whispered assurances of her safety had not worked as much to ease her mind as the Beast's acknowledgement, delivered with lurid groans, that she was innocent of a plot to drive him insane with pain. All the while he promised dire retribution if she dared so much as touch him with the tip of her finger.

"Is it poison, dearest Lizzie?" The bolster under the pillows kept him sitting almost upright. His nightshirt, a pristine white, was borrowed from James. The viscount's manservant had been left behind in London with most of his clothes.

The Beast had washed fastidiously, cleansing himself of all traces of blood. His nose looked no worse than before, but his expression was one of a man goaded beyond endurance. "Drink some of it, my own dear wife, to prove it is not poison."

"Don't be ridiculous, Felmont." Her hand shook, spilling a few drops onto the carpet.

He stared at her. Lizzie took an involuntary step backward.

"Remember Lizzie, my love, you are to show me affection at all times, or our pact is null and void. Perhaps you wish to break it and free me from your ridiculous rules and regulations?"

"The pact requires me to show you affection only during the day. Is that ferocious look meant to show your affection for me, dear Felmont?" She had answered him back. She was alone with the Beast in his bedchamber and she was managing to remain dignified.

"I apologize for having a Felmont face, Lizzie, unfortunately I can do nothing to change it." A wicked smile hovered on his lips. "You can't call me Felmont in my bedroom, dear heart. Come closer."

He was sin personified.

Words tumbled from her mouth. "I don't know what else to call you."

"Give me the laudanum, loveliest bride of mine, before you spill it." He took it from her and sniffed it. "Get into bed and I'll tell you what you may call me."

Lizzie shook her head. Impossible. She simply could not do it.

"Then, drink some of this—I am taking no chances on surviving the night, my love." He held out the glass. "Take it, Lizzie, drink some."

The huge bed seemed shrunken by his presence. Death would be easier and a grave more inviting than his bed.

"Hellfire, Lizzie! Don't look at me like that."

"D ... d ... don't swear at m ... me." There, he had reduced her to stuttering again! She hated him.

He sank back against the pillows. "Lizzie, let us try again. I apologize for not speaking gently to you, though I beg to point out, if you could be a trifle more sympathetic for the terrible pain I am suffering, you'd soon realize you have nothing to fear from me."

"Hitting you with the door was an accident, husband. I am sorry for it." It was best to speak with dignity at all times. Arguing with the Beast would gain her nothing but his anger roused.

"You are safer with me this night, my love, than you have ever been in your entire life. Not only am I incapable, I worry that even if I were well, I might be unable to ... interest myself in proceeding to know you better. Now, with those comforting words, share this laudanum with me and let us both get a good night's sleep. Please, dearest wife, just in case you have decided to do away with me, taste it."

"Give it to me, I'll drink a sip. You are making a great fuss over nothing." At his warning glance, she hastily added, "Dace, it is laudanum not poison."

He let her take the glass from his hand.

"Don't call me Dace. It is what my friends call me. Until you can honestly claim to want my friendship, you must call me such sweet nothings as come to mind. Perhaps, dearest devil, darling demon, sweet satan? How clever of you to have my portrait painted on the dome welcoming the family into hell. Dearest Lizzie, did you think I wouldn't notice?"

Lizzie sipped the laudanum rather than answer. He put a finger at the bottom of the glass to tip half the mixture into her mouth, so she coughed and choked and at last managed to swallow the brew.

Beast! She had meant the dose to relieve his pain and make him sleep. He was twice her size. Half the doze was enough to knock her out for the night, and for most of the next day.

"Get in, dearest Lizzie." He took the glass back and downed the remaining contents in one gulp. "Remove the bolster for me. You can put it between us to divide the bed. And don't dare move from your side. This is the one night I get to share my bed with you, dear heart, what a pity I shall spend it in a drugged sleep."

She slid the bolster out from under the pillows. He lay back and clutched his shoulder protectively when she placed the long cylindrical cushion carefully down the center of the bed.

Dividing the bed made it easier for her to climb in. She stayed close to the edge, far away from the Beast.

The laudanum was not long in taking effect. Her eyelids grew heavy, long before sleep claimed her. Her limbs grew weak and the sound of her breathing filled her ears. She could hear but not speak, feel but not react. She floated over and over until she lay in the Beast's embrace.

"Are you asleep, my love?" he whispered in her ear. "Let me hold you to keep you warm. Forgive me. Hush. There is nothing to fear."
Chapter 7

"Wake up, Lady Felmont. Lady Felmont!"

Lizzie's head felt as if it were stuffed with shimmering peacock feathers. Her frozen mouth slurred the words, "My mother is dead. Dead, two years."

Cold wetness licked at her eyelids. Lizzie struggled to get away.

A pillow wedged beneath her knees awoke her to the horror of her situation. She had just spent the night with the Beast! Where was he? Had he ravished her while she slept drugged with laudanum? An anguished cry escaped her. She thrust away the weight lying on top of her and opened her eyes in time to see the long bolster roll across the empty bed to rest where the Beast had lain.

"It's Molly, Lady Felmont." The maid stopped wiping the wet cloth over Lizzie's face. "His lordship is in his dressing room, if you'd like to get up now." Molly tugged the bed curtain from Lizzie's hand to return the silk swag to its place at the foot of the bed.

Lizzie hated laudanum. Its lingering effects made it impossible for her to flee the bed without aid. Molly helped her throw the bedclothes off. Lizzie sat up. Her spinning head made the room tilt.

She saw Molly glance with interest at the sheets on her side of the bed. They were barely rumpled, a fact which would be duly reported in the servants' hall. The maid gave a gasp at the condition of the Beast's side of the bed.

"Lud, that must be from his lordship's nose. It must have bled again in the night. They'll think you had a right time of it when they see that in the laundry." The maid helped her to stand. She wrapped the dressing gown around Lizzie's shoulders while she eyed the creased nightdress for signs of debauchery.

Lizzie did the same. It did not seem to have been involved in any licentious activity, therefore its wearer must be as innocent of wickedness. Only her gloves had gone astray. They peeped from beneath the Beast's pillow with their fingers entwined as if pleading for rescue.

"How do you feel, Lady Felmont?" asked Molly.

"Well, thank you," Lizzie mumbled. She couldn't feel many parts of her body and could only hope they had survived the night unmolested. "Help me to my bedroom."

The Beast's dressing room door opened and that depraved soon-to-be-ravisher-of-a-helpless-maiden appeared. Thankfully, he was clad in somber morning dress, his hair freshly washed and tied back. The thought that he might have strolled out naked with lust written on his horrid male parts, made Lizzie hold onto Mollie's arm for support.

"Good morning, my dear wife, I trust you slept well?"

In the gray drizzle of light from the window, he stared at her. The peacock feathers in her head twirled and tumbled at the sound of his voice. His scrutiny unnerved her.

Lizzie felt incapable of conversation. Drat! It was day and she must call him by an endearment. "I ... I am ... must...."

"Then I suggest you get on with it, dearest Lizzie, for I am ravenously hungry and might just eat you for breakfast." He moved no closer and his sudden smile was determinedly innocent, but Lizzie didn't wait to hear more.

She encouraged her knees to lift her feet. They seemed to have forgotten how and refused to do more than rub her toes gracelessly over the carpet as she stumbled towards the door with Molly's help.

The Beast called, "Wait, Lizzie."

Molly obeyed him. Drat the woman!

He moved close to her side of the bed. Her head swiveled like an owl to keep him in sight.

He returned to kneel in front of her, to lift her cold feet with his warm hands, to slide her toes into her slippers. "I shall have to keep you warmer than this, my love, or we shall be found frozen together like Czarina Anna's clowns in their ice palace." The Beast rose to steal a kiss from her cheek.

Lizzie heard a strangled sob from Molly. Did the maid covet the kiss? She could have it and all the rest of the Beast.

The Beast took Lizzie's arm to help her leave his bedroom. She fled with as much dignity as she could muster, while his fingers caressed her elbow.

The maid did not follow.

Lizzie could hear them talking when she locked her dressing room door to bathe in private. The Beast's low rumble sounded soothing, Molly's voice muffled. Did he hold her in his arms? The mumble of their conversation was unintelligible until the Beast gave his dismissal. "Off with you Molly, lest my wife decides to mistake you for one of my legion of mistresses."

Molly's inaudible retort made him laugh.

The bath held an unusually large amount of water. Lizzie examined her body before she got in. There did not seem to be any marks on her. Perhaps it had been a nightmare. She didn't feel any different. Perhaps he had not run his hands all over her before she had fallen asleep, drugged in his embrace.

* * *

Dace waited for his wife. His wife! He could scarcely believe he'd managed to say the words that bound him to her at their wedding. He opened the door to the hallway in case Lizzie set off without him.

He went to listen at her adjoining bedroom.

Silence.

He wondered if his bride could manage to dress herself. Her uncles had isolated Lizzie from all her familiar servants to better force her to marriage.

Molly was in no fit state to help. Poor Molly had refused to mourn her soldier husband, but suffered torments none the less. Ma had sent her to find work at the Folly to take her mind off her loss.

Dace had not mourned his father. This was the closest he had ever been to his sire, sleeping in the suite of rooms designed for him. Turquoise and cream bed curtains and carpet. The ceiling and walls gothic arched in the Folly's golden stone, only the dressing room plastered and painted a deeper turquoise green. Certainly, the most elegant bedroom he'd ever slept in.

He tapped on Lizzie's door. "Come, dearest wife, they are waiting for us below. You should be glad the custom has ended of visiting the bridal couple before they rose from the bridal bed."

He turned the handle.

The door was locked from the other side.

Dace raised his voice, "We only have to endure this meal. If you can think of a way to get rid of your guests, please do." Throwing the family out of the Folly might be a pleasure to tempt his wife to answer him.

The door opened a few inches, a faint perfume wafted out. His invisible wife spoke, "I can't fasten my dress." A distinct pause, then a reluctant, "Dear Felmont."

"Let me help you."

"No."

"Why not? Lizzie, come here and I'll do it for you."

"Send for James."

"Do you let Jim see you in your chemise, dearest Lizzie? He has worked his last day in your employ."

The door opened. His irate bride showed herself attired in her mourning clothes, the bodice slack on her thin body, her hair woven in a low bun. "He would find me another maid if Molly is busy."

"Turn around. Not that dressing ladies has ever been one of my skills, but I'll try to fasten your laces." Dace brushed past his bride to get behind her, he'd rather not see the fear on her face. He stopped her from fleeing by closing the door with his foot, tactics Wellington would have praised.

He laced every ribbon he found while his bride fumbled with the door handle.

"Finished, my dear."

In her terror at his touch, she had not noticed his foot against door. He stepped away so she'd dare take a breath. If this went on, they'd both need another dose of laudanum before midnight.

She let him lead her out and down the hallway towards the stairs under the cupola. He could see his devilish self painted on the dome. His angelic wife had the grace to look guilty. He pretended not to notice.

"Got any plans for the Folly, dear wife. Does it need any more repairs?" The only topic he could think of to distract her.

"Did you mean what you said about this house being mine, dearest Felmont?" Her hand held his arm with the lightest touch to descend the stairs.

"Better in your keeping than in mine, I'd burn it down and dance naked in the ashes. Do what you want with it. The Priory is mine. You do not visit there without an invitation, dear heart." He knew as soon as the words were out his mouth that his bride suspected he meant to install a mistress there.

Did she think him stupid enough to whore at a house just a mile away across the home park? Evidently, yes. After all, her stepfather had brought whores to the Folly before his marriage to Lizzie's mother. Only the Tempest brothers' close watch had made the third viscount act with any temperance.

Jim appeared in the hall when they reached the main floor. From the looks of it, he'd been up all night. Dace stopped to talk to him. Poor Lizzie carried on for a few steps before she noticed he was missing.

The doors to the long gallery stood open. His bride tottered over the marble floor to stare in at the antique armor and ancient weapons.

Dace followed her. The gallery gave access to the formal reception rooms and ended at the ballroom. Did his bride have an urge to arm herself with a sword or lance and run him through? He doubted she wanted to dance with him.

Jim hurried to stand in front of dear Lizzie. "Good morning, my lady, my lord. Everyone is waiting in the Chinese dining room. May I enquire if you slept well?"

His bride did not answer.

Dace took Lizzie's arm. "Like the dead, Jim. Are the vultures waiting to pick the flesh from our bones?"

"Too tired for it, I reckon. They saw you both safely to your rooms then returned to celebrate. Been at it all night. Mr. and Mrs. Tempest and Mr. Percy Tempest left early. Mr. Tempest instructed me to give Lady Felmont this letter with his compliments."

His wife took the letter and broke the seal. She read the few lines slowly, carefully, and then read them again. A rare smile appeared. What did that damn letter promise?

"Have they abandoned you to your fate, dearest wife? Your banker uncles didn't even wait to see if you survived the night."

A slight shudder ran over his bride. The letter shook in her hand as she looked up at him. "They have restored my fortune. You require my signature on any expenditure but that should not trouble you, dearest husband, since you have only to send your bills to me."

He took the letter from her, glanced at it quickly and gave it back to her. "A slip of the tongue, Lizzie? Send them to you? Am I to be let out of your sight? What if I stray?"

Her smile faded. "If you stray, do not expect me to be here when you get back, dearest husband. James, where is Gordon?"

"In the Chinese dining room, trying to keep order in bedlam, my lady."

"Are the servants ready? The family's carriages?" His bride smiled at Jim. He'd be damned if he liked it. His foster brother was too handsome by far, strutting around as if he owned the place, showing off to Lizzie. Jim gave him a warning glance before ushering them over to the doors leading to the East wing. He swung them open. They walked as if in a funeral procession towards the Chinese dining room.

"Everything is ready, my lady. The sooner this lot has gone, the better. No offence meant, my lord."

Drunken laughter grew louder when they reached the room where the family waited. He could hear his young cousins. With their widowed mothers and the occasional raddled survivor in the older ranks, they were all that remained of the once numerous Felmonts.

Dace offered his arm to his wife, she stared at it silently. "Take my arm, dearest Lizzie, it cannot be worse than a cannonball fusillade." He felt her slight tremble as she obeyed him.

Jim rapped. The two footmen inside swung open the gothic doors.

The dining room walls were striped with painted silk wallpaper depicting fire breathing dragons, surrounded by blood red paint. Blood red everywhere. Even the furniture was a red mahogany. He gritted his teeth. He could smell blood, taste it! Hellfire! That damned nightdress covered in his blood tainted the room.

Jim shouted to be heard above the din. "Lord and Lady Felmont."

Cheers rang out. The two young men holding the nightdress aloft on lances taken from the armory display, waved their gory trophy. Everyone began to laugh and shout a welcome.

Rax saw the bridal couple and hurried towards them. His thought of covering the bride's eyes with his handkerchief had to be discarded. It was too late. The lady had seen that which he had been trying to retrieve. The delicate white nightdress covered in blood stains was paraded about the dining room again.

It was like some medieval ritual. There could be no doubt the lady had painfully lost her virginity after this public exhibition—if the screams had not been enough to haunt him all night.

The noise the family made in play was most peculiar. Raucous laughter from the younger branches, interwoven with their eerie silences after Bertram Felmont quelled them with a quiet word or a glacial stare.

Rax had fallen amongst them on his quest for breakfast. He appeared to be one of the few guests who had risen from his bed, most of the others smelled stale and wore their clothes from the wedding.

Dace beckoned him closer. "Make sure my wife doesn't fall over."

The bridegroom advanced on his cousins with a look of such ferocity on his face that Rax was glad he had only to guard the bride. Lady Felmont stared at him through pupils so large they almost hid the forget-me-not blue color of her eyes.

The young Felmonts laughed, though they had the good sense to back away. "The nose lives! Health to the viscount's nose! The nose! His nose survived!"

The viscount laughed. It must be some Felmont code, for he seemed to take no offense at all, only ordered the nightdress thrown into the fire. His command was obeyed, while Rax's pleas for them to do the same thing had fallen on deaf ears. There was something about Dace that made a man loath to cross him.

Strangely enough, the bride kept her composure. She blinked sleepily, no doubt tired from a most uncomfortable night of passion. All eyes were upon her as Bertram Felmont, jeweled cane in hand, bowed before her.

The cheers abated.

"Mourn not your lost virginity, Cousin Elizabeth, the world of earthly pleasure but awaits your welcoming sighs. We, the family, offer you our deepest good wishes for your swift recovery from the viscount's depredations on your sweet innocence. A new family motto has been coined in your honor, _the torment before the pleasure_."

The family gave a gasp, pretending to be shocked at the old man's words. Not that they hadn't said worse to Rax as he waited with them. They just didn't want to offend the bride who had so much to offer.

Lady Felmont held a letter in her gloved hands as if it was the only thing that mattered in the entire world. The sight of the bloody nightdress had even less effect on the bride than it had on Dace. After seeing it, Rax had reconsidered marriage. He'd put it off to twenty years hence, unless he could find a pretty widow. Virginity was highly overrated.

Lady Felmont addressed Dace with tender appeal. "Dear husband, if I may reply?"

What poise! Rax admired her with all his heart. Her whispered question made everyone lean closer to hear her words, including the viscount. His gaze unnerved the bride. She looked up at him in silence, even though he gave his assent to her request.

Dace turned to study the wallpaper with an innocent expression on his face.

The bride stared at her husband's nose in profile. With a slight shiver, Lady Felmont addressed her audience. "Good morning. It may please you to know that my uncles have restored my fortune to me." The letter waved in her hand.

The Tempests had departed in the night after Mr. Tempest had shouted himself into hoarseness, turned mad by his niece's distress at her bedding. The only thing Rax knew without a doubt was that Dace had not used his bride ill. Proof was in her appearance this morning looking relaxed and rested, if a little sleepy. The lady swayed on her feet and closed her eyes for a moment to lean against her husband until his touch awakened her. She held herself aloof from him to address the family. "If any of you wish to apply to me for a loan or the restoration of your pensions, the same rules apply."

The lady yawned delicately. "Write to me from your home, assure me you are living quietly and soberly, then and only then, will I consider your petition. Your carriages will be ready after breakfast, as I am sure you cannot wait to be on your way."

Rax wondered if Lady Felmont could be drugged. She didn't seem to notice Dace's arm holding her up.

A worried hush fell over the assembly. Lady Felmont smiled graciously and stared about with huge, dark pupils. "Any item left behind will be burnt this afternoon to satisfy my dear husband's wish for a bonfire."

For what Rax was sure was the first time, admiration for his wife crossed Dace's face. Rax wished he dared cuff his friend, a deserving reproof for thinking the lady had no countenance. After what must have been a difficult night, her beauty was undiminished, her air of delicate grace beguiling, her ability to withstand a public attack on a most private subject—astounding.

* * *

Lizzie found she was expected to eat while seated next to the viscount at the center of the long, red-lacquered table. She noticed he did no more than pick at his food.

Bertram Felmont had taken Aunt Clarissa down to the furthest end of the table, away from Mr. Rackham, to persuade her to unmask and eat. The poor lady was quite mad. She wore her disguise to pursue men, breathing noisily as she neared them, certain no one could recognize her.

Eating was impossible. Lizzie sipped tea from the only dinner service left in Felmont's Folly after the Beast's father had looted the place. Her mother's Sèvres and Meissen were long gone. The Chinese _famille rose_ plates bore the Felmont coat of arms—a serpent devouring a winged victory. It had given her nightmares during her childhood. No doubt that was the sole reason it remained at the Folly.

Harry and George, two young cousins of Dace's, sat across from him and questioned him about the Battle of Waterloo. He swore he remembered little of it and instead told them stories about dueling and regimental contests. Though why anyone risking life and limb in a war would then fight duels was beyond her.

The words _Wellington's pet_ drew her attention for a moment, until she heard _damn near cut off my own leg_.

How were you wounded?" Harry asked.

"I can only surmise from my situation when I recovered my senses that the cannonball had lost most of its power before it went through poor Chestnut. I awoke to find myself pinned under his carcass and that part of the battlefield deserted."

George asked in an awed voice, "Was it very painful?"

"Do you know the worst of it was not the pain, for I felt little. I suppose I drifted in and out of consciousness, I had a great bump on the back of my head. The worst was the thirst. Terrible thirst. Damned hot and dry place, a battlefield. I awoke to find a body beside me–" He stopped when he noticed she was listening to him. "Sorry Lizzie, let us just say half a man. I took his water canteen and poured a little into his mouth, then drank the rest."

"Surely he was dead?" she blurted out.

"Eventually. Begged me to do it but I could not oblige him. He did not survive the next wave of dragoons galloping over us."

"Please don't tell us any more, Felmont," begged Lizzie.

Brutality always amused men. She tried not to listen, and resorted to the useful trick of counting her heartbeats, as she had during her stepfather's slow demise. The lingering effect of laudanum made the beats harder to find.

"My love." The Beast nudged her, sending a pulsing warmth from his arm to hers. He whispered in her ear, "Remember Lizzie, you are my loving wife. I am waiting for you to show me your affection."

A dimple appeared at the corner of his mouth. He lifted her chin to make her meet his gaze. An unholy gleam lit his eye. The sudden thought that he might be having a lustful urge made her forget to count her heartbeats. She dared not push his hand away. Without the pact to protect her, he had the right to drag her away to sate his licentious urges before midnight.

"Are you cold, my dear," he asked. His warm fingers stroked her cheek.

Lizzie struggled for words. "No," she said, as her face warmed against his palm. How was she to discourage his interest while keeping their pact? "N-not cold, dear husband."

He spoke in the same low tones he had used last night when she'd dreamed he had touched her, in a voice that reverberated through her, tainting her with his wickedness. "Then you shiver from excitement at my presence? How delightful."

To her relief, Harry claimed the Beast's attention.

After breakfast, the dining room emptied of most of the Felmont family. Lizzie made polite conversation with the lingerers, as she had in the weeks since the Beast's father had died and the family had descended and refused to leave.

The sun shone in the windows, banishing the morning clouds. It had a mesmerizing effect. Lizzie watched the glow until her eyes closed and it continued on her eyelids.

Some time later when Lizzie awoke, the servants were clearing the tables. The Beast had gone, leaving her among the debris like a lost shoe. A few amused glances from the remaining family mocked her. Bertram Felmont watched from afar, as he always did. She rose with as much dignity as she could muster and left the dining room to walk towards the great hall.

The family took its leave over the next few hours. Lizzie took up her place under the portico next to Lord Felmont and shook hands with each one. Aunt Clarissa wanted to take Mr. Rackham home with her, but that gentleman could not to be found. Harry coaxed his mother away with a promise to help her find the gentleman later.

Bertram Felmont came to stand in front of Lizzie. He pleaded for her to release his son. Lizzie declined with firmness. He took his leave with his customary nonchalance and limped down the stairs.

The viscount bent to whisper in her ear, "You do know, dear heart, he begs you to release his scapegrace son only so you will remember to keep him imprisoned. If you want to annoy Bertram, you only have to let Con go. With luck they'll kill one another."

Lizzie rubbed her ear to stop the tickling sensation caused by his voice. "No doubt they get on as well as you did with your father. I wonder why you want children, dear husband."

He swiftly bent his head to kiss her cheek. Warm lips, just a hint of rasp from his shaved chin, made her body tingle.

"My love, are you as eager as I am to make a baby?"

Lizzie started back from him. "You are only to speak to me about domestic matters, dear husband."

"Dear heart, what can be more domestic than talk of children?" His smile was anything but innocent. Lizzie wished she knew how to gird her loins against him. Felmonts debauched anyone they touched. Look at what had happened to her mother. Dead from it!

Lizzie shook hands with the last of the family. When they stopped to chat with Lord Felmont, Lizzie made her escape. Her limbs were stiff from tension caused by standing beside him. She shuffled into the long gallery to rest, out of sight, on a carved chest. She must have dozed off again for she awoke to voices close by.

James spoke in a low voice, "If you ask me, you are playing with fire. What will the gossips make of it?" His voice carried to every part of the great hall by the dome above.

The viscount's answer was lost in a low rumble of laughter.

"Go," said James. "Get your hugs and kisses from Ma, but think well about the other, our Dace."

"Try to calm my wife," murmured the Beast. "She likes you, she trusts you, she has obviously never heard about half your tricks. See if you can get her to eat something. I'll dine with Ma."

Lizzie ventured out into the hall. James whispered in the Beast's ear as he stood by the door dressed to ride in dark buckskins and jacket.

The viscount saw her and strode over to her, his footsteps echoing on the golden floor. "My love, the day is yours. I have business at the Priory. Don't fret, I shall return before midnight."

He hesitated as if he'd like to say more but thought better of it. A gloved hand turned her face upwards. "Remember, my wife, you are to pretend you love me. When I tell you I am leaving, you must cling to me and beg me to kiss you goodbye."

She would not cling to him. She would not beg. To keep the pact, she said in cool tones, "A kiss before you depart, dear husband?"

His lips brushed her cheeks. His face showed not a trace of warmth. Why should it? He cared nothing for her. Perhaps he was leaving to begin his debaucheries. The thought cheered her. She smiled at his back, because she only had to catch him in the act to be free.
Chapter 8

Dace found his friend in the library at Felmont's Folly as the clock struck eleven.

Rax looked up from his study of the fire in the hearth as he entered. "The errant husband returns. Dinner was delightful. Your wife invited Bertram Felmont, the vicar and his wife, and some strange gabbling fellow who is your estate steward. Remind me never to accept another invitation from you."

Dace warmed himself in front of the hearth. He had walked back from the Priory deep in thought, not that it helped him decide what to do. "How is dear Lizzie?"

"Delightful. Gave me a tour of the house. Heavens! Never seen anything like it. Cross between a gothic monastery and a brothel." Rax gave a few disapproving tuts. "James dogged my steps. I could scarcely enjoy Lady Felmont's company for him breathing down my neck."

Jim Thwaite entered the library to glower at Rax.

"Speak of the devil." Rax sank deeper in his chair.

"Come and join us, Jim." Dace knew Jim would wait up for him to return. Lizzie's fear of the bedding seemed to have infected her sainted James. Dace had been tempted to give his foster brother a dose of laudanum to make him calm down after Lizzie's screams had rent the air the night before. "How fares my bride?"

"Something is brewing. Been mulling something all day has Lady Felmont. Giddy with it, she is." Jim eyed Rax and twitched his head meaning he wanted to speak to Dace privately.

Rax said, "I can only agree, Dace. Your bride has a delightful laugh."

"As far as I can recall, dear Lizzie has always stewed over something. Perhaps if I expire at her feet, she'll laugh for me." Dace ignored Jim. He wanted no warnings or condemnations for what he must do next. At least some of her fears would soon be over. He put a hand on Rax's shoulder. "I must ask you to go to London to see how Angel does. Explain why I left in such a hurry and find out if he has picked a day. Try not to tell him any details."

A mournful sigh and a nod sufficed for an answer from Rax, until he suddenly addressed the flames in the hearth. "Wants me to go put my head in the lion's mouth! Not give any details. Just explain why he raced up to Felmont's Folly to refuse to marry the woman who ruined him, to whom he is now married. Then find out if the date is chosen. Easy tasks he sets for me!"

Dace saw Jim shoot Rax a baleful glance, wishing him out the room.

His foster brother started off with a rush of words, "You're going to have to stay with Lady Felmont during the day, our Dace. I mean, my lord. You can't go haring off on your own after marrying her. Not yet, anyways. Don't act stupid, your lordship." Jim gave a guilty twitch and gestured at Rax. "Now look what you made me say in front of him! Lady Felmont needs courting. You must do it, my lord, or I swear I'll knacker you."

Exasperation at having to my lord him in front of Rax and fear for his idol, dearest Lizzie, showed in Jim's loss of control.

Dace appealed to Rax, "You hear how he calls me names and my lords me in the same breath. Can't give him the drubbing he deserves because my wife needs him to feel safe. I return from saving England and his arse, to find him up to his ears in clover at the Folly with Lizzie hanging on his every word. Did you know she smiles at him?"

Jim went to poke at the fire.

Rax tsked and tutted before he answered, "I've seen it myself. She gave me a lovely smile, too. Must agree with him on the courting business. Said so myself, if you'd recall."

"Hellfire! Tell me the secret to her smiles and her laughter, and I swear she shall do both tonight. Do I whisper sweet nothings in her ear?"

Rax gave a moan that spoke volumes about Dace's idiocy where women were concerned. "It doesn't matter what you say, it's how you say it. Surely you don't intend to go to her again, not after what your wife suffered last night? I saw her nightdress."

Poor Rax, he must be the only person in the county who didn't know the truth.

Jim put the poker down. He lost his worried look and gave a hoot of scornful laughter. "The viscount had a nose bleed, that's all it was."

Dace said apologetically, "Forgot to tell you. Molly spread the tale, the whole house knows. Didn't you hear the family toast my nose at breakfast? Ma had heard all about it. By now the entire county is laughing at me, but I'd rather be thought a clumsy fool than a brutal rapist."

He paced back and forth on the Turkey carpet in front of the empty library shelves. "The worst is what I must do to her now. Hellfire! Why did she stay? You see before you a man about to...." He aped one of Rax's lugubrious sighs. "I don't even know how to talk to her."

"You need a brandy, Dace," said Rax, ever the hopeful romantic. "Seduce your lady. There is no need for force, surely? How can you charm my sisters and not know how to talk to your wife?"

Dace shrugged with one shoulder, not wanting to risk moving the other. "All I can think is that Lizzie is safer with me, even if I am merely the lesser of two evils."

"Then don't go to her," soothed Rax. "Don't rush her. In a few days—"

Dace interrupted, "If you had ever waited for battle to commence, you'd not ask it of me. Waiting is worse than fighting. I joined my regiment just after a battle. There were bodies everywhere. I'll never forget the smell, nor the sight of the pit full of amputated limbs. Waiting is hell on earth and it won't help her. Lizzie knows too much. She heard every lurid detail from a madman who confessed every sin in his repertoire. What she fears is much worse than what is going to happen."

He went to stand next to Jim, in front of the hearth. "What do you think?"

Jim shivered, despite the warmth from the fire. "Don't keep Lady Felmont waiting, our Dace. Get it over with. You'll gain nothing by putting it off."

"There is only one hope, my friends." Dace had been thinking about it all the way back to the Folly. "Lizzie will have to be shown I am harmless. Just can't think of how to achieve that, do either of you have any suggestions?"

Neither of them made a sound.

Rax spoke up, "The loveliest lady awaits you. Surely you have only to please her, not an impossible task for a man of your amatory skills or were you lying?"

"Yes, I lied in my youth. Didn't we all? Perhaps not you, Jim. You enjoyed your share of female company, and had only to lie to Ma about your activities. But I had family dying right and left from syphilis. And, if you'd both recall, I've just spent six years with the angelic Anston watching over me, avenging sword in hand. How much practice do you think I've had?"

"Tsk. Go and pleasure your wife," said Rax. "Lucky man."

"There you go thinking inflaming thoughts again, Rax. Really, you must not. If I pleasure Lizzie, she will think me a whoremaster and she the whore." Dace shook his head. "No. Calmly, with dignity. No pain, or as little as I can manage. The task must not take long. She will see I am not her brutal master. Hellfire! She hates me." He gave weary sigh. "Gentlemen, I go to do my duty." Easier said than done, he lingered by the fire reluctant to leave. "Damn! Jim have a brandy with Rax, you have more in common than you think."

Dace made for the door. "If Angel Anston could see me now, he'd run me through. Rather face the Angel of Death than my wife." The door swung closed behind him.
Chapter 9

The clock on the mantle chimed the half hour before midnight, when Lizzie heard the viscount enter his bedroom. She reminded herself not to call him the Beast. Name calling was not worthy of her, and soon she'd be on the best of terms with the new Lord Felmont. If he wanted her to be godmother to his children, she'd even agree.

Lizzie could hear him splashing and humming through the adjoining wall when she went to her own dressing room to change out of her nightdress into a day dress. She just could not face him undressed. She pulled on her longest pair of gloves.

If only Gladys was back from Bath. Lizzie had sent for her people but had no hope of them returning for a few days yet. All her precious things were being packed once more to be carted back to the Folly. With any luck she'd arrive in Bath before they left.

She giggled at the thought. Even Dacey Felmont in the adjoining bedroom could not dampen her spirits.

Lizzie heard him give a low rumble of dismissal to his valet, who had arrived from London, bringing the rest of the viscount's clothes.

The clock struck quarter to the hour. Lizzie took a calming breath. She unlocked the adjoining door and tapped on it.

Felmont called, "Come in, Lizzie."

She opened the door.

Suddenly he loomed in front of her, clad in a dark green robe with white nightshirt underneath. Her body reacted to his presence with a sudden hum of warmth, as if it had missed him, while her mind rejoiced in the thought of being rid of him, of being safe from his Felmont lust forever. She smiled at him. She was going to make him very happy, perhaps even as deliriously happy as she'd been since the idea had occurred to her.

He smiled back, puzzled, quirking the corners of his mouth in a way which made him look not quite as saturnine as before.

Lizzie moved backwards as he walked towards her. The faint scent of soap from the Priory drifted into her bedroom with him. She led him towards the hearth and the tea table, glad to have something between them.

"Dearest Lizzie, you are before the hour. How kind you are not to keep me waiting. But why aren't you ready for bed? Perhaps you require my assistance?" He raised an eyebrow at her day dress.

"Would you care for some tea, Felmont?" Lizzie invited him to sit beside the small table, set with cups and teapot, in front of the fire. Even in July a fire was welcome at night in the cavernous rooms of Felmont's Folly. "You did require me to invite you to take tea with me."

His agreed warily, as if expecting to be poisoned.

"There is something I must tell you, Felmont." She poured the tea and couldn't stop a gurgle of laughter from escaping.

He smiled at her with a query on his brow.

Her heart beat merrily as it had all day since she'd realized how to solve the problem of their marriage to both their satisfaction. "I have decided to leave you," she said.

He gave her the Felmont stare before sighing like a bad actor in a melodrama. He was going to be difficult.

Lizzie hurried on. If she could just explain it to him, he'd be as thrilled as she was. "You have witnesses enough to our marriage ... to your consummation of the marriage, so my uncles cannot deprive you of the Priory. By leaving you, I take the blame and you may sue for divorce on the grounds of my desertion."

"Coward," he said in a gentle cajoling voice. "We can only hope our children get my courage and your nose, dearest wife."

"Think for a moment," she pleaded. "You need never see me again. That has to please you, I know I disgust you. Surely you aren't worried about money? I'd continue to pay your bills."

"We are married, dear heart and must learn to make the best of it. Truly you are safer with me than you know."

"You never wanted to marry me. Be reasonable. Please, I beg you. Just think, Dace, you'd be free to marry for love, just as you wanted." She cast a nervous glance at the clock. Twelve minutes to midnight.

"I am honored you called me Dace. Does that mean you think of me as your friend, dearest Lizzie? I am truly honored and want nothing more than to be your friend." Was he mocking her by pretending he was pleased by her mistake? If she didn't know him better, she'd think he meant what he said.

"I am leaving you so you can be free! Why aren't you pleased that I shall take the blame for ending our marriage? Do you feel a need to torment me for the rest of my life?" She should not have said that. "I apologize, Felmont, I know very well that you will be delighted when you are free to marry as you please."

He sipped his tea. His eyes glittered over the rim of the cup, but he answered in a conversational tone. "I gave you your freedom when I broke our engagement six years ago. Yesterday, I tried to get you away from your uncles to give you a chance to escape. It's too late for a third attempt." He replaced the cup in the saucer. "We are married, dearest Lizzie, because you chose to act as if we were engaged."

Lizzie shrugged away her guilt. "Pretending to be engaged to you kept most of the fortune hunters away. It allowed me to live here after my mother died, though Bertram Felmont's son tried to persuade me to marry him by forcing himself upon me. If I'd not had the dogs with me, he'd have succeeded."

"And you had Con locked up in debtor's prison. Good for you, Lizzie, let's hope he sobers up there. I shall teach him better manners when he is released."

Lizzie seethed inside. Why wouldn't he take the freedom she offered? "You blame me for our marriage, so why can't you thank me for ending it?"

"You cannot end it, neither can I," he said gently. "I don't blame you, Lizzie, I understand why you didn't tell your uncles that we were no longer engaged to be married. Come, my dear, let's not argue. It's almost midnight."

He put down his cup and saucer with great precision. The table, pushed by his hand, moved slowly back from the hearth till her cup sat far out of reach, leaving only a few feet of carpet between her knees and his.

Lizzie hunched her shoulders when the Beast rose to walk past her to her bed. She turned in her chair to see him take her doll from the pillow.

"Lizzie, you still have Titania?"

Lizzie rose from her chair. "Put her down."

"Or what? You'll tell your mother and have me flogged again?" He strolled back to the hearth with the doll held in the crook of his arm.

"You deserved it! You removed one of her eyes." She moved to stand behind her chair. She did not intend to back down. The doll had been a gift from her father. One of the few things she had managed to hide from her mother's wave of destruction after he died.

He cradled Titania against his chest. "Her eye was an unfortunate accident."

"Just like the lake was an accident?"

"Nonsense, Lizzie, I threw you in on purpose. Thought we were not going to speak of that again. After last night, we are even about the lake." He stroked the doll's back with a soothing rhythm, his voice as gentle as his action.

Lizzie tried again to reason with him. "Friendship, companionship, mutual esteem, those things which make marriage bearable, are impossible for us. Please let me go. Find another more suited to your taste."

"Sit down, Lizzie." He studied the clock on the mantle. As if to encourage her to obey him, he sat in his chair with her doll perched on his knee.

Lizzie slid into her chair.

He examined the doll's eyes. "I am very glad you managed to have her fixed, Lizzie. It was not me who removed her eye. The guilty party must remain nameless. I only took your doll to show the little Thwaites. They had never seen a doll with such lifelike eyes and perhaps they were not as careful as they should have been. I did eventually find it and return it to you."

"You left her eye on my pillow!"

His look of aggrieved innocence fought with his warning frown as midnight struck.

To her great relief, he ignored the chimes.

"I left it there so you could find it. Didn't leave it on your dressing table, it was too cluttered. Did I get any thanks for returning it?" He placed the doll high on his chest and rubbed its back. "Got flogged for it, Lizzie, paid my debt. Do not mention it again."

"Give her back, at once! I wish I had something to threaten you with." The look of sadness on his face froze her tongue in her mouth.

"You are too late, Lizzie. Forgive me. I consummated our marriage last night while you were drugged with laudanum."

A muscle flexed in his jaw. "Did I err, my love? Did you truly expect to be able to leave after I had put on the shackles of matrimony for you?"

Lizzie could not take her gaze from his face. The Beast had consummated the marriage! He'd wanted her unconscious to do it. She didn't know if she felt relieved or insulted at his preference! It was so ridiculous that she almost laughed. Her body recognized his, she felt its interest in him, and his confession did explain the warmth she felt.

"Let me go, Felmont," she said kindly. "Please, let me live free of your presence. It would make us both have happier lives."

"But you might already be with child. My child, Lizzie. How can I let you go?"

It was a gently worded death knell to all her hopes of freedom.

"Why should you care about children? What has any Felmont ever cared? You are tormenting me out of selfish spite, which is the only reason any Felmont bestirs himself to do anything!" Lizzie lashed out with words, wishing she dared strike him, but fearing his violence. With a gasp, she realized she might already be diseased.

Lizzie shuddered in her chair at the thought. She wanted to stand, but her legs could no longer support her. With a sob, she wished dear dependable James was there to keep the madman at bay.

He gave a weary, exasperated sigh. "Lizzie, I have told you several times that a family of my own is my dearest wish. No bastards shall spring from my loins, by your command. By your pleading, you persuaded me to marry you. I submit to all your rules and now, dearest Lizzie, you submit to me. Midnight has struck."

He rose, towering over her, the doll clutched in his hand. "Come with me, Lizzie."

"I cannot do it!"

The air simmered around him as he loomed over her.

"I shall never be your friend." She choked back a sob.

The Beast meant to ravish her and there was nothing she could do to stop him. Fear made her lose the ability to understand his words. He rumbled on unaware that all she could see and hear inside her head were Felmont urges being sated on her body. The thought that she might respond to his lust terrified her more than the thought of any pain.

The room began to tilt. Lizzie took a deep breath, then another.

He sat down opposite her to pat the doll and talk on and on, with her not understanding a word.

The clock struck quarter past midnight.

She recovered enough to wipe the tears from her cheeks and to watch him.

The Beast took from his pocket a large white handkerchief to fold into a complicated arrangement. In a few deft movements he gave the doll a nether cover such as babies wore. What was he doing? She forced herself to listen to him rattle on.

"My foster mother raised me to be useful. This is only one of my skills. Some of them were of use when I...." He looked up and Lizzie saw him close his lips deliberately when he recognized she had regained her wits.

With a weary sigh of relief, he raised the doll to his shoulder. "Lizzie, there is no need for hysterics. I beg you, do not make my bed a battleground. There is no need at all for you to fear me. Think, dear wife, what would I gain by giving you a dislike of the act? You think you have nothing to threaten me with, but you will bear my children. The family I want so badly must be got through you. I swear, I will give you no reason to run from me, Lizzie, or to dislike our hours together."

The Beast stood and stared down at her, his hand stroking Titania's back. "Perhaps, from the look on your face, that was a poor choice of words. Let me try again," he drawled in a low voice. "I see no reason to tarry over a task we both want finished. I only worry I may disgrace myself by an inability to do my duty, and so deprive myself of children." A mournful sigh escaped his lips.

Lizzie shivered when he walked past her to return her doll to the pillow. He returned to kneel behind her chair.

His warm fingers stroked her neck. "Do you know you have a pulse in your throat, which I long to soothe with a kiss?"

She shook her head.

"Not one word more, Lizzie, not unless it is a word of thanks or of appreciation for the great care I am going to take with you."

"How do I know you truly have no disease, Felmont? Did you bribe the doctor? Don't touch me." She pushed his hand away. "Men are disgusting, lustful, loathsome creatures." He was entirely too close to her. Her body warmed at the feel of his breath on her neck. His closeness sent shivers down her spine.

"Hush, Lizzie, hush. Do you really think I'd expose myself to the disease that has ravaged the family?"

Lizzie turned her head away and lifted her chin defiantly. "If you are going to insist on ... on doing this, then I refuse to talk to you. And do not expect me to participate in any bizarre acts. The sooner you tire of me, the sooner you stray, the better pleased I will be, for your sinning will be my salvation from you." She hoped he didn't notice the tremble in her voice.

"Hush, Lizzie, there is nothing to fear." He stroked the side of her neck.

It was too much, she couldn't do it. Lizzie rose from her chair. The Beast rose with her to block her escape.

"Give me your hand, Lizzie. Come with me."

Impossible. Surely he must see how impossible.

"Lizzie, give me your hand. Do you wish me to carry you? I beg to be excused, my shoulder still hurts like the devil. Come with me, Lizzie."

Slowly, he led her by the hand towards the door to his bedroom. Only her long gloves protected her from his touch.

Her feet dragged over the carpet, she had forgotten how to walk. It seemed to irk him, for he suddenly put his left arm tight about her waist to sweep her away to sin.

His bedroom was colder that hers as the fire had just recently been kindled. The bed had been turned down, a place of dark shadows inside the curtains. The windows were not shuttered, allowing moonlight to streak the floor beneath them with silver. He let go of her to close the door to her bedroom, cutting off any hope of escape.

The key grated.

The sound of her breathing filled the room.

"If you'd worn a nightrail you might have kept it on, dearest Lizzie. You may wear your chemise." His hands stripped off her day dress while she refused to take another step towards her doom. It fell to circle her feet, leaving her shivering in the cool air.

"Come, step out of it before you catch cold." He half lifted her with an arm around her waist.

Her lungs hurt, she could feel every breath she took. Her hip hit the side of his bed.

"Please get in, Lizzie. Serenity, my wife." He enunciated every word in soothing tones as if he spoke to calm his mount. "Everything will be fine. It will all be over in a moment."

Her legs were swung up as he pushed her to the center of his cold bed.

Lizzie lay with her eyes closed, her fists clenched, her head dizzy. She hated his lust, his Felmont need for debauchery. She'd do nothing he wanted. Not say a word. Not touch, not look. Definitely not look! Had she not seen enough when she had nursed her stepfather?

"Lizzie, I have to ask a great favor of you—it's about the Folly." He rustled beside the bed. What was he doing? Was he removing all his clothes? She opened her eyes. What about the Folly?

"What?" The word escaped her only because he spoke about the house, her house. She had earned it last night without knowing it.

"It's just that I can't stand the color red. Reminds me of blood and, heaven knows, I have seen enough of that to last me a lifetime." The mattress sagged at the edge with the weight of his body. "Would you mind changing the Chinese dining room?"

Her teeth chattered but she managed to answer him. "Change?"

"Yes. I know, I promised you may do anything you like to the house, but I can't stand red. Remember, you didn't like it either, you never liked to dine in there. Change it to any color you like, only not red."

"Not red," Lizzie repeated. She moved over when the Beast lay down beside her. He wanted to talk about the house. He had not climbed on top of her, though she knew that came next. Lizzie turned to see his nightshirt gleaming in the darkness next to her.

"Hmm, change it any way that pleases you." He drew the covers over them. "Warmer like this, isn't it? I wonder if you'd consider buying new plates? Something English. There is a set at the Priory I always liked. Cream with hedgerow flowers. Don't know if you ever saw it?"

She unclenched her jaw sufficiently to answer him. "Yes, very pretty. Delft?"

He turned her towards him and stroked her back through her chemise, just as he had stroked her doll. "Can't remember the maker. Wasn't it English? I always thought it was Staffordshire or Devonshire or perhaps Wedgewood...."

At last her shivers stopped as the heat from his body warmed her and his list of pottery manufacturers grew longer. He ended with, "Could have been Welsh. Rax's mother has a set from Wales."

He rolled her over onto her back, his weight settling on her hips. "Spread your legs for me, Lizzie. It could have been English Delft, I suppose."

He moved to make her comply.

Lizzie turned her head, so as not to look at him.

His lips touched her neck, tickling her. Such soft kisses he rained there. Her legs grew used to the feeling of him lying between them.

She tried to push him away when he tickled her earlobe with his kisses. Unwelcome sensations raced down her body to a wicked place she had always ignored.

"Lizzie," he whispered in her ear, "would you prefer something other than hedgerow flowers on a cream background? I offer it only as a suggestion of what you might consider. What do you prefer?"

Who knew ears could be so sensitive? Or that they were connected to sinful places. She tried not to melt under his caresses or at the sound of his voice.

A shiver shuddered through her when he touched her face to turn it up towards him and the heat from his body seemed to lure her to him. She felt compelled to answer in the hopes of hiding her reaction. "Hedgerow is pretty."

The Beast was turning her into his whore. She could feel a burning where none should be. A wetness where his fingers stroked in a place she hardly ever touched, except to do what was absolutely necessary.

Her stepfather's voice echoed in her mind. "Are you my vile, slippery creature?" He'd whispered the private joke to her mother, to make her laugh and invite her to his bed. He'd whispered the words in his madness as he roamed the house searching for a woman long in her grave.

Lizzie took the nearest piece of cloth, the viscount's collar, between her teeth and clenched everything in her body under her control, which was not very much. It only intensified the sensations and the wetness. She was indeed a vile, slippery creature.

The Beast must have felt it, for he rumbled a sigh as his finger invaded her. "Kiss me, Lizzie. Come, it is long past midnight. Kiss me, dear wife." His lips grazed her cheeks. She felt him pull gently away to try to get her to release his nightshirt so he could kiss her. When she held firm, he rumbled on as if talking made a difference. "You can design another coat of arms, if you'd like. That nonsense showing the serpent devouring the winged nike was only the first viscount's joke. You could use a view of the house or anything you'd like."

One long finger stroked. It did not hurt. Why should it? He had taken her virginity the night before. Strange sensations, deep inside her, stirred a response despite all her efforts to control herself. Vileness seeped from her.

She opened her mouth to protest but all her words had fled.

He placed his lips on hers and moved them not at all. Her hips twitched a complaint when he withdrew his finger. Suddenly, the dreadful pressure began. One of his arms braced his body above her, while the other did the devil's work between them.

She held her breath and refused to kiss him more. He raised higher on one arm until he loomed above her.

"Lizzie, don't move."

His bracing arm shook, trembled as he pressed on and on. She gripped his nightshirt with clenched fists.

"Tell me if this is too painful for you. I can...." He grunted as something opened and his wickedness edged its way further inside her. "My love, you can put your mark on the Folly for all time with a new... new coat of arms." He shuddered and leaned down closer, almost resting on her.

Then her body did something awful. It welcomed him, for suddenly he slid forward towards her heart. She could not take a breath of air. Her lungs froze as he filled her with that most horrid bit of him.

It almost hurt.

He groaned as if in pain and spoke through clenched teeth, "Have the n-new coat of arms p-painted on the n-new p-plates...."

It all felt terribly wrong and wicked, so tight and deep that she could not take a breath. A high, sweet pain seared inside her.

If he moved, she'd scream.

He moved.

She opened her mouth and gasped as the sweetness intensified, liquefied her body, making her ignore the pain. The Beast rocked with slow deliberate movements. She could feel herself tremble with spasms that matched his rhythm.

"For...forgive me, Lizzie. I can't help it. I can't think of any more potters, except Spode. I forgot Spode. How could I forget Spode?"

He kissed her mouth, her neck, while he muttered _Spode_. If only he'd stop moving his hips. His body was driving hers to madness. If he didn't stop she was going to lose control. Something awful was going to happen.

Lizzie tried entwining her legs around him in an effort to make him stop bewitching her, but that only made her hips move in time with his. Locked in his embrace, she raced with him in an unending dance.

She burned with terrible sweet spasms that grew with the strength of his thrusts. Lizzie curled her body around his until he shook as if he had an ague.

"Hellfire! Lizzie, don't!" He suddenly collapsed on her. His injured shoulder hit her chin. But she could not stop moving, moaning, twitching.

The Beast's entire body vibrated. He cried out with an unearthly moan and turned both their bodies to lie on his side. They were still joined by that dreadful act. Someone's body shook and thrust—she very much feared it was hers. A large hand gripped her bottom to press her closer, to stop the convulsions from shaking him lose from her.

She was having a fit in his arms. She'd never live down the humiliation.

Tears swept down her cheeks to be kissed away. Salt on his lips. She tasted her tears with his kiss. Still deep inside her, he pressed her onto her back to thrust with long strokes. It intensified her fit. On and on she went, unable to stop herself.

At last he groaned. "Lizzie...." He shuddered. "Lizzie...." He called her name in one long litany of whispered _Lizzies_ while he held her caught in his embrace. For long minutes they lay entwined.

The throbbing inside her finally stopped. Her very heart ached, as did some part of her down there. Her lungs were scorched. They lay still while she recovered from her fit.

"Lizzie? Are you... Lizzie?" The Beast rested his forehead on hers. "There is no help for you now, you must surely learn to love me."

Hysterical giggles rose in her throat. She didn't try to stop them. She was glad they broke the spell he'd cast over her. Her body shook with suppressed laughter.

"That's right," he said in a soft drawl. "Laugh at me. Men are strange creatures, aren't they? Not frightening, just silly. I hope I didn't hurt you when I fell on you Lizzie. A man needs two good arms for what we just did. Forgive me."

Lizzie tried to sit up, to push his body from hers, to untangle her limbs from his. She didn't want tenderness or sympathy from him. "You have finished. Say it, Felmont, say you have finished and I may go."

"Of course, let help you up." He moved as one tired to death.

Lizzie let the viscount drag her to the edge of the bed. He took each of her feet and unhooked them in turn from the back of his knees. She'd no idea how her legs had got there or why they refused to release their grip on him.

"Can you stand up, dear wife?"

"Let go of me." He was entirely too close. Lizzie had to get away from him before another urge took hold of him. Men could do that awful act again and again. Her stepfather's evil boasts rang in her ears. Five times! Or was it six? She had to leave before he recovered enough to do it to her again. She had scarcely been able to keep silent through the terrible ordeal.

"I am not holding onto you," whispered the Beast. "You are holding onto me."

It was true. His nightshirt was caught in her fists at his waist. And worse, she could not unclench her fingers.

Drat the man! Tears ran down her cheeks and dripped from her chin.

"Don't cry, my love. I can free you." He rubbed each gloved finger and pried them open one at time while she sniffled in a most embarrassing way.

"Thank you," she said, when he had freed them all.

"My pleasure, my lady." He brought them to his mouth to kiss each fingertip. "May I escort you to the door?"

Lizzie nodded. She was not at all sure she could get there by herself. He seemed to understand, for he walked very slowly with his arm around her waist. After what he had just done, it seemed petty to complain about the liberty.

He unlocked the door and gave her the key.

"Goodnight, Lizzie."

"Goodnight, Felmont."

"You may call me Dace, if you wish Lizzie, to celebrate our union."

She lifted her chin to keep her voice steady. "I am not your friend, Felmont. I, for one, do not mistake your lust for friendship."

"A pity. But you will kiss me goodnight, wife."

She rose on her toes to kiss his cheek.
Chapter 10

Three days later, Lizzie paced the terrace on the north side of Felmont's Folly after the morning calls were over. Humiliation still colored her cheeks. She walked in the shade of the great house and heard through the open doors to the reception room, the faint murmurs of sympathy and disbelief from servants clearing the cups and plates.

To think that she had recovered enough from a night of wifely duty to laugh at the memory of the viscount getting stuck on the word _Spode_. To give him credit for not embarrassing her, for not using her ill, for trying to talk of pottery and the Folly to distract her and put her at ease with him. She had recognized his kindness and patience with her. Her body hummed at the thought of him, and her smile of welcome might have been true.

And then the morning calls began. Until today they were quiet visits by curious neighbors, nothing to upset her, nothing to shock her.

Drat the man! He could not have found a way to more thoroughly humiliate her.

The fell loomed not half a mile away, its morning mist long burned away by the sun. She could see the old church's Saxon tower peeping over the hawthorns.

The vicar would miss the payment he received for leading a Sunday service there. Most of the local people preferred the new church, closer to home, but Lizzie liked the old church with its view of the Folly. She'd visit for one last time before she left forever.

Three days ago, the Beast had gone to the Priory with Molly and Mr. Rackham. A letter, tucked into a bouquet of hedgerow flowers, came from the Priory the first day. The viscount would not be returning for the next few nights. He wished to give her time to recover. He wrote that he intended to stay at his home and Lizzie had only to send for him if she needed him. And then he had disappeared, to appear again at the Priory, but not alone.

The pitying stares began when her visitors talked of a tall, elegant French woman who had arrived at the Priory in a closed carriage attended by two maids and the viscount. Mr. Whittaker, the local magistrate, had given his opinion that the apple did not fall far from the tree.

How kind of them all to warn her.

James hovered anxiously by her side. "Don't, I beg you, Lady Felmont. Don't run from him." Her dark traveling dress had given him pause. Her order to hitch her Cleveland Bays to the old berline had made him aghast.

He followed her to whisper his advice, "It's the last thing you should consider doing, if you don't mind me saying so, Lady Felmont."

"I am not running, I am leaving. You know he has a woman at the Priory." Lizzie twisted her fingers together. One night with her and the Beast had fled into the arms of a French whore. No doubt he was as eager for Lizzie to leave as she was to go. "All the world believes she is his mistress, why should I believe differently?"

"They'd both laugh at the idea, my lady." James darted to move a stray chair from her path. Lizzie watched him peer quickly over the neglected gardens as if he feared to be overheard. There was no one there. The Beast was busy with his French woman. If he was anything like his father, he'd not be seen for weeks.

"Molly is like a sister to him," said James. "She used to bully him something shocking when they were young."

"Molly? I'm not speaking of Molly. The viscount has a French woman at the Priory." Lizzie saw James start. He flushed and his curly brown hair seemed to stand on end.

"He's what? I don't believe it, my lady. He's never! Has he? By Gawd! Could she be a maid? A French maid. He'd never have got our Molly a French maid? Sometimes, I think he's off his head."

James took a deep breath. "There's something you should know. That day when you'd just arrived at the Folly, when his lordship threw you in the lake, he thought you were Molly. She'd been teasing him, pretending she was you, lisping his name. My sister had pushed him in earlier—you probably didn't notice his clothes were wet. We all fled when you appeared, but Dace hadn't noticed ... beg your pardon, the viscount hadn't noticed we'd gone. He threw you in by mistake."

"Why didn't the viscount tell me?" Lizzie asked, but she knew why. He'd protected Molly from his father's wrath.

"Because he didn't want it known we were all there," said James. "Everyone had gone to your mother's wedding, so Dace had given us a tour of the grounds. He knew he was in for a beating for getting wet."

"No doubt." But Lizzie did doubt that the towering Beast could ever have been bullied by a female. "The French woman is not likely to be a maid for your sister. Everyone will think he has made one of them mistress of the Priory, and I am free to leave. Either way, I must leave."

"I swear he has not set Molly up as mistress of the Priory, my lady." James was hiding something, Lizzie knew it.

She stared at the perspiration forming on his brow. His cropped curly hair seemed to curl even more. "Then who is there? Who has need of a French maid? Who has he deemed worthy of his interest?" She turned towards the reception room doors.

James followed her. "My lady, go there and see for yourself. Don't run, he'd chase you for sure and it would set him off. Devilish strange he can be when he gets in one of his moods. There is no knowing what he'd do."

In the end, Lizzie agreed that James could drive her to the Priory to see who was there. She didn't trust herself to take the reins in her present state of anxiety. She was halfway there before she realized, for the first time in her life, she had forgotten to be escorted by her outriders.

The day proved warm. Lizzie raised her parasol and kept to her side of the curricle seat. Arthur stood at the back and ran to open and close the farm gates on the way. The two miles passed far too quickly. She heard a whisper from Arthur, but could not understand a word of the garbled speech, though it sounded like a warning.

James silenced him with a shake of his head.

The Priory crouched by the river, a dark mass covered with ivy. Its gloomy stones, gray and fringed with moss when visible beneath the leaves, attested to its age and damp location. A slight rise in elevation had saved it from many a flooding and left it, at times, surrounded by water and cut off from the world. Unfortunately, it had not been wet enough for that to save her now.

She was about to beard the Beast in his lair. The sun disappeared behind a cloud as if afraid to witness what came next.

Arthur rushed to hold the horse's head, while James assisted Lizzie to climb down. Her feet were barely on the ground when Arthur hurried away with her only means of escape, unless she walked back to the Folly through the home park. With as much dignity as she could muster she marched up the flagstones, resisting an urge to flee across the lawn that wound around the serpentine flower beds.

Lizzie's nerves took a turn for the worse at the ancient, nail-studded door. The Beast had warned her not to come to the Priory without an invitation. To catch him in the act of sinning needed bravery and cunning—if only she had either under her command.

At least the Beast's arrogant, debauched father had not installed his whores in his home. Not while his wife still lived.

James rang the bell and waited with his face as stiff as his back.

The door swung open.
Chapter 11

Lizzie held her breath and shut her eyes. A childish action she could not quell.

A broad accent rolled into her ears. "Well, I never! Come in, Lady Felmont. It's right kind of you to call." Little Mrs. Thwaite beamed at her while smoothing her voluminous dark skirts and straightening her neat white cap. Her wrinkled eyes seemed to laugh without having to trouble her mouth, which never seemed to be still.

A wave of words began, but they were directed towards James for being such a fool as to ring the bell instead of opening the door for Lady Felmont, so she didn't have to stand on the doorstep like regular folk.

Lizzie ignored the stream of words and looked around the hall, lit at the far reaches only by two small leaded windows. In the gloom, she saw a large suit of armor draped with pink gauze threaded with ribbons of every color.

Sea shells littered the surface of an old priory table and each of its chairs. They were a collection from the Folly that had been looted by the Beast's father, along with anything else movable that took his fancy. Most of it had been sold at auction to provide some ready cash after her Tempest uncles refused to advance more.

"Come in, Lady Felmont." A tug on her arm brought Lizzie back to the moment. She was getting used to being pulled about by Thwaites.

Of all the silly things in the world, men must be the silliest. The Beast had installed his foster mother at the Priory and here was James by her side, looking for all the world as if he were embarrassed by it. She gave him a reassuring smile as she was hauled into the maw of the ancient house. It smelled of age and polish.

This was why James was acting as if something dire had happened. Even now, he hovered in the doorway reluctant to enter.

Lizzie smiled down at his mother. "Mrs. Thwaite, how pleased I am to see that the Priory has at last got a sensible resident." Had the Beast hired a French maid for his foster mother? Had James known and been embarrassed by it? It was the only explanation she could think of. Even the viscount dared not sin in front of this tiny, formidable woman.

"Let go, Ma, you can't pull Lady Felmont about like that. You must excuse my mother, Lady Felmont." James looked about nervously. "If you'll excuse me, Lady Felmont, I'll just go."

Lizzie watched him flee. He closed the door on his way out. She'd no such nervous wobbles now, not when she was with Mrs. Thwaite. The thought that she might actually get to see the Beast being beaten, or clattered as James called it, by the small, smiling woman seemed unlikely, but Lizzie could hope.

"Do come into the parlor and sit down, Lady Felmont, and I'll get our Molly to make us some tea. Though, I might have to get that nasty hag who reigns in the kitchen to turn her hand to it. Can you believe I am not supposed to go in there and do for myself? Rubbish, I say! But it's right kind of you to call. I know I shouldn't be here. Told his lordship it wouldn't do. If you could persuade him to let me go home, I'd be grateful to you, Lady Felmont."

"Nonsense, Mrs. Thwaite! This old house needs some sense, for I'm sure it has seen none before you arrived. I am very pleased to call you neighbor." Lizzie let herself be led towards the parlor door.

A shadow appeared at the end of the long hall. The Beast moved into the light. He had been listening. Drat the man!

Colored ribbons streamed over his shoulders, falling from a circle of pink gauze that crowned his dark hair. No doubt, he had been amusing some little Thwaites by letting them dress the suit of armor and himself with girlish finery. Lizzie hid a bubble of nervous laughter with a cough.

The warmth began again, as her body remembered his. Her blood raced in a most disquieting way.

Strange, how his presence filled the hall. How it grew darker, gloomier. His dignity, and her sudden embarrassment over her body's reaction, made it impossible to even mention his unusual attire.

"Welcome, dearest wife." He approached close enough to lean down from his great height to kiss her cheek. She looked down, unable to meet his gaze. The ribbons he wore swayed forward to flutter between them, to land on her breasts with the lightest of touches, like a host of butterflies. Lizzie held her breath as the Beast's lips touched the corner of her mouth.

To her relief, Mrs. Thwaite intruded with a sharp sound, drawing his attention. The little woman frowned and gestured furtively to his head.

He returned her gaze, the picture of innocence. "I am being polite, Ma."

"Get that thing off your head, our Dace! Now look what you made me say in front of Lady Felmont." The little woman bustled closer to take Lizzie's arm again. "Take no notice of him, my lady. He's in one of his giddy moods. Come into the parlor and sit down."

The Beast did not look the least bit giddy. His great long face seemed no different to Lizzie, except, there was an odd expression in his eyes. He smiled at her as she was pulled away from him. Her traitorous lips responded in kind before she could stop them.

In the parlor, he insisted on seating her near one of the small leaded windows with a view of the lawn leading to the entrance of a shrubbery maze. Lizzie could see Molly's two boys playing with a small wooden chest as they took turns to dig a hole in one of the flowerbeds scattered like bouquets strewn on the grass.

The fire in the hearth was not lit. The Beast stared at it mournfully, his dark clothes blending into the ancient paneling on the walls. A portrait of his mother, dead these ten years or more, graced the far wall between two sconces.

"That's better." Mrs. Thwaite removed the crown from his head and the stray ribbons from his arms while he bent meekly to her command. "Now don't go sulking over the fire. It's the middle of summer. If you are cold, you need to get your blood moving. Stop larking about, your lordship, go and fetch the little lady so she can pay her respects to your wife."

Lizzie wondered if morals were different in the lower orders. Just who was in residence at the Priory? Surely James's mother could not have moved in with one of the Beast's whores?

The viscount gave a great mournful sigh, sounding very much like Lizzie's mare. He shook his head and took himself off, his dark jacket covered in bits of grass at the back.

Mrs. Thwaite saw it and bit her lip.

Tea arrived on a large silver tray carried by a handsome footman once employed at Felmont's Folly. His dignity was no match for Mrs. Thwaite, who found fault with everything from his disdainful expression to the disgraceful way he lazed about doing women's work. The footman slunk away with reddened ears.

Twenty minutes passed in deep conversation, most of it conducted by Mrs. Thwaite who drank her tea from the saucer with gusto. Lizzie could scarcely concentrate for wondering who the Beast had been sent to fetch. Had he been overcome with lust? What was keeping him?

"Found his lordship in the church, I did, after his christening," recounted Mrs. Thwaite with a cheery laugh. "Can you believe it? They'd left him there, forgotten all about him. His mother had been taken ill, and his father had a new whore. He'd rushed off to get on with it. Never was a man more—I shouldn't say it if you weren't a married lady—he were besotted with carnality. And there was the little mite tucked into a corner of the family pew. Not a sound did he make, near death from want of milk, I thought. So I gave him the breast, I did. Almost drowned him, for I'd always a copious supply, more than our Jim needed. By the time they came back for him, our Dace was sucking like a champion and he howled fit to wake the dead when I tried to take him off."

Lizzie knew the story. His mother had refused to have her son in the house lest he die like all his brothers. She had given the care of him to the tiny woman who lived in a one-room cottage on the fell with her brood of healthy children.

"The viscount's mother were right strange, weren't she?" said Mrs. Thwaite. "Never looked at him but she wept. Touched in the head by sickness, I think. Not that his father was much better. After our Dace was seven years old, I was ordered to flog the lad if he came to visit us. And God help Dace if he said a word like we speak, instead of like the gentry speaks—flogged till the blood ran, he was. His father were a right rotten sod. But our Dace is a good lad. I hope you won't make him unhappy, my lady, if you don't mind me saying so."

"Not at all, Mrs. Thwaite." Lizzie drank her tea, thankful nothing more needed to be said to make the tiny woman beam.

"Oh, here he is, talk of the devil."

The Beast entered, leading by the hand a child about five or six years old. "Lizzie, I'd like to introduce you to my daughter. Sarah, this is my wife, Lady Felmont."

Blond hair framed Sarah's pretty face. She was sturdily built, the picture of health, though she tried to hide behind the viscount. She peered round his legs to look at Lizzie with large green eyes. The little girl dipped a curtsey from her hiding place. Curiosity got the better of her or the Beast's hand brought her to stand beside him.

Lizzie could not believe her eyes or her ears. The enormity of his sin struck her dumb. She remembered to take a breath of air. Sarah was his daughter! The child was the image of her lovely unfortunate mother, Sarah Williams. At so young an age the child gave promise of a great beauty with the same clear green eyes, the same blond curls and lovely skin, the same curve of her lips as her mother. Only her nose, not yet grown into prominence, attested to her Felmont blood.

To give the Beast every chance to clear himself, she asked, "Your daughter?" She was pleased her voice sounded calm, if rather high-pitched.

She looked up to see his warning frown. "Yes, dear wife, Sarah is my daughter. Her mother is, alas, not in residence."

The child frowned up at the Beast. "My mother is dead, so she can't be here."

Sarah had more sense than the viscount. Everyone knew Sarah Williams had died of smallpox. Debauched, licentious, Beast! Did he regret the poor unfortunate woman had managed to escape him. Sarah Williams had not dared return to visit her family in the village until the Beast's father had been safely buried in the family crypt. She had not long survived him.

Lizzie was glad she had been able to assist little Sarah's beautiful mother to run away from the Beast's father. Little had she known why! No wonder his father had raged and threatened—his mistress had been seduced by his son!

Lizzie looked down, not daring to meet the Beast's eyes lest she betray her shock and horror at learning he had seduced his father's mistress. She could hear Mrs. Thwaite busy herself with the teacups. The infamous viscount tapped a booted foot on the polished floor.

Were there not women enough in England and on the Continent for his evil deeds, must he practice his satanic arts on his father's mistress?

It made her head spin.

Mrs. Thwaite took the teacup and saucer from her. The rattling sound stopped. Lizzie looked up to see everyone staring at her.

She said in a carefully modulated voice, "I am pleased to meet you, Sarah." It was not the little girl's fault. Nor was it her mother's fault—that unfortunate being almost torn apart by the lusting Beast and his cold, merciless father.

The Beast's father in full hue and cry after his mistress had been a frightening sight. Now she understood why he was in such a rage, Lizzie could not blame him. Who'd have thought she could ever have felt sympathy for the Beast's father? It quite took her breath away. He'd been cuckolded by his son.

"Are you well, my dear? Care to take a turn around the garden with me to clear your head?" How politely he phrased the invitation to be private with him, to bully her or worse.

Lizzie smiled up at him, determined not to leave Mrs. Thwaite's side. "How kind of you to offer, dear husband, but I'd much prefer to stay here and talk to Sarah."

After the child's initial hesitation wore off, Lizzie was the recipient of many childish confidences. The Beast watched all the while, as if to reassure himself Lizzie was not going to be rude to his daughter.

"I'm named for my mother," said the little girl. "She died of smallpox. I've been vaccinated and I didn't cry at all. My father is going to take me to meet my relatives. Did you ever meet my mother?"

Lizzie's tongue dithered in her mouth. "Was she as pretty as you?"

"Yes, my father says she was very beautiful. She lived in a small house in London, close by my other father's home. He never lets me visit, but my real Papa is going to let me go there to see where my mother lived."

Who was her other father?

"Never listen to the child babbling about her mother. Be thankful you have a father who wants to look after you. Poor little bast–" said Mrs. Thwaite.

"Ma!" The Beast scooped up the child with a warning glance and carried her away.

Moments later Sarah's squeals of delight came from the garden as she played a dashing game of tag with the two small boys and the viscount, who appeared inept and easily caught.

A tall, elegant woman appeared on the lawn to claim her. Mrs. Thwaite pointed her out so there could be no mistake. "Foreign, she is. Nice enough, though. Madame Celine, we are to call her. She came with Sarah. Said it was more than her life was worth to let the little one go alone with the viscount and our Molly. Right funny ideas she has, but then she is French. They talk it together. You'd never guess that little lass is as English as me to hear her chattering away."

The tiny woman heaved a sigh. "Beauty is a terrible curse. I was always glad my lasses never attracted any attention from the nobs. I believe a man has to marry the woman who quickens from his seed."

Lizzie waited for more to be said, but Mrs. Thwaite shrugged and turned the conversation away from the sins of the nobility. "Sarah has a maid of her own and another one to wait on the first one. Fancy that! Well, I suppose you had the same when you were a child, Lady Felmont."

Lizzie nodded and smiled until she saw the Beast fall to the lawn exhausted. The two boys stood over him and cheered.

The game had ended.

The viscount didn't want to stay any longer. He insisted Lizzie drive him back to Felmont's Folly. James stood behind with Arthur, both as silent as statues. When they slowed to go past the Folly's gatehouse, the viscount ordered her to stop.

She really had no choice about it. He helped her down and turned to lead the way to the path through the trees to the lake.

The curricle continued down the long drive to the stables, driven by James with Arthur sitting on the seat next to him. Lizzie watched them go with regret. She gathered her dignity to follow the Beast, who lingered on the path as if unsure she'd willingly go with him.

"Well, my bride, what have you to say to me?" He watched her with one corner of his mouth quirked down. When she made no answer, he strode down the path with his easy loose-limbed gait, pausing now and then to brush the branches away before they snagged her skirts. At last, they reached the far end of the lake.

"Nothing at all to say?" he enquired, when Lizzie stopped to admire the sight of the great house reflected on the water.

She studied the view. They were far from the spot he had thrown her in all those years ago.

A wetting seemed not so dreadful now. Even being drowned was a better fate than a slow and oozing death. She was married to a man who thought nothing of debauching his father's mistress. Whores and demi-reps were only an urge away from his licentious body.

"Hellfire! Lizzie!" The viscount eyed her with distaste. "Would you rather I cast her off, did not claim her, love her and raise her?"

Lizzie recognized the truth of his words. He could even be commended for his fatherly instincts. Was she expected to praise him instead of flinging his sin in his face?

She didn't want to argue with him about it. She saw no advantage in accusing him of ravishing his father's mistress. Far better to watch silently for him to sin again. She'd never been any good at verbal battles. Far better to comprehend the depth and magnitude of his depravity, then give him enough rope to hang himself.

He gripped her arm. Lizzie shook him off. He groaned with pain and clutched his shoulder. "Gently Lizzie, I have jostled my shoulder playing too many games today." He moved to stand in front of her to block her view of the Folly. "I shall take care of her and she shall grow up to be a lady, but I'll need your help to raise her. Ma can't do it, neither can Molly. Are you so cold-hearted that you cannot find room in there for one little girl?"

Lizzie answered in a low voice, not able to meet his accusing gaze. "I am not in the habit of being unkind to children. Even when we are divorced, I promise to help Sarah as much as I am able." Lizzie turned from him and walked on around the lake.

His boots crunched on the path after her. "Spit it out, Lizzie. I give you permission to upbraid me on this matter. You have been swallowing your tongue since you met my daughter. Let it out. Say whatever you have to say, but know this, we are not getting divorced any time soon. You have promised me legitimate children and, by heaven, you will give them to me."

"Do not blaspheme, Felmont. I am yours only until you sin, then the devil can claim his own."

"Dearest wife, you have just broken your word and our pact, or are you warning me out of the warmth of your desire for me. Have you forgotten you must pretend you love me during the day?"

"Love doesn't have to be tainted by desire. I forbid you to talk of low things to me. A loving wife must surely warn her husband when she fears he is dooming himself to a fiery eternity, dear husband."

How was she to pretend she loved him? Yet she must or doom herself to submit to his lust at any time and place. A shiver rippled down her body. It reminded her of how she had convulsed in his bed.

Her cheeks warmed.

"Let me thank you with a kiss." He suddenly appeared on the path in front of her. So close she almost walked into him.

"At midnight if you must, Felmont!" Lizzie stepped smartly to the side. Did he think of nothing else?

"Oh, much more than a kiss then, Lizzie, but a good place to begin."

She followed the path around the lake with the Beast beside her. From the look on his face he was planning licentious midnight deeds. They rounded the Chinese willow tree where a stream trickled over tumbled stones after descending from the fell and skirting the Folly. A garden wall belonging to the dower house was just visible through the trees.

Both of them halted at the sight of Mr. Rackham perched on a rock a few yards from the shore. He stood like a heron, while staring at Felmont's Folly as if in a trance.
Chapter 12

Swallows dipped over the water surrounding Mr. Rackham, as he stood on his rocky perch a few yards from the shore. Mossy stones and rocks covered this part of the path circling the lake. They were remnants from work Lizzie had never ordered finished.

The clapper bridge had been tipped on its side into the stream, forcing anyone venturing from the dower house to scramble over the trickling water as best they could or take the path through the trees and miss the view.

The viscount waved to his friend and shouted, "Rax! What in hell's name are you doing?"

Startled, Mr. Rackham almost fell in.

"Admiring the view and escaping from a hound from hell." Mr. Rackham turned on his island, the remnants of a stone boat that had once graced the lake.

Lizzie had ordered it dismantled after discovering it was a trysting spot for the servants. She could still see the clenching white buttocks and hear the moans, when she had stumbled on a footman and one of the maids, while out getting some air.

"Jump back before you fall in," called the Beast. "No doubt, my lovely wife will blame me for it, if you get wet."

"You had better beware," called Mr. Rackham. "I swear it is the biggest hound I've ever seen."

Dace stepped onto the rocks near the water's edge. He offered his hand to his friend. "Jump! Don't worry, dogs always love me. Damned embarrassing."

The viscount's friend snorted in a way that left no doubt of his scorn. "Don't know if you are bragging or complaining. A snarling hound from hell tried to sniff me where men don't like to be sniffed. I leaped here to save my unborn children's lives. You might want to watch out for–" Mr. Rackham teetered on his rock. "Heavens! They are right behind you! 'Ware!"

Her spaniel ran up, stumpy tail wagging. Lizzie bent to pat and kiss its silken head.

"Lizzie, is this the dog that saved you from Con?" the Beast asked. "How cowardly of him to be intimidated by a spaniel."

He bent down from his great height to pet Spring, who snarled at him and hid behind Lizzie's skirts.

She looked around. "I want you to stay very still, Felmont, because the dog that stopped Con is behind you."

She hoped the sight of her Russian wolfhound might instill terror, or at the very least, respect.

Czarina had forded the stream to approach from the rear and now stood loftily surveying the scene. The long aristocratic snout looked nothing like a Felmont nose, regardless of her stepfather's comment.

Water dripped from the bottom of Czarina's wavy coat, which was adorned by twigs, last years oak leaves and a generous portion of mud. She raised her top lip in a warning display of large canine teeth.

"Good Lord, Lizzie, it's a wonder there was anything left of Con to lock up. Look at the size of that beast. Oh, I forgot, I am the only beast here. Do, I beg you, let me share the title with that Russian wolfhound. What do you call it?"

"Czarina. If you'd step back from her, it might be best. She is very protective of me." Lizzie walked with care over the wet rocks towards her dog.

The viscount obeyed as Con had done, his ardor suddenly dulled when self-preservation became uppermost in his mind.

"Let us hope we never entertain any Russian royals, dear wife. I am sure naming your bitch, Czarina, is a capital offence to them. Don't be jealous if she decides she loves me."

Lizzie stepped off the mossy stones at the edge of the lake. Her hound bounded forward to greet her with restrained enthusiasm as it tried to keep one eye on the tall stranger.

The spaniel suddenly rolled on its back, inviting the Beast to stroke him.

To her surprise, the viscount crouched down to oblige.

"If only you were as inviting, Lizzie." He gave a mock sigh of longing. "Perhaps at midnight?"

Odious man!

She ignored him and took her hound by the collar to lead her away. "What are you doing out by yourself? Are you happy to be home? Were you looking for me?"

Mr. Rackham leaped for the shore. Czarina gave a ferocious growl and lunged towards him, giving voice to her disapproval of his escape. Poor Mr. Rackham cursed and tried to change direction in mid-air. He landed with a splash in the water.

Lizzie's hand was trapped in the hound's collar. Czarina dragged her over towards Mr. Rackham until her shoe caught on a stone at the water's edge. Lizzie stumbled into the lake.

Czarina jumped in with her and dragged her further into the lake in pursuit of Mr. Rackham who splashed noisily in the opposite direction while making for the shore.

Knowing nothing bigger than tadpoles and sticklebacks lived in the pond weed, helped Lizzie keep calm. She kept upright by holding onto her hound as they both waded about the edge of the lake through the long strands of green, looking for an easy way to climb out over the tumbled rocks.

The Beast rushed over, his boots slithered on the wet stones. His horrified expression was the same one he'd worn when he was twelve years old and he'd thrown her in the lake.

Thanks to James, she now knew it had been an accident. Her unfamiliarity with the Felmont face had led her to believe the worst—that he'd meant to drown her. No such ignorance plagued her now. All those years of fearing him were wasted.

Being thrown in the lake was bad enough, but she had also been forced to witness his father's savage beating. Then, in her innocence, she had thought it proved the Beast's murderous intent, instead of it simply demonstrating his father's violent nature.

Hysterical laughter rose in her breast. The Beast's distress at her wet feet suddenly seemed so ludicrous. She had feared his violence for nothing. Lizzie collapsed over Czarina's back and laughed out loud. The viscount's concerned expression fueled her giggles.

What a fool she had been!

The Beast kept a wary eye on her wolfhound's teeth while he edged closer to pull her out.

Czarina lunged at the viscount with a howl of rage. Lizzie lost her grip on the collar. The hound leaped out of the water at the Beast's throat.

He staggered back and held off Czarina with his hands round her neck, but the Russian hound weighed more than Lizzie and he could only use one arm with any strength to repel her.

Hound and man wrestled and danced their way across the mossy stones at the edge of the lake, with the Beast retreating.

Lizzie followed them in the water, still unable to climb out, still rocked by giggles.

That was the problem with undignified, hysterical laughter—once started it was impossible to stop and usually ended in tears, as it had done that night in his bed. The water grew deeper until it crept up her thighs and her skirts floated about her in the water. "Stop, Czarina! Stop! He is a friend!" she cried out between squeaks and gurgles. "Stop!"

Her hound gave a great cough.

"Don't strangle her! Beast! Let go!" Lizzie tried to climb out, using the viscount's dark coat to aid her. Still she laughed. "She won't bite you. She never bites."

"Don't, Lizzie!" With a cry, he stumbled and fell. A mass of man and hound landed on her. She sprawled her full length and was crushed under them, down into the green water weeds to watch her air escape in a rush of bubbles. For an instant, she lay under two feet of water with them both on top of her.

Feet scrabbled on either side of her until a strong arm pulled her up.

The Beast hauled her from the water and swung her up in the air. Czarina scrambled out and ran away. Lizzie gasped for air then held her breath to stem her giggles as Mr. Rackham scrambled over the rocks to reach them.

"Lizzie, breathe. Help me lift her onto my shoulder, Rax. Not that one!" Dace shouted.

Lizzie swung in the air. A hard shoulder pushed against her stomach, forcing all the air out of her lungs. Her sides ached, she had to stop laughing. Drat the man!

"Let me go. Let me down or else...." Lizzie lost all control, she laughed until tears coursed down her cheeks. She giggled when the viscount set her on her feet.

He was pale under the tanned skin of his face. He held her head and wiped her tears away gently with his thumbs, while her lungs skipped, her heart thudded and she fought for control.

"Lady Felmont, are you–" Mr. Rackham tsked the rest of his words. He had a glint in his eye as he looked at her body.

Lizzie slapped away the viscount's restraining hands. Her feet slipped on the mossy stones making her grab his wrists to keep from falling.

"Where are my dogs?" she asked. All her clothes clung to her shivering body in a most disgraceful way. A stray giggle escaped. The Beast stared down at her with a strange look on his face.

He insisted on brushing the water weed off her skirt, untangling it from her ankles, taking far too long at a task that tickled and made the giggles worse. "Don't worry, Lizzie, I can assure you the only thoughts I am having are how thin you are and how delightful is your laughter. I shall put liniment on your bruises tonight, if you'll let me. Oh, I forgot, at midnight I may do anything I please with you."

Mr. Rackham looked embarrassed. "I'd go, but I fear your hound may attack me again. Felmont, your coat?" He nodded his head at Lizzie.

The Beast stripped to his waistcoat and shirtsleeves with his coat turning inside out as he removed it. He wrapped it around her shoulders then pulled the edges to cover her, and to touch her breasts.

Did the man think of nothing else?

Half a sob escaped her. He'd never be content with breasts so small. She shivered. What did she care? Even if she need not fear his violence, his disgusting Felmont lust threatened to put an end to her life in the worst way.

Bertram Felmont's voice drawled with quiet enjoyment from the shade of the Chinese willow. "Czarina and Spring are with me, children. I shall take them for a stroll around the lake while you hurry to change your clothes before you catch a chill."

The old man carried a stout walking stick instead of his jeweled cane. "Might I suggest you retire to the dower house, dear cousin Elizabeth? Your companion, Miss Dyson, is visiting. I could not let dear Miss Dyson exhaust herself with your dogs after her long journey from Bath, so I persuaded her to take tea with me instead. She awaits my return from taking her charges for a walk."

Lizzie's laughter suddenly died. "How kind of you, but I am sure you need not have troubled yourself with them." Lizzie knew why he bothered, but walking her dogs was not going to gain him the release of his horrid son. "Is Gladys much fatigued by the journey?"

The thin mouth smiled, the long, hooked nose pointed in the viscount's direction. "Miss Dyson is in fine fettle. She was surprised to hear of your marriage to a man you detest."

If the Beast had been a dog, every hair on his back would have stood on end. As it was, he seemed to snarl, very like her wolfhound. Not a useful reaction.

Bertram Felmont smiled in his odious manner. "But I must not keep her waiting and the dogs are restless. No, don't thank me. What are neighbors for, dear children? If I can be of use to you, rest assured I shall be of use. What say you, Cousin Quentin Seraphim?"

Bertram Felmont's use of the Beast's given name seemed to surprise the viscount. He turned to answer with a menacing expression on his long satanic face.

Lizzie knew why her companion had befriended Bertram Felmont and took tea in the dower house with him. Gladys could not resist a good gossip about the family, and he knew everything there was to know. He had even been useful towards the end of her stepfather's life, but any two warring Felmonts were best left to enjoy their quarrel.

She turned to walk up the narrow path to the dower house.

Even though her mother had thrown herself into verbal battles with relish, Lizzie had been taught that silence was golden. Her childish prattle had always irritated her mother.

She looked back to see Bertram Felmont limping his way around the lake with a restraining hand on Czarina's collar. Spring ran ahead barking at the swallows. Soon, the sound of squelching boots followed her up the narrow path towards the dower house.

"Lizzie, may I enquire, dear wife, why Bertram Felmont is strolling around the pond you call a lake with your dogs in tow? How he can invite Miss Dyson to the dower house?"

"He lives there, dear Felmont. And if you think I gave it to him, you are very much mistaken. Your father invited him to live there." Lizzie gave a great shiver, not due entirely to her wet clothes.

He watched her with a sudden licentious expression on his face.

He was having an urge.

She could recognize Felmont urges from greater distances than this. If only her body did not insist on warming in response.
Chapter 13

Dace studied the Folly's towers from the south lawn. The beauty of the roof took his mind off the water dripping from his clothes and the squelching of his boots. "How is Angel?" he asked Rax.

"Says he is waiting for you to return, but I think he can't bear the thought of having his guts searched by the surgeon. Do you know, it's not certain there is anything in there to find? Might just have healed wrong or healed twisted. Poor fellow, he is in awful pain."

"I keep hoping he will recover without an operation." Dace pulled off his boots and left them on the grass. "I've promised to kill him rather than let him suffer, if the wound festers after they cut him."

"You couldn't do it!" said Rax, aghast at the thought.

"Might have to, I promised." Not that Dace had worried about it, he'd never expected to survive the war. Yet here he was in England, with the air soft and warm about him, with no more than a badly bruised shoulder to ail him.

They climbed the stairs in silence. The doors swung open as he approached them. Charles and Arthur stared at his wet condition, only the house steward's presence stopped them from commenting.

"Gordon!" Dace called to the old man. "Send a maid with some clothes for Lady Felmont. She fell in the lake and is waiting at the dower house."

The old Scot hurried over, disapproval written on his wrinkled countenance. "You never threw her in again?" he cried in disbelief.

"Fell on her. It was an accident. Damn it, Gordon! Quick, before she takes a chill!" Dace wondered at his own relief at Lizzie's reaction. She had laughed. Giggled like a child. That was twice he had made her laugh.

Was inept clumsiness the key to her heart? He had never thought of himself as a clown, but if it pleased Lizzie to view him like that, he'd take it over her fear and loathing any day.

Rax followed him up the stairs to his rooms. Dace threw his waistcoat on the hallway floor. His shirt followed. A maid came out of his wife's bedroom door, took one look at him and stood rooted to the spot, staring with delight at his naked chest while she blushed pink. He wasn't sure which one she was, but the pretty maid was either Sarah's aunt or her cousin

He fled into his bedroom to strip off the rest of his wet clothes. Would Lizzie ever look at him like that if he strolled into her bedroom shirtless? He went into his dressing room to remove the wet bandage covering his shoulder. It didn't look too bad. He'd known better than to complain of pain lest it tempt the army surgeons to remove his arm. The brand on the back of his shoulder had healed.

Dace bathed quickly, while Rax lingered in the hallway to flirt with the maid.

It was just the sort of behavior that could set Angel off.

Dace had grown up knowing all the local girls. He'd played tricks on them, had let them take their revenge on him. He saw maids as people. If he didn't know them, he knew their families and knew their morals. Pregnancy meant marriage. Molly had been a few months gone when she married her William. Ma had been the same. A tradition unbroken by generations of women of that class.

Not like Rax's morals. He'd set up at least one maid from his mother's household in a small place on the fringes of Bloomsbury. The house deeds had been earned by that lovely woman over a year or two. And she was a beauty, no one could say Rax didn't have taste.

Dace toweled his hair dry with one hand. How was he going to get Lizzie to Mayfair? He couldn't go without her, doubted she'd still be at the Folly when he returned—not if she thought he'd gone off to indulge himself in the fleshpots of London.

"Rax!" he shouted through the door.

His friend entered with an apologetic cough. "Just thought I'd calm her, you know. Couldn't leave her all a twitter after seeing you."

"Don't even think it, Rax," warned Dace. "And don't flirt with the maids in front of Angel, he'd probably ask me to dissuade you. Don't think I wouldn't do it." He gave a Felmont stare to emphasize his words.

"Never dreamt of it! I'm in a permanent state of frustration and dare not do anything about it for fear he'll find out. He's worse than my mother. I wouldn't let Lady Felmont near him, if I were you. He keeps trying to pick fights. You'd best tell him what happened. Not that you'd get much sympathy, but you might keep breathing for a while longer."

* * *

Lizzie waited at the dower house only long enough to change her clothes. She strolled back to the lake with her companion, happy to have her company again.

The dogs ran into the home woods to frighten the squirrels and kept darting back out to make sure they had not been left behind.

Lizzie laughed at them.

Gladys waved them away. "They missed you, Lizzie. I can call you that now that we are alone. Every time I say Lady Felmont it reminds me of your mother."

"I hate it. You must call me Lizzie all the time."

Gladys was long past fifty and no stranger to the Felmont family, for she had been Lizzie's mother's personal maid until her death. She viewed all Felmonts and Tempests as if they had been put on earth for her amusement and spent many an hour in agreeable conversation with the servants about their foibles and histories.

Lizzie had never gossiped about Felmonts, though Gladys's knowledge had been useful at times in dealing with her stepfather.

Gladys continued her rambling conversation, "As soon as I saw your carriage did not arrive when expected, I said the Felmonts had trapped you here. Either that or another wicked highwayman had got you at last. And there was me with all your jewels. Heaven preserve Miss Tempest, I said. Now I'd say it makes a mockery of marriage for I'd swear before Mr. Whittaker, the magistrate, that your uncles forced you both to wed."

"How did Aunt Tempest persuade Lucy to leave my employ? Not that we need her, for you can dress me just as well." Lizzie noted the righteous smile. The long rivalry between Gladys and Lizzie's dresser had ended with Lucy taking a job with Aunt Tempest.

"Why? It was the thought of black mourning clothes, it quite depressed Lucy, it did. And you have no love of display, of the grand toilettes your mother adored." Gladys nodded her head briskly. "Lucy's head got turned by all those clothes in Bath. _Look at that!_ was her constant cry. Mind you, she never would have gone to dress Mrs. Tempest if it hadn't been for her daughter coming out next season. No expense to be spared. A young lady with as good a figure as your mother had, if she doesn't have her beauty. A fortune in clothes. You can be sure they flattered Lucy and they needed her, for Mrs. Tempest has no idea of fashion."

Strange noises greeted them when they entered the Folly, a strange rhythm of soft thuds and clashing steel, echoed moments later by the same refrain in reverse. The two footmen listened to every sound, not attending to their duties.

"Whatever is that, my lady?" Gladys led the way along the gallery. "It sounds as if there is dueling going on in the ballroom."

* * *

Dace sat on the windowsill in the ballroom to watch the Duke of Saint Sirin fence with Gallic fastidiousness and no little skill, though Rax had him well in hand.

The three of them were stripped to their shirtsleeves, but Dace planned to plead fatigue rather than fight.

The duke was the equal in beauty, despite his Felmont nose, to any of the footmen hired by Lizzie's mother for their looks. Dace rubbed his shoulder. He was glad his father had taken all the Folly's footmen to the Priory when he'd inherited the estate. Lizzie had replaced her missing men with Charles and Arthur, along with old recruits from the home farm, the rheumatic and the lame who were more suited to indoor life. And, even better, she seemed not to notice the difference.

Dace hoped Saint Sirin didn't intend to try to make a conquest of dear Lizzie. Other men's wives were a temptation Sirrie never resisted.

The sun warmed Dace's back as the two men practiced as if their lives depended on it. Fools! They were amateurs and should know it.

Rax gave a grunt as he lunged, to be parried casually by the duke's skillful arm. A button touched. Rax lowered his blunt rapier and acknowledged the hit. He'd lost on purpose, but it did him no good as the duke waved him back into position.

The thought of Saint Sirin purring compliments to his wife made Dace as reluctant to go to London as Lizzie would be when she found out about his plans.

"I need your London house, Felmont," said Saint Sirin as he attacked in tierce. "If you want to bring your bride to town, you are welcome to stay at my home. It is a much more appropriate residence. Can't take your wife to your father's love nest, after all."

Could the man not even break into a sweat?

"Take it and welcome," Dace replied. "I intend to give it to Sarah, when she is older."

"You do not ask what I need it for." Saint Sirin shrugged, his calm disdain discarded for the moment. He thrust and Rax let the duke strike over his heart with a bored expression on his face. "Angel Anston needs a small house, somewhat closer to the street."

"Wants to go out dancing, does he?" drawled Dace. "Is he disturbing your peace carousing?"

The duke gave him a cold glare as he tucked his sword under his arm. He approached the window.

Dace assumed an innocent look. "Or has he been bringing women to your home to debauch them? No? What can it be, Sirrie. Why has Angel Anston worn out his welcome?" He smiled a Felmont smile. "Admit you were wrong when you did not heed me, dear Sirrie. I said from the first to put him in my house."

The duke purred his denial. "I thought only not to banish him. My sister took a fancy to having a wounded hero in the house, till she met him. My surgeon looks after him and he has suggested a bed on the ground floor, closer to the door. A smaller house, no stairs. So Anston could be carried into the park with less strain on his belly. Thought the air would do him good."

"Has he killed anyone?" asked Dace.

"No one at all!" protested Saint Sirin.

"But he has tried, confess he has tried." Dace had heard all about it from Rax.

"Two footmen barely escaped with their lives. He pinned one to the wall with a knife, thrown, I might add, from his bed. He is a menace to all normal males." The duke gestured to Rax to give his sword to Dace. "You must help me find a woman to look after him. I daren't let any of the maids near him." He stepped back to let Dace take Rax's weapon.

"Did he probe the maids with a soft tongue and get them to tell all their woes to him?" asked Dace. He saw Rax's face warm at the vision his words had conjured. "Now, Rax, there you go again. I only meant Angel has a way of talking to women that makes them confide in him."

"Heavens!" said Rax, glad to relinquish his sword and claim the windowsill. "It has been so long since I've had a woman. Do wish you'd not talk of licentious things. My mother will have me leg shackled if she finds me dwelling on visions in my head. Very perceptive, she is."

Saint Sirin saluted when they reached the center of the ballroom. "Angel has gone insane. I need your help, Felmont. And, yes, I should have listened to you. We have to hide women from him. The only men I can allow near him have silver hair and few teeth." He attacked. "Come up to London with me. Might cheer him, if not, at the very least it would distract him. Most certainly do your bride good to be rid of you for a few days."

Dace fought left-handed. He gave ground then advanced using exactly the same number of strokes and the same rhythm. The skill involved he'd learned so long ago that his mind had long forgotten the instructions and his arm moved unencumbered by thought. That was one advantage to spending six years with the best swordsman in the army. "No, I can't go without my wife. I doubt she'd be here when I returned. Lady Felmont must come with me."

Saint Sirin gave a laugh and increased his efforts. "Your wife will be glad to go to London to do some shopping. All women are avaricious collectors of fashion or jewels or trinkets. If she won't go, forbid her to leave the Folly. Lock her in her room if you must. She is only a woman, surely you have taught her to obey you?"

With ease Dace made the duke retreat. "You have a strange notion of women, Saint Sirin. I shall get Lizzie's agreement one way or another." He turned to look at Rax and fought on, a ploy to show his disdain for his combatant. "Just don't go thinking any inflaming thoughts in Angel's presence. He has the sensibility of an avenging archangel."

"He's dying, Rackham," purred the duke, redoubling his efforts to strike. "If you hold any sway with Lady Felmont, I beg you–"

"He had better not hold sway with my wife or I'll let Angel have him." Dace hit, once, twice, thrice in as many seconds.

"At least recommend some woman who is up to the task," Saint Sirin demanded in that high-handed way he had. "You must be able to think of a female for him."

"A woman young enough," Dace mused, "strong enough, clean enough, for he is uncommonly fastidious. Aren't we all fastidious? Except for you, Rax. More attention to soap and water was my father's sterling advice."

Dace laughed as Rax sniff his armpits with an expression of disbelief. "But not too young, or too genteel, or too poor. Better if she is not a virgin, for they bring out the worst in him. Not very good with virgins myself." He rumbled a laugh at Rax's expression. "But she has to be chaste, clean, hearty and no shrinking violet."

Mr. Rackham choked. "Really don't think any woman should be subjected–"

The Beast interrupted. "Yes, I think I know of a woman. Ready, willing, even eager to go to London, and heaven help Angel if he gives her any trouble. You do intend to foot the bill, Saint Sirin. Can't very well ask my wife for the funds to pay her."

Lizzie stepped into the room with Gladys. The three men's conversation halted. She couldn't believe her ears! Men were all monsters and beasts!
Chapter 14

From the middle of the ballroom, the three men stared at Lizzie. Mr. Rackham grew quite red-cheeked. The duke gave a slight bow, one of his eyelids drooped slightly as if he laughed at the intrusion. Her husband gave a quizzical smile. "My dear wife, do you have need of me?"

"Why can't you ask me for the funds, Felmont?" Lizzie summoned a smile by force of will. "I shall be glad to oblige you."

"To pay for a woman for Angel Anston? Very obliging of you, but Saint Sirin can foot the bill for this one."

"You are a–" Lizzie's mouth snapped shut at the expression on his face.

"A word of warning, dear heart. You are perilously close to disaster." He gestured to his friends and gave his sword to Mr. Rackham. "Carry on. I must have a word with my wife." He swept her from the room with an arm around her to make her go with him. His swift kiss of welcome on Gladys's cheek, froze her companion in place at the doorway with joyful laughter. Gladys had always liked Felmonts.

They entered the hall to find James there, looking worried. The Beast growled a warning. Lizzie shook her head. She dared not let James attempt to rescue her and risk the Beast's wrath.

They crossed the reception room and left the Folly by way of the terrace doors to walk between the low walls that were all that was left of the gardens, once a riot of flowers, now simply a lawn scythed low.

"Can I not tempt you with the shops, dear wife?" drawled the Beast when he allowed her to stop for breath.

Lizzie demurred. "No, but do not feel obliged to stay on my behalf, Felmont. It is only a matter of time before you will have an urge to go to London. A Felmont urge you cannot control."

"Astley's? Elgin's statues, most marvelous things. No? Too naked for your taste?" He offered her his left arm.

Lizzie felt obliged to take it.

He led her along the ruined gardens. "What happened to your mother's sunken flower beds?"

"The stone had to go somewhere. It seemed as good a place as any. Your father had taken most of the plants and the gardeners to the Priory."

She felt his arm tense.

"Lizzie, I have to tell you something. Saint Sirin needs my help in London, a wounded friend. He's dying. I must go to see him. He needs a nurse, hence my list of desirable attributes for the woman to nurse him."

"Then, by all means, we will go to London for one day. You may visit your friend to say your goodbyes."

"I need to stay longer than that! Why not say we can stay for a sennight?"

"No! Do you think I don't know how men amuse themselves in London? What your father did? The whores and worse!" Lizzie drew a breath. "Felmont, let me go. You shall have any or all of my fortune. Divorce me and choose another. Go to London with your woman. I beg you, go."

"Hellfire! I have no whore! You are my wife and I shall keep my marriage vows." He glared down at her. "Your uncles wait to eviscerate me if we separate. They'd make sure I don't have the funds to divorce you, and you'd never give me cause. There are traps worse than this one, Lizzie." He strode away, dragging her after him.

At a run, she covered the ground to the ha-ha that separated the formal gardens from the kitchen garden with its rows of neatly tended beds. "Stop it! I have a stitch in my side!" Lizzie gasped for breath. "Beast! Stop!"

He led her down into the man-made gully before he slowed his pace. The air turned green and cool in the shade. Her shoes sank into the dampness underfoot. Birds twittered as they tried to peck the last of the late raspberries through the netting over the shrubs.

"Call me Beast again and you forfeit your pact, sweet wife." His smile grew licentious. Wicked folly laughed in his eyes. "I shall forgive you just this once."

Lizzie smiled back at him. "And I shall remind you I have no intention of letting you go to London for longer than a day."

"Let me know when you change your mind, my love. I'll rest until supper. Would you care to join me?" The Beast invited her to his bed in the middle of the afternoon as if he thought her silly enough to accept his invitation.

She stepped away from him in case he was having an urge, to stroll with feigned calm on the paths among the rows of raspberry canes. She inspected the apricots and peaches trained against the wall of the laundry service-court with its linens drying in the breeze from the fell.

Servants melted away at their approach.

"You could visit your tenants, Felmont, if you lack something to do." Anything to keep him busy. "You could inspect the outbuildings." She pointed towards the ornate roofs of the ice-house, laundry, bakehouse and bothy.

"But the Folly is yours." He reached around her to open the gate into the laundry courtyard.

Lizzie fled through the opening. "You could go shooting."

The Beast sighed behind her back. "My urge to kill has been sated a thousand times over. I think I'll take a nap. I am allowed to sleep during the day, dear heart?"

She turned to face him. His lazy smile revealed a wealth of meaning until he bent down to kiss her cheek. The touch of his lips accompanied a caress of his fingertips on her sensitive neck.

He whispered in her ear, "We could go to visit the shops. There is no need for you to meet him. I know you've had your share of death and dying. Come with me to London, get some new clothes, new furniture for the house. Not that it is any of my business, the Folly is yours."

Lizzie pushed him away. "No. Go and visit your friend. Enjoy yourself." Her traitorous eyes filled with tears. She bowed her head to hide them.

"I'd always be within call, I swear it. No clubs, I promise. I shall wear a leash if you insist." His low voice pleading his lies almost made her laugh. She knew Felmont desires could not be leashed, and to let him go risked both their lives.

"Let me know when you change your mind." He stroked her cheek and kissed the top of her head. "Until midnight."

* * *

"James!" Lizzie knocked on the under-steward's pantry door at the entrance to the plate safe. Her own silver, inherited from her father, was now back from Bath and lodged once more in James's care.

"Whatever is the matter, Lady Felmont," James asked as he opened the door wearing gloves stained with the rouge used to clean the silver.

"I need to consult you about a problem." Lizzie stepped into room through the low door set in the massive walls supporting the great house above them. The gothic windows behind the teak sink looked out onto the rolling lawn leading down to the lake. Long shadows streaked the view as the sun sank in the sky.

Arthur and Charles threw sticks and raced across the lawn after the dogs. Lizzie could hear the joyful barking until they all disappeared into the home wood.

"What problem, my lady?" James asked. He pushed the door almost closed.

Lizzie took a calming breath. She glanced up at James, her steadfast aid. "Have you seen the viscount?"

"He is resting, my lady. Gave orders he was not to be disturbed for any reason."

Heaven help her! He was resting! Fortifying himself for more rapacious attacks on her flesh. There must be a way to stop him.

"My lady, if I may be so bold?" James leaned on the sink with his back to the window.

Lizzie nodded mutely as she stared at the view.

"When the third viscount was busy thinking about, not the loss of your mother, but other things, he wasn't too difficult to manage. If it were possible to give your husband something to do, it could only help keep him on an even keel, so to speak."

"But doesn't he have enough to do? He has not been home for long, James, he must have lots to do." Lizzie clutched the edge of the draining board.

"He's seen to his daughter and checked on Mr. Howard's management of the tenants, the fields and the farms, my lady. The viscount needs to go to London to see to his friend and you are standing in his way. I have never known him to back down and he won't over this. Do reconsider, Lady Felmont. London might be just the thing to distract his lordship."

* * *

The knocking on his bedroom door was loud enough to wake the dead. "Go away!" Dace called. "Unless you are my wife, in which case enter and welcome!"

The door opened to allow Gordon to march to the foot of his bed and glare at the sight of him lying fully clothed and rudely awoken. "Your lady wife is in the offices, Lord Felmont," the old Scot intoned like one announcing the plague had struck.

"Am I to take it she is not consulting the housekeeper?" drawled Dace. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed. His shoulder took several cautious attempts to get it moving again.

"Lady Felmont is talking to Jim Thwaite, alone with him in the plate pantry. With any luck she'll not be crying on his chest when you get there." The old man made a Scottish noise of disapproval. "The women I have to haul out of there!"

"Does my wife cry on his chest often?"

"Only the once. Cried on me, too, when the lists reported you missing. Of course, it could have been relief," said the old man with a dry cackle.

* * *

"He will want to visit his club." Lizzie picked up the salver James had been polishing. The serpent's tail coiled around the edge, framing the fanged mouth devouring a winged victory. She replaced it on the sideboard only to discover her fingers stained with the polishing rouge. Why hadn't she worn her gloves?

She wiped her hands on a clean cloth but the red stain only faded to pink, as if her hands were blushing. "The viscount probably has a mistress in London." Her voice shook. She couldn't bear to think of what the Beast might do in that sinful place.

"Not him, my lady. And if he does, then you have a reason to leave him. If you can catch him in the act, then he'd have to let you go."

"But how can I do that? He is not likely to invite me along." Lizzie did not want to participate in his debaucheries. Not like her mother who'd played every wicked game her husband suggested. If only he hadn't shared the memories of it.

"If you keep him in leading strings," said James, "if you make it clear you'll not tolerate any absences but must know where he is at all times, then any mistress he has would have to come to him. If he had one, which in all honesty I must declare I doubt."

Lizzie dared not do it. The Beast in London, free to do as he wished, with her there to catch his disease every midnight. "I cannot do it. I cannot."

The door swung open silently. A gust of air and James's intake of breath made Lizzie turn to see who had entered.

The Beast ducked his head to get into the room. James leaped sideways away from her to clench his fists with a look of dismay on his handsome face.

Lizzie felt her body respond to her husband's presence in a most embarrassing way. It warmed to him. Even as she looked around for a weapon with which to defend James.

The Beast stood tall and lean, his clothes molded to his body. She gave a guilty start. Had she been tainted by his passion?

She must learn to tolerate him mutely. She must learn not to cling to his nightshirt.

It had been so very undignified.

"Come to see your silver, dear heart?" the viscount asked with an enquiring glance at her before his attention turned to James.

Lizzie saw James nod but he still stood with clenched fists. Did he expect the Beast to attack him?

"Come, my love, let's leave Jim to his work." The viscount held his hand out to her. "You can explain to me what you cannot do." He advanced on her with a grim smile. Suddenly, his gaze was drawn to the window.

Lizzie turned to see what had caught his eye, glad for an excuse not to take his hand. What was Mrs. Thwaite doing there? Running along the path as if the devil himself were after her!

"Jim, something's wrong with Ma. Come on." The Beast turned on his heel and raced from the room. Only a cry of "Mind your head" from James made him duck through the doorway.

Lizzie ran after them. They left the house through the door on the rustic level that gave access to the wine cellars. The two men far outpaced her. By the time she reached them, Mrs. Thwaite was well into her story.

"That French duck stole her like the thief he is," panted the frantic woman. "I warned him you'd have his head, but how could I stop a duck, I ask you, a French duck?"

"What happened, Mrs. Thwaite?" Lizzie gasped her question, rather breathless from the run down to the lake.

"A frog has gone and stolen Sarah." Mrs. Thwaite straightened her shawl with an angry tug. "A nasty foreigner has stolen her from her bed. Begging your pardon, Lady Felmont, Lord Felmont, I couldn't stop him."

"There is no need at all for you to apologize to us, Ma," said the viscount. "Don't worry about it. There was nothing you could do." He put an arm around the old woman's shoulders.

Lizzie couldn't believe her ears. Why wasn't he furious? Why wasn't he rushing off to rescue the little girl? His daughter had been kidnapped by a Frenchman. Lizzie wasn't quite sure what the word duck meant, but she was sure it was some lower class insult of the worst kind. A French highwayman! He might be the same one who had broken her arm when he robbed her mother.

"Never a by your leave, or word of explanation. Off with her he went. There was no stopping him." Mrs. Thwaite cast a wary eye on Lizzie, who tried to stop breathing too fast from fear. "I said your lordship had to be consulted, but he'd 'ave none of it. Carried her off, with her clinging to him and chattering away, along with that French governess and her maids. Said you knew where to find him."

Lizzie grabbed James by the arm. "Tell the outriders to get ready. I want them armed. We will ride after them, he can't have gone far." She had to stop for air. Why was everyone staring at her? Sarah had been kidnapped by a French thief. A _duck_ of the worst kind. "Go! Go! A French highwayman has kidnapped Sarah!" Fear for the child made her heart pound in her breast. Her lungs gasped for air.

The viscount said quietly, "Dear Lizzie, you are the only one who doesn't know that Sarah has been living with the duke since she was born. There is no need to fear for her safety."

"Eeh!" Mrs. Thwaite slipped out of the his embrace to pat Lizzie on the back. "You sound like our Molly did when she found out about her William. There, there, Lady Felmont."

Dace stepped towards his wife. "I really must insist you do not race after him to shoot him, dear heart. After all, Saint Sirin is a French _duc_ , or as Ma says he is a duck."

He gently removed her hand from Jim's arm.

"Is he French?" snapped poor Lizzie, indignant at her ignorance. "I always thought he was an English duke,"

"As you had hysterics and refused to be polite to French guests—you were the most spoiled brat that ever breathed—most of them were called Austrian or Belgians, or, if their English was good enough, they became honorary British."

He could not resist the temptation to tease her. "Saint Sirin grew up here after his parents were shorn of their heads, so he was called English. And it was dismissal with no references if anyone told you different."

The lady lifted her nose and tried for an imitation of the Felmont stare. It made her look absurd and so very young. It was all he could do not to laugh.

"I was not a spoiled brat. The only Frenchman I had ever met deliberately broke my arm because my mother did not divest herself of her jewels fast enough. He tortured me. You would not find it so amusing if it had happened to you, Felmont."

He could well remember Lizzie's screams of agony. They had haunted him for years, until battle gave another perspective to pain and suffering.

The intimate caress of his fingers touching hers made his wife turn away. "Come to London with me, Lizzie. Let's show this damned Frenchman that we are not to be walked over."

He pleaded with a cajoling air, "We must visit the Duke of Saint Sirin to teach him he cannot ride roughshod over good English folk because he is a duke. Only a French duck, dear heart, shall we trounce him to make him quack an acknowledgement of our British superiority?"

His wife pulled her naked hand away. "French dukes can't just steal English children. You must send for the magistrate. Mr. Whittaker will force him to give Sarah back. We must get the outriders armed to go after them. With their aid, you can claim your child and bring her here to live with you. My offer stands to go to London for one day only."

"Not long enough, my dear wife." He caught her gloveless hand and raised it to kiss her fingers. "When I get Sarah back, she will be raised at the Priory with all my children." He did not allow her to withdraw her hand.

Ma looked back and forth between them as if she were at a play. "Are you serious about that, our Dace?" She did not look pleased at his words.

He'd explain it to her on the way back to the Priory. "Jim, order a carriage. I'll take Ma home."

"Nay, I shall walk," said Ma. "Never fear, 'tis only a mile by the path."

"Nonsense, Mrs. Thwaite." His wife linked her arm with Ma's to pull her towards the Folly. "You must come in and have some tea. I shall be very pleased to have your company."

Never a truer word spoken. His wife disdained him and could not wait to be rid of him.

"I'd be right glad of a dish of tea, Lady Felmont, I'm parched."

Lizzie led her captive away. She had not been pulled about by Thwaites for naught. The technique was simple, hold on and keep moving. "Have you ever been inside the house? I'd be happy to give you a tour after you have finished your tea."

"What a treat! I've always wanted to have a look inside." Mrs. Thwaite glanced back at her tall foster son, who was deep in conversation with James. "He won't like you crossing him like that, if you don't mind me saying so, Lady Felmont."

"Please, call me Lizzie. Every time I am called Lady Felmont, I look around for my mother."

"That's right kind of you, Lizzie. What a great house it is." They stepped inside near the iron clad door to the wine cellar. "You can call me Ma, Lizzie, everyone does, if it would please you to do so."

"It would please me very much, Ma." Lizzie led the way towards the back stairs that led to the servery behind the Chinese dining room, which was now stripped of its red wallpaper at the viscount's request. For the first time, Lizzie wondered why he'd thought of redecorating on their wedding night.

Charles and Arthur sprang to their feet, dice tumbled to the floor. "Ma! Beg pardon, Lady Felmont." They hung their heads and received a rain of blows on their backs from their mother.

"Gambling! I'll give you gambling, so help me!" shouted Ma Thwaite. The little woman clenched her fists and waved them under their noses. "Gamble like your father, would you? I'll beat some sense into you with a horsewhip, so I will!"

The young men muttered apologies. Lizzie had a sudden urge to see the Beast on the receiving end of Ma Thwaite's tiny fists. Unfortunately, few of the Felmonts were addicted to the vice of gambling, they preferred more carnal sports.
Chapter 15

Dace waited for the knock on his door as midnight approached. He wore his nightshirt round his hips and lay propped on pillows, displaying his naked chest by the light of a solitary candle.

At her quiet knock, he called out in a mild voice, "Come in, Lizzie."

Lizzie entered and turned to close the door. When she finally looked at him, she gasped for breath. He didn't move in case she took fright, but she just stared at him aghast. Dace tried an angelic smile, and beckoned her to come to him.

His wife covered her eyes with a gloved hand then peeped at him through her fingers. Could he get to her before she tried to flee? No! There she went, rushing for the door. He raced over to her, to find her struggling to open the door the wrong way. His body touched hers as he trapped her by the wall. He reached over to turn the key in the lock and remove it.

"Your reluctance is not very flattering," he said in a low voice. "You are trembling, my dear Lizzie. Did you take a chill when you fell in the lake? Perhaps you should have consulted Dr. Marshall."

She dared to glance at him and showed relief that he was not entirely naked, but her body trembled from head to foot. He didn't want to believe she feared him, even though he had threatened to make love to her until she agreed to go to London. He stroked her cheek.

"Dear heart, do you still shake over Sarah's fate?" He backed away from her, and threw the key into the fire. "Get into bed, dearest Lizzie, don't stand there shivering. Take off your dressing gown, you may keep your nightdress."

His Lizzie fled to the fire to warm herself. "I shall not go willingly to your bed, Felmont. You want only to be cruel to me so I must agree to go to London."

"I'd never be cruel to the lovely lady who shares my life. I am not a fool, Lizzie, I don't want you to hate me." Dace retreated to enjoy the view of her lit by the glow from the hearth. Her thin muslin nightclothes revealed as much as they concealed. He waited for her to calm down, as he slowly pulled the silk cover from his bed. She turned to see what he was doing.

He spread the turquoise and cream cloth in front of the hearth. "To stop you from breaking our pact," he explained gently, "the bed has come to you."

She shook her head until her hair tumbled down.

"Come, Lizzie." He pulled her down to sit nestled against his side. "We can talk about my need to go to London to take your mind off my other needs, or do you prefer to break our pact?"

He knew she was not such a witless creature. She held her head away from his naked chest, trying to maintain her dignity, but allowed him to unfasten the bow holding her dressing gown closed.

Flames from the fire warmed her as he bared her to the waist. He held her in a tender embrace with her body molded to his. Her small, perfect breasts delighted and inflamed him. She closed her eyes and flinched when he stroked them with a gentle hand.

He murmured, "You are beautiful." He kissed the side of her neck, where her pulse teased his lips. His hand glided over her delicate flesh. She sighed, and at last, allowed him to place her limbs where he wished. One of her legs slid over his thigh of its own accord. He rewarded her with a kiss. How responsive she was! How easily she was swept into the dance of love. She swayed and sighed, seduced by his touch.

Unable to control his need, wanting to know if she wanted him too, he gently invaded her body with a stroking finger. His Lizzie let her head fall onto his good shoulder. He knew she could not help the twitching of her hips, nor her moans, and he adored her for it. When he made love to her, she didn't hate him or loathe him, and if at last she learned to love him for the pleasure he gave her, he'd count himself a lucky man.

He was glad he wore no nightshirt that she could bite to still her sounds, nothing she could clutch but himself.

With his mouth at her breast, he moved her to lay on the cloth. She arched her back as he loomed over her. Her hands fluttered over his back until they reached the nightshirt tied around his hips. At her touch it slid free. With a cry, poor Lizzie closed her eyes and brought the cloth up to cover her face. Even if she didn't want to see him naked, he felt her body's invitation.

He whispered, "Now?" then he muttered, "Forgive me, my dear wife, forgive me." He entered her with a single thrust. He should have waited, but he could not resist her.

She lifted an edge of his nightshirt, which she had managed to wrap about her head, and peeped at him as he kissed her breasts. She went wild beneath him. Only her hands retained some modesty as they pulled the cloth down to cover her face, to hide from him, as he pleasured her. Poor Lizzie cried out in panic for him to stop. She didn't want pleasure from him, but she was his to make love to at midnight. He took her higher and higher, until she clutched his shoulders.

He hissed at the sudden, searing pain, unable to move.

She stilled with him, and whispered, "I am sorry, forgive me."

What could he say but, "You are forgiven, my Lizzie. Forgive me, I cannot resist making love to you." He turned them onto their sides, with her back to the fire to keep her warm and to protect his shoulder. The gentle motion of her hips drove him mad for more, but he made love carefully because before this night ended, he had to have her agreement to go to London. He wanted pleasure to be the goad, not pain, never pain. Enough pleasure to make her agree to anything he wanted, enough trust to make her not hate him for it.

Lizzie suddenly knew what had enslaved her mother. Endless pleasure. Her mother had not feared indulging herself with her husband. Lizzie felt the pleasure all Felmonts used to enslave women. The Beast kept her relentlessly, hopelessly pleasured, unable to stop him. Unable to stop herself.

She lay twitching in his arms, not sated, not wanting to stop, burning with need. Just like her mother. Would she die the same way, enslaved by passion for a Felmont? A whimper escaped her at the thought of it.

"Hush, Lizzie. Did I hurt you?" The Beast stopped moving, though his guilty part lay deep within her.

Her body clenched at it, refusing to relinquish lust.

"Lizzie, I can't let you go. With my body I thee worship." He lifted the nightshirt to uncover her lips, to kiss her passionately, but it reminded her of awful things. Of her mother and stepfather kissing passionately.

He pleaded, "Stay the night with me, dear heart."

"Finish, so I can go," Lizzie answered. She needed to go before her traitorous body responded to him without her consent.

Still deep inside her, he rolled over onto his back. "Talk to me."

His nightshirt almost fell off her head. Lizzie clutched at it. Strong arms held her on top of him. He wanted her to have a conversation while they were joined together! Her mind was completely empty.

Lizzie squirmed and the nightshirt shifted to give her a glimpse of the Beast. He moaned softly and studied the ceiling as if he could actually see it. A silver gleam of moonlight seeped through the window to trace his silhouette. His high Felmont cheekbones looked rather handsome. She had to admit even his nose looked dignified, unlike his depraved conduct and her undignified response to it, which must never happen again. Not now that she knew the trap it laid.

If she let him win and persuade her to go to London, there'd be no end to him persuading her every midnight. All she had to do was survive this one night, to prove to him that he could not force her to obey him.

"What did the doctor recommend for your shoulder?" she asked, with the hope he'd let her talk of easy topics.

"He offered to cut it, to bleed me deeply, to relieve the pressure. I declined. Marshall did say, when I could stand the pain, that a gentle massage might help stimulate recovery."

"I don't want to see it," she blurted out. Lizzie had seen enough nasty things to last a lifetime. She pulled his nightshirt close about her head as she lay on his chest. "I can't stand the sight of wounds."

"Nor do I want to show it," he replied dryly.

The Beast kissed the top of her head through layers of cloth. "You are going to suffocate under there." He tried to remove his nightshirt from her head.

"Don't." Lizzie pushed his hands away and sat up, hoping he'd not be able to reach the cloth. "I like it this way."

"Do you?" he drawled with honeyed tones as he stroked her thighs. "Ride me, dearest Lizzie."

She clasped his nightshirt to adjust it so she could breathe through her mouth. How could he ask her to do so sinful an act? The thought of other sinful acts he might ask her to do made her hesitate to cross him. But she shook her head.

"Give me the nightshirt, Lizzie," he commanded. "You can keep your eyes closed if you can't bear to look at me."

She peeked at him and nearly lost her grip on the cloth. He growled a low laugh. His belly tightened beneath her.

He whispered, "Do you suppose a kiss might distract you? Lizzie, you have sworn to please me. It is little I ask at the moment, just a kiss."

She lifted the nightshirt slightly and inched close enough to touch his mouth with hers. His lips were cool, the hand rubbing her back was warm. Not so very awful. But inside her, the pressure grew into a fierce need.

"Take off your nightrail." His hands lifted the material tangled about her waist. "Raise your arms for me."

Lizzie had to obey him to keep the pact they'd agreed on. She raised her arms. He removed his nightshirt from her head at the same time. She grabbed it back but got her own nightdress by mistake. She sniffed it, then dropped it to reach for his. He flung it away.

Instead of making love to her, he clasped her by the shoulders to look intently into her eyes. "We must talk, Lizzie. I am somewhat under an obligation to the duke."

He groaned and seemed to be forcing himself to wait. He gently positioned her to lean back against his knees. His hands covered her breasts, as if hiding them from his gaze. He took a deep breath. "There is something I must tell you."

The Beast began his confession, "Sarah's mother was my father's mistress."

"I know." Lizzie began with her uppermost thought. "A man who debauches his father's mistress, who uses her while she is living with ... is too disgusting for words."She raced on before she lost her courage. "I think no less of the child, for it is not her fault. It is yours. How could you force yourself on her mother?"

"Sarah is not my daughter, she is my sister." He reached out to take her gloved hands in his. "I stole her just before I joined my regiment. My father had invited me to dinner, to flaunt his latest mistress." He drew a shaky breath.

Lizzie knew why the awful father had taken an interest in his son. "That sounds like him. He invited you because you had always thought her beautiful, and he wanted to hurt you."

"Yes, you understand his character perfectly, my Lizzie. His mistress was big with child, and gave birth that night. My father boasted he sent all his bastards to the Foundling Hospital in London, so I waited outside for the midwife to leave with the baby." He rubbed a hand over his face and shuddered.

"At dawn, I was wandering the streets with a baby in my arms, too far away from you to beg for your help." He smiled at her. "I know you'd have helped me, because you have a warm heart. I dared not try to send the baby to Ma in case my father discovered it. By chance, I met Saint Sirin going home. His daughter had just been born. He loves children." Not that Dace expected Lizzie to believe him.

"No sooner had I stammered my dilemma than he took Sarah into his arms and swore to look after her as if she were his own. I was so relieved that I wept. He is the best of men!"

He stopped speaking to compose himself. Lizzie stroked his chest, almost tempted to remove her gloves. "Away I went to war, to kill or be killed, and I knew that if I died Sirrie would take care of Sarah forever."

Silently, he caressed her. At last, he said lightly, "Jim told me you loved to torment my father."

"Not all the time," Lizzie disclaimed. "He simply goaded me into annoying him whenever possible. When he looted the Folly, because I wouldn't let him live there, I hoped he'd die from an apoplexy as he staggered out carrying my mother's golden elephant. It was very heavy."

"Didn't he know it was lead covered with gold leaf?"

She laughed at his question. "Everyone knew that! Though it would have been just like my mother to tell everyone it was lead, when it was really gold. Your father tripped on the stairs carrying it. The large diamond on its forehead broke, revealing it was paste. He was so furious, I thought I'd be able to order his coffin, but no." She shook her head sadly. "I was extremely disappointed!"

The viscount laughed with her.

He kissed her suddenly, still laughing, soft kisses that teased and tickled. She kissed him back to take his mind off his father. The kiss ignited her. His Felmont magic lured her into its spell, until she burned and ached.

"I want it back," she cried, pointing to his nightshirt. He inched them towards it, until his arm could snake out to retrieve it for her.

"Thank you," she said as she wrapped it about her head. Some of the nightshirt dangled over her breasts, his hand stroked it over her shoulder.

The scent of soap from the Priory, with its jasmine and low note of musk, mixed with the scent of him, and made her feel safer in the darkness, as they sinned.

Dace moved his hips beneath her.

"Ride me," he urged. He held her waist, encouraging her, making her delight herself with him. She ignored the strange sounds he made and rode him to pleasure, her hands clutching his wrists to stop him from reclaiming his nightshirt.

He was still hard within her when her body went mad. Aided by his thrusts, without her consent, it soared into a joyous oblivion of frenzied passion. She cried out for him to help her, afraid the intense pleasure might be fatal. It felt like dying of heavenly sensations. She cried out for him to stop, and wept in his arms when he obeyed her.

She lay exhausted on his chest and lifted the cloth to rub her cheek against him. A wanton female clinging to the last ripples of pleasure.

"Dearest Lizzie, I can never let you go." He kissed her in a soothing way, though his breath came in gasps and he held himself rigid beneath her. "Forgive me, my dear, but I must go to London."

To kill himself there with whores, to kill her every midnight!

He regained control of himself and began a long, slow caress down her back. "Sirrie has been caring for Sarah," he murmured into the cloth over her ear. "And I committed my wounded friend to his tender mercy. Now you see why I must go to London. I am indebted to Saint Sirin and I must not trespass on his kindness now that I am home. I have duties, just as you had to your mother and stepfather."

"Your friend is welcome to stay here," Lizzie offered, meaning every word and understanding his need to go. "If you wish, I shall accompany you to London to bring him here."

"Alas, the journey would kill him. You wouldn't want him to die alone? Not when you were so kind to your mother and stepfather. I must do for poor Angel what you did for them. Can you bear it, Lizzie? I swear you will not have to meet him or nurse him. Just come with me to London."

"I do not fear your friend," Lizzie protested. "I fear dying from a disease caught from you." She tried to hide the sadness overwhelming her. "If you must go, and I agree that you should, then go. Go to London alone. It will provide a good reason for me to leave you."

He surged within her. "Tell me when you change your mind, my dear wife." He turned her onto her back to kiss her breathless. "I could no more go to London without you, than I could go without my heart."
Chapter 16

The berline swayed up the road to London while Lizzie ignored her husband, who was trying not to gloat at his triumph. The weather had turned unseasonably cool with a haze in the sky. She would have preferred the landau, but its two hoods were claustrophobic in bad weather. At least the berline had windows. Two more carriages followed, filled with servants and baggage.

Twelve outriders escorted them. Mr. Rackham rode. Only the Beast accompanied her inside the berline, for he had banished Gladys with the excuse of needing to stretch his legs out to sleep. But he had not slept. He watched her from the seat opposite with half-closed eyes, while she pretended not to notice.

"Are you well, Lizzie?" Felmont leaned towards her, rather an alarming sight as the berline rocked and swayed on springs designed to make the ride easy and smooth.

"Quite well, thank you."

"Do feel free to use me in any way for your comfort." He seemed to expect an answer.

"Not at all," she replied. Let him make of that what he wished.

"But I really must insist you order me about just as you would Gladys, as I am taking her place." He waited for an answer.

She shrugged and managed to smile at him.

"Lizzie, are you in pain?" He placed a hand on her belly, low down.

She could feel the warmth of it through her skirts for the moment it took her to stop hugging herself and push him away. Her body flared with heat, remembering the pleasure of his touch, when all she wanted to do was not respond to him during the day.

"How dare you!" She lost her dignity and her temper at his touch. She was on her way to London with him! She had to spend hours alone with him. After last night—after all the things he had done to her, it was not to be borne that he thought he had the right to touch her during the day.

"Answer me, Lizzie. Are you in pain?" His long saturnine face with its Felmont nose must be borne all the way to London, but she'd not talk of how he'd persuaded her to travel with him.

All those moans and sighs, all the times he'd brought her to that terrible pleasure. She'd fallen asleep exhausted with him still invading her body, only to wake hours later with him still hard within her—not finished. He had obviously inherited the Felmont predilection for endless bouts of fornication.

Drat the man!

"It is none of your business, dear Felmont." She ached in a delicate place and dared not complain about it. "Do not touch me during the day and please don't refer to the events of the night in any way, dear husband." Lest her treacherous body betray her.

She stared back at him until he turned to look out of the window with an innocent expression on his face.

"Excuse me for having to share the berline with you, _dear wife_." He exaggerated his pronunciation of the last two words, as if she didn't know he was lying. "Hellfire, Lizzie," he said softy, "I feel as if I have been galloped over by a company of dragoons." He dared turn his head to look at the juncture of her hips before raising his eyes to her. "Forgive me, it will not happen again."

For a moment her spirits soared until he added with a wicked smile, "Not for the whole night. My apologies for raising your hopes. You are simply too delicious to resist."

"You will not talk of licentious matters," she spluttered. Really, he must not! For her body responded to his words, eager for his sympathy.

He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirked down.

Lizzie controlled her voice, "You will obey me in this, dear husband, or you have broken our pact, which means I am free to leave you."

His shoulders sagged, which made him wince. "You are rather severe."

"You shall not touch me during the day, dear husband." He did not answer. Lizzie felt herself growing stronger, warmer. "You must confine your conversation to domestic matters or you have broken our pact. If you break the pact by talking of forbidden topics or by touch, I shall leave you."

He flinched at her words and sank lower on his seat to sulk silently.

Lizzie grew bolder. "Do you understand?" she asked.

"I am waiting for my endearment, dearest Lizzie," he drawled with a mournful sigh.

She drawled back at him, more confident and cheerful than when he had stepped into her berline. "Dearest husband, do you understand my terms?"

"How like a banker you sound. Yes, I understand I have erred. My apologies, my dear. Let me remind you, I wanted to marry for love. If you cannot fake it, then you will have to do it, dearest Lizzie. I wonder if I can entice you to fall in love with me?"

She gave a mocking laugh. Love him? Disaster struck any female foolish enough to love a Felmont. Her body must not yearn for midnight, nor sigh at the sight, or sound, or scent of him.

"Glad I amuse you, dear heart. Remember to pretend you love me or you break our pact. If you call me _beast_ again, I shall consider it broken and all your days and nights will belong to me."

He didn't frighten her. "Let us hope you will have spoken of things you should not have long before then, dearest Felmont. Admit you regret marrying me."

"My love, I regret some things that happened last night, about which I am forbidden to speak."

Lizzie smiled with gracious calm. "Would you care to tell me any more, dearest husband?"

"If you ask me, then you cannot entrap me into breaking the pact. Do you care to hear me apologize for my sins?" The dimple flashed in his cheek. He looked up from contemplation of his boots to meet her eyes and make her heart skip a beat. Foolish heart!

"No, dear husband, I do not want to hear your apologies."

He reached up to knock on the roof. "Stop, Dickon." He looked rather crushed, but there was something in his eyes she did not trust. "Forgive me, Lizzie, I cannot quarrel all the way to London. I shall send Gladys to you and take her place."

Lizzie looked away until he untangled his long legs from the berline. A cold draft of damp air swept in to announce his departure.

As soon as Gladys was safely seated across from her, clutching the jewel-case and her bag, Lizzie rapped on the roof. "Dickon, drive on."

The carriage jerked into motion. Gladys placed the jewel-case in the drawer under the seat and rummaged in her bag for her glasses. "What tales they have been telling. If ever you want to hear how the viscount spent his youth with the Thwaites, you just ask me. What a terror. Molly was just telling me–"

"Molly is with us?" Lizzie could not believe it. No wonder Felmont preferred not to bear her company, he wanted to be with that woman, to laugh with her. Was Molly the woman he wanted to tend to his friend, or was he taking her to London for another more licentious reason? No, Jim said that Molly was like a sister to the viscount. There was no reason to doubt Jim. But Felmonts were never to be trusted where women were concerned.

Lizzie knocked on the roof. "Stop, Dickon. I want to get out."

"Oh, my lady, don't go letting on I told," protested Gladys. "They asked me not to tell you, but what harm does it do? I won't keep secrets from you. The viscount wants Molly to nurse his friend, if she wants the job after she has met him. Seems he is not likely to last long, poor fellow. Got hit by one of our own rockets, he did, and he's been near to death ever since."

"Please don't talk about wounds, Gladys." Lizzie wrapped a shawl around her shoulders when the groom opened the carriage door. "I have seen enough to last me a lifetime."

Gladys made a sympathetic noise. "You have indeed, and very brave you were."

* * *

"Did Lady Felmont object to your presence?" Jim asked from his prime seat with his back to the horses after Dace had returned from ushering Gladys to the berline.

Dace swore under his breath. "Get out, Jim. You can hire a gig to take you back to the Folly."

"Why am I going back there?" Jim asked, as he obeyed Dace's command.

"Because I am tired of my wife running to you every time she has a problem." Dace climbed in to sit next to Molly.

"I got Lady Felmont to go to London, like you asked," protested Jim.

"For which I thank you, but you are really too pretty for your own good. If you catch some dread disease in town due to your love of barmaids, I'd never be forgiven. She is still complaining about that blasted doll—and we all know who removed its eye." Dace tried to quell Mollie's laughter with a fierce glare. It only made her laugh louder.

"Molly, my love, hush before my wife hears your cackles."

Molly snuggled up next to him. "This is cozy. If Lady Felmont finds out I'm in here, she'll be right upset, our Dace?" She patted his knee.

Jim gave a warning cry. "Lady Felmont!"

Lizzie peered around James to see Molly remove her hand from the Beast's leg with a guilty start. Of all the debauched, depraved, disgusting, despicable men! After last night he was game for more, taking his whore to London just like his father.

"Dearest Felmont," she sneered the endearment, "you will ride with me." Why had she said that? Why not just let him flirt and whore all the way to London?

She saw James retrieve his bag from the back of the carriage. "James, what are you doing?"

"It seems I am needed at the Folly, my lady. His lordship thinks Gordon is too old to be left in charge and Ma might need a hand running the Priory." James gave her a reassuring smile as he lied to her. They were plausible lies, but lies all the same. If those were the reasons, James would never have set out with her.

Before she could protest, the Beast appeared to tower above her. "Come with me, dear wife." He dragged her along with one arm around her waist. "You can berate me in private."

"Don't touch me!" Lizzie marched back to her berline. Her attempt to slam the door in his face ended in failure. He followed her inside to take the seat next to her facing the horses.

A short while later Gladys looked up from her book. She peered out the window. "Here we are at Kings Midden. That nasty Consideration Felmont is doing very well with the captain, I hear. Quite sobered up, he has."

Lizzie knew why. "Only because I paid extra for tea and coffee, and he was banned spirits."

The Beast gave a crow of laughter. "Well done! I wonder if he recognizes himself sober?"

It was all Lizzie could do to keep her countenance when Gladys joined in with a merry laugh and a knowing wink at the viscount. Her companion said, "He fortified himself to get the courage to talk to you, Lizzie. Love is the fatal affliction of Felmonts. He should have listened to his father. Mr. Bertram Felmont always told him you were a lost cause, but maybe that's why the young man took to drink."

* * *

Bertram Felmont strolled into his son's room in the sponging house with his usual air of benign menace. The bailiff's daughter curtsied as she closed the door behind him. "My dear Consideration, I bring good tidings."

His son rose to his feet to bow respectfully. He looked healthier, but then all those baskets of home farm produce, and dear Cousin Elizabeth's bribe to the bailiff to offer only tea or coffee, must have worked to repair a ruined constitution.

"Good morning, Father. Unless you have come to pay my debt, I doubt you are bringing me anything good." Consideration raked a hand through his dark hair to tidy it as he offered his chair. He looked thinner, and older than his twenty-four years.

Bertram Felmont waved a hand to indicate his son should sit on the narrow bed facing him. It creaked a protest. He said in a casual tone, "The newly weds are on their way to London. I think it is safe to say Lady Felmont has forgotten all about you."

A muscle flexed in Consideration's unshaven cheek. "She was forced to marry him, but he shall not have her."

Bertram sneered in a soft voice, "Behaving like a lovesick puppy does not work, my son. If you'd done as I advised, you'd be her husband now."

"Offer for her and let her live separate from me?" his son protested. "Offer my hand and nothing else?"

"Yes, lie once to her and then, when she accepted you, lie in her bed forever after. She'd have agreed to marry you under those terms rather than wed our dear Quentin Seraphim."

"Do you still harbor hopes of inheriting from a man half your age?"

"My dear boy, I never expected or wanted to inherit Felmont's Folly." Bertram shrugged and graced his only son with his most gruesome smile. "An heiress, any heiress, is far more important in my plans for you. We must find you another."

"I love Lizzie." An obstinate expression marred Consideration's face, even more than the family nose detracted from its handsome shape. For a Felmont, he looked well enough, dark and dangerous on the outside, but he was stubborn and lovesick within.

Bertram tapped his cane on the floor. "My dear boy, don't scowl at me. I shall worship at dear Cousin Elizabeth's feet when you love another. Have some pity for poor Quentin Seraphim with such a thin, drab female in his bed."

"She is lovely and you know it, Father." Consideration leaned back against the wall.

"The question is, does the viscount know it? He shows no sign of it yet." Bertram studied his son's face. "Rather surprising he survived the war, when so many brave men met their end fighting Bonaparte." He shrugged. "One can never rely on foreigners."

"Dace shan't have her! I was only trying to save her, Father. I swear the kiss was an accident. You know, I'd never have forced myself on her."

"My dear boy, you must give up this yearning for a woman you cannot have. Even if you could marry her, she'd hate you for eternity. Do try to be sensible."

"Pay my debts, Father, and see how sensible I'd be."

"Money is everything, or almost, my boy! I must confess I have become attached to a degree of comfort. Living at the dower house has allowed me to save enough to gain your release, though not enough to entirely clear your debts. Show your face in London and you run the risk of being imprisoned again. Every local shopkeeper ran to dear cousin Elizabeth with your notes, you cannot risk your London creditors doing the same. I have not the funds to save you from them."

"Have you got me released?"

"Indeed, I must be getting sentimental in my old age, for I fear I have."

His son leaped to his feet to embrace him. "Thank you, Father, thank you!"

"Promise me you will look out for a rich wife or I will have to," Bertram joked. "Or perhaps I'd prefer a wife with influence."

"Have you hopes of winning a lady's heart?" said Consideration with a glint of humor in his eye. "Be warned, I shall eat your children if you think to make me share my inheritance."

"Rather old to win hearts or father children, dear boy. Remember, if I was as profligate as you, there'd be no inheritance, just debts." He eyed his son sternly as he offered his snuff box.

"No, I thank you. Who is the lady?"

"No lady at all. She resides close by."

"Gossip precedes you, Father. I hear Mrs. Thwaite has moved to the Priory with her assorted brood and its progeny."

Bertram smiled. "Our good Quentin Seraphim, do you suppose he'd mind such an alliance?"

Consideration laughed, it made him look like himself again. "He'd want to kill you, but you'd have him checkmated. By Gads, a very clever move, sir."

"I rather thought so myself. The Priory is such a comfortable home. If he refuses to let me live there, then the dower house is still mine for life. You must move in with me and make peace with dear Quentin Seraphim's bride."

"If he treats her ill, I shall kill him."

"Dear me, think what you are about. I cannot buy you off the noose. Nor will Lady Felmont thank you for her rescue—she was always half-repelled, half-fascinated by dear Quentin Seraphim. Far better for you to search for a wealthy bride. Perhaps a brewer's daughter. Bankers are so fussy about bills and debts."

"In case you've forgotten, I have nothing with which to tempt a brewer's daughter to marriage, now that I have no expectation of inheriting the title or the Folly."

"Then tempt her to sin, dear boy. Marriage will follow afterwards, as your courtship is known, and they won't be able to marry her off to anyone else. A few judicious hints, if her family tries to hide her condition, is all that is needed. Think of the challenge, the triumph."

Bertram could see the excitement of the challenge racing in his son's blood. If only he hadn't loved Lizzie Tempest as fiercely as Dace had pretended to disdain her.

"Where am I to find a brewer's daughter?"

"At the Duke of Saint Sirin's country house. Half the world will be there and every one of them can sing. I boasted of your voice, luckily he'd heard you sing before and needs your services. I think he lacks a good tenor voice. Do not, I beg you, go rushing off." He gave a warning glance to make his son listen carefully. "You have a few days to get yourself some decent clothes and a costume. I suppose I shall be soft-hearted enough to foot the bill for those. Find a bride. Just make sure she is wealthy. Why you have to be of a romantical disposition, I don't know."

"It must be inherited from my mother." Consideration leaned down to kiss his father's cheek.

Bertram wiped a sudden tear from his eye at the mention of his wife. "What a pity you could not have inherited her nose. Again, let me warn you, do not seek out dear Cousin Elizabeth, unless you want to seriously displease me."
Chapter 17

The berline turned a corner and rattled over London's cobbled stones, while the viscount carried on a low conversation with Gladys. "Anston has not much longer, he grows worse. The surgeon is ready but Angel keeps putting off the day. Says he'd rather die by the sword than the scalpel."

"Poor gentleman," Gladys said with sympathy. "Still, there is not much chance he can die fighting, not if he is so near death just lying in his bed. Is the surgeon fast?"

"Saint Sirin assured me he is a very skilled man. Fast-fingered and sure. Never cuts off anything by accident, which I have seen done. The problem is this type of operation cannot be done quickly, not like an amputation. There is no way to know what is causing him such agony. The surgeon will have to search poor Angel's guts for a shell fragment or, heaven help him, there might be more than one or none at all."

Lizzie awoke and wrinkled her nose. She nudged it deeper into a fold of cloth. "Why does London smell like a cow barn from Hades in dire need of mucking out?" she grumbled.

The viscount had drawn her into his embrace while she slept. She felt him laugh while he kissed the top of her head. "We are almost there."

"Are we in Mayfair?" Lizzie raised her head from the viscount's chest. She had dozed since luncheon. Simply could not keep her eyes open after being ravished all night long by a man who may, or may not, have brought his mistress with him to London. Time would tell. Certainly her neighbors thought him capable of worse. Even James, who had not been allowed to accompany her to London, had warned her Dacey Felmont was capable of anything.

Lizzie wriggled out of his arms with a sniff of disdain.

The berline came to a stop. Dickon opened the door with a cheerful smile. The viscount stepped out to offer her his hand. She took it, needing some assistance to the pavement, and dropped it as soon as possible.

Victory Crescent lay in a large semicircle around her. The largest, grandest house in the middle of the crescent belonged to the Duke of Saint Sirin. It towered above its neighbors, with elegant windows and black stone walls. Every house on the crescent was stained black with soot from what could only be the filthiest air in England. The victory it celebrated was certainly not very recent.

The carriage set off to go to the yard at the back of the house, with Gladys still inside to supervise the unloading of the baggage. Lizzie looked over at a pretty park with walks and tall trees, even a pond graced the center. She could hear the children shouting as they played with boats, watched over by nursery maids. The entire park was fenced in by iron railings, imprisoned for its own protection. A watchman's hut stood by one of the gates, looking like a toy house in a grimy Eden.

Felmont nudged her. "My dear, let's go greet our host. Let me deal with him where Sarah is concerned. We cannot shoot him, no matter how tempted." He drew her towards the stairs, an imposing flight higher than any of the others. They were half way up when the doors above them suddenly opened.

Lizzie looked up to see a coffin being carried out. Her heart leaped into her mouth. They were too late! The viscount's friend had died. Alone, with no one to comfort him! She'd never be forgiven. His friend was dead!

Four men carried the coffin and groaned at the weight of it. They staggered with their effort to keep it level, their shoes scraping against the steps. The wood creaked with an eerie moan.

Unless the man was a giant, the coffin was far too big, the largest she had ever seen. The viscount looked as pale as death. He gripped Lizzie's hand, his breath ragged.

The coffin reached them, still held level by the four porters. A sudden unearthly cry came from within. Lizzie gave a shriek of fright. The sound seemed to wake the dead even further. The coffin shook and jerked as a whispered, "Let go of her," came from deep within it.

Long, white fingers thrust through holes in the latticed top where the lid should have been. Hands pushed against the wicker distorting it until the lock and hinges creaked alarmingly.

Lizzie felt the world darken.

The viscount said in a soothing tone, "Angel, the lady is with me. You frightened us both half to death."

She held onto her husband and swayed on her feet. He hid her behind his back, where she clung to his coat and screamed inside her head. Silent screams. If done with vigor, they had the power to stop a fainting spell. It was amazing the things one learned in a sickroom.

The sounds stopped. Lizzie peeped around to see that it had the wrong shape for a coffin. It was merely a litter, topped by a bent wicker top, loosely woven to let in the air.

The fingers still poked through, long and white. Her husband reached out to touch them with one hand while he pushed her up towards the door with the other.

Lizzie didn't need any prodding. She fled toward the sanctuary of the house as quickly as her quivering legs could manage.

A dull thud told her the men rested their burden after descending the stairs. She turned to watch. The viscount leaned over the litter to listen to his friend, who spoke in a voice too low for her to catch the words. At last, the fingers disappeared.

"Right then, lift again, lads," said the kindly voice of one of the porters. "Gently does it. You all right in there, governor?"

Lizzie could not take her eyes off the wooden litter as the men grasped the poles at the corners and set off for the park. Her husband followed.

She was forgotten. Left at the entrance of the French duke's house to face him by herself. Although married, Lizzie did not feel any safer. This duke was known for his preference for married ladies. Lizzie had grave suspicions about his nose. It looked Felmont to her. A French Felmont, a thief who stole children!

What if he did not have a hostess to greet her?

Lizzie looked through the open door. The hall seemed deserted. They had not been announced. The footmen hesitated, as if waiting for her to say something. They had no idea who she was.

Lizzie sailed down the stairs like Lord Nelson's flagship with a regal nod to no one in particular.

Her bonnet caught the breeze. She retied her ribbons and kept a watchful eye on the viscount from behind his back. The litter bearers deposited their charge on the grass in the park. Short wooden blocks kept it from resting on the sod. No one took the least bit of notice of her. She strolled along the crescent to enter the park from a distant gate.

A hurried glance backwards gave her the distinct impression she was being followed by a footman wearing Saint Sirin's colors, a funeral black trimmed with maroon.

The viscount left the park and strolled in an easy manner towards a small house set close to the road, in the shadow of the Duke of Saint Sirin's residence. Two windows graced either side of the door, matched by the four on the upper floor. Its tiny garden, edged with an iron fence, contained a few low shrubs neatly clipped. He opened the gate and walked down the side of the house to disappear towards the service area.

The litter bearers wandered off to sit in the watchman's shelter, leaving the invalid to enjoy as best he could the air and sun.

Lizzie strolled into the park. Could Felmont not even visit with his friend? Had he nothing to do, but must go immediately to the house his father kept for his mistresses? Lizzie had heard all about it. Orgies had been held there. Not that Felmonts shared their women, not were they incapable of loving them, but they were rarely satisfied with one. Only Bertram Felmont, as far as she knew, had been faithful to his wife.

Angel Anston lay forgotten in the dappled shade of a crooked elm tree. Was it all an excuse to give the viscount an urgent reason to come to London? The only urgency being his Felmont urges.

"Not fair!" The childish voice came from the youngest of a group of five girls, only two of whom looked old enough to be out of the schoolroom. They strolled just in front of her. "I see no reason why you should marry him just because you are older than me."

"Don't be silly, you won't be out for years," replied one of the girls.

"Neither will you! We must make Raxie introduce us. Why won't he?" the little one asked. The others answered with giggles.

The tallest young lady shushed them all and whispered, "Mr. Anston will hear you. I shall be out next season. Do you suppose he is handsome? Dace said he is as ugly as he is, which means he must be rather splendid, don't you think?"

Lizzie followed Mr. Rackham's five sisters as the girls circled the pond. They were fair like their brother. She managed to see their faces when the path turned and the resemblance was quite startling, as if they'd all been made in the same mold. They wore their prettiness better than their brother, who looked like a perpetual youth to Lizzie, when she compared him to her husband.

"If you are going to claim precedence," one of the younger girls said, "why can't you marry the duke?" They all gave mock sighs and laughed like the schoolgirls they were.

When the laughter waned, the oldest replied, "I'd like to bring him to his knees to better kick him. If only he weren't the rudest man in creation. Besides, I think Dacey is far handsomer than the duke. What a pity he was forced to marry Miss Tempest."

Miss Rackham thought him handsome? Had Wellington started a fashion with his beak of a nose? By comparison, the Felmont nose was less prominent if somewhat longer.

She followed the girls as they strolled around the park until they approached the litter. Its occupant no longer clutched the slats, nor moaned his distress, he lay as one dead or asleep.

"Angels are heavenly, if a duke can't be brought up to scratch," whispered Miss Rackham. "Wait for me."

She unfastened the flowers at her breast and went to thread the stems through the lattice covering the litter. As she let go of each blossom, an unseen hand pulled the fragile flowers into the litter. Some petals fell off, caught in the woven lid where they lay trembling in the faint breeze.

Lizzie stayed on the path. A few murmured words in a soft voice, rather angelic sounding, floated to her ears. That might be why he was called Angel. Either that or he behaved in demonic ways when healthy.

Miss Rackham gave a low murmur of delight. Her sisters crowded around the litter with the smallest one bending down to peer through the lid.

"Oy!" called the head porter. "Leave him alone, ladies. Leave a dying man in peace, won't you?"

The girls fled, the younger ones giggling, the two oldest arm in arm.

Lizzie hurried after them. Men always wanted to show her their ailing parts. She couldn't bear to look at any more.

The windows of her _splendid_ husband's townhouse were open, as was the front door. Molly appeared to look around. The viscount reached over to close the door, giving them privacy.

Beast! Mad, fornicating, dastardly, Beast! She hoped he rotted—no, not that! What was she going to do? What could she do, but catch him in the act and be free forever. Free of Felmonts. Free of him!
Chapter 18

Dace woke the next morning in his townhouse and went to find Molly. In the gray dawn, she paced the service area behind the house and blew her nose loudly enough to wake the dead.

"What's the matter? Molly, don't cry. What has Angel been saying to you?" Dace opened his arms, heedless of the heads looking his way over the wall near Saint Sirin's stables. Molly rushed to hug him and weep on his chest.

Her breath came in great sobbing gulps. "After you fell asleep, he asked me all about my husband. He wanted to know all about my William." Molly stepped back to wipe her face on her apron.

He put an arm around her heaving shoulders. "Deeper and deeper he digs till the truth comes out. I'm sure he was saddened to find out Will was your own true love."

Molly gave a snort and blew her nose. "What was the use of asking about my Will? He's dead! Nothing is going to bring him back. Silly fool going off to get himself killed. What's the use of talking about it now?"

Dace gave her a friendly shake. "Angel just wanted to know if Will had mistreated you, if he needed to be punished."

"How? He's dead!" Molly stared at him in disbelief.

"And Angel is nearly dead. It's why he thinks he can exact revenge for you. He'd meet Will in hell and skewer him for you." Dace gave an apologetic laugh.

"That's silly talk! My Will is in heaven waiting for me." Molly let her tears fall at the thought. She stomped up and down the area, trying to stop them.

Dace followed her. "Don't tell Angel it's silly, he has a list."

"Of all the fools!" Molly turned into his embrace. He hugged her and rocked her. "Dace, I have a feeling he means to force someone to kill him. The duke or you. He seems to have given up on Mr. Rackham. You'll watch yourself, won't you?"

He patted her back. "Don't worry about me. Angel might have a go if he meets Lizzie and she tells him her tale of woe. If she shows up looking for me, whatever you do, don't let her meet him."

"It were right funny last night with Lady Felmont sending Gladys Dyson to see if you were here. Where did she think you'd be? Did she not believe a word you said, about making sure I could manage your insane friend?"

"Did it never occur to you my wife might miss the pleasure of my company?" he asked with a woeful expression. Lizzie's relief that Saint Sirin's sister was in residence, and their dinner together, had not made his wife trust him to be where he said he'd be.

Molly laughed at him.

"Don't you worry, our Dace, I'll knacker that Mr. Anston if he steps out of line." Molly clenched her fists. "Soft-tongued is right! If he tries to get me to sit beside his pillow again, I'll throttle him."

* * *

Lizzie's head ached from the bustle of the city, after so long in seclusion at Felmont's Folly. She had shopped all morning with Gladys, visiting her mother's modiste, the haberdashers and the milliners on Regent Street.

She had sent Gladys in to rest while she strolled in the park. The duke was rehearsing his orchestra in the ballroom with the windows open. People brought chairs to the park to listen to the free concert. If she was going to live at the Folly, she must try to entice her musicians back from Uncle Tempest's employ or hire more. She loved to hear music every day.

She strolled around the crescent to clear her head before she went in search of her missing husband, who she didn't trust to deny himself the pleasures of London. Look how London had seduced her—a dozen new day dresses, a riding habit, and five evening gowns. She felt exhausted, elated, and determined to indulge herself again tomorrow. How could she think he'd feel any different?

Lizzie walked to the viscount's house. As she got nearer, she heard a man moaning through the open window. The unmistakable sounds of a man in the throws of unspeakable lechery.

The man made the same sounds her husband had made the night he persuaded her to accompany him to London. Half-muffled words drifted towards her, halting her, as she heard beneath them a slow, repetitive thud.

"Quiet!" hissed a woman. "You are going to frighten the horses in the street." She warned in a louder voice, "If you keep moving like that you'll fall off the bed."

A woman's hand closed the window.

Molly's voice and Molly's hand.

Who was moaning? Was it her husband? She couldn't be sure. Had he been in the throws of passion with Molly? Is that what it sounded like when one had wits enough to hear?

Surely the Beast could not have set up James's sister as a whore? Not next door.

Why not? Men were odd, deceitful, wicked monsters.

But Lizzie had only to catch him in the act, not that she intended to look, only long enough to prove he was unfaithful. Then, she could leave him.

Lizzie slipped through the gate to try the front door. It opened. She stepped inside the house. The moans became louder, the knocking more insistent. The door to the room where the disgusting acts were taking place stood ajar. Lizzie pushed it all the way open.

A man, unmistakably a Felmont, judging by his nose, banged his head on the ornate headboard of his huge bed. He wept from half-closed eyes and bit down on a knotted handkerchief. His nightshirt, what she could see of it, was stuck to his shoulders and torso with perspiration. The blankets bunched about his hips.

He was alone.

The shock of her sudden appearance in his bedroom silenced him. He ceased all movement, frozen in pain as he fought for control.

"Forgive my intruding." Lizzie couldn't think of anything else to say. She could hardly say she hoped to catch her husband in an act of illicit congress with Molly. The resemblance between the two men was remarkable. Not only the Felmont nose, the very shape of his face with its angles and high cheekbones made him look as if he were a twin to her husband.

The man who must be Angel Anston spat the material from his mouth. He lay as one afraid to move with his hands twisted in the bed sheets.

"Come here," he whispered in the same gentle, angelic voice she had heard before. Lizzie found herself obeying his command.

"Sit, please." He gestured carefully with one movement of his wrist to a plain wooden chair placed close to his pillow.

Lizzie sat. "Forgive my intrusion, but I am looking for my husband." For some reason she did not want to mention his name.

When he made no answer, Lizzie continued, "You must be Mr. Anston."

He had lain quite still staring away from her, looking towards the closed window. At her mention of his name, he turned his head to look at her. One of his eyes shone Felmont blue, the other was a deep brown.

"I am Edward Anston, ma'am."

She couldn't help staring at his odd-colored eyes.

He turned on his side to face her, expelling his breath in relief when the movement was completed. "No doubt you wish to mention you have a cat with eyes like mine. Is he called Tibbet or Puss?"

His words made her smile.

"His name has escaped me, I am so awed by the size of your nose." She glanced at it with mock horror, feeling perfectly at ease with him.

"No," he whispered, "Do not, no." Angel Anston rebuked her. "Don't make me laugh ... God help me," he sobbed. Pain savaged him.

Lizzie could do nothing but weep with him. It was like watching a soul in torment. Hell could not hold horrors worse than this. Moans began, his head reared and banged against the headboard. Lizzie went quickly to push a pillow so he did not hurt himself further.

His hands gripped her dress as she leaned over him. She had the distinct impression he intended to push her away before the pain claimed him. But he held her captive, unable to release his hold on her.

A rending sound came as her skirt detached from the bodice.

Like an angel in torment, he whispered a searing, "Forgive me!" as each wave of pain receded enough for him to unclench his jaw.

"It is nothing. You are forgiven." Lizzie stroked her fingers through his sweat sodden locks. It had helped her stepfather in his delirium. She had stroked him as her musicians played him to sleep.

The motion of her gloved fingertips on Mr. Anston's scalp distracted him. He stopped moving. They waited in silence for the pain to go, only his breath rasped on the way out. His tears stopped.

Lizzie rested her hip against the side of his bed, raking his hair until he let go of her torn dress.

When Molly entered the room, she gave an exclamation of surprise and hustled Lizzie away to an upstairs bedroom to help her remove her dress amid dire warnings about the viscount's rules concerning his friend.

Lizzie ignored it all silently, with dignity, something difficult to achieve while being undressed.

Molly paused for breath and began again. "I can sew it for you, Lady Felmont. It'd look right strange to send for another for you to wear. Whatever were you thinking? You can't visit, you just can't."

"If you get me needle and thread, I'll do it myself." Lizzie had no wish to hear another word from Molly about her not being allowed to visit Mr. Anston without the viscount.

Just exactly where was her missing husband?

A thud came from the room below. Molly stopped searching in a painted dresser to listen. The sound of something scraping along the floorboards reached them. "He's gone and fallen out of bed!" the maid cried. "It'll be the death of him."

Lizzie put her shoes back on. Clad in chemise and petticoat, she followed as Molly rushed down the stairs.

Anston crawled on his side, trying to rise using the tipped over chair for support.

"What are you doing?" cried Molly. "Lie still."

"Where is Felmont?" Anston asked in his gentle voice, while he made sure he was modestly covered by his nightshirt. Lizzie suddenly had an urge to giggle like the Rackham girls. It seemed so ridiculous that this tall warrior should carefully make sure his knees were covered.

He seemed no worse for his tumble.

"Never you mind where he is," snapped Molly. "You can't go making trouble just because he's too kind to stop you."

"Where is Felmont? The wages of sin are death." Moans suddenly racked him. Lizzie thought it odd, for his body didn't tense as it had before when the pain gripped him.

Molly picked up the chair to set it beside the bed. "You haven't been telling Mr. Anston anything about your marriage have you, Lady Felmont?" accused Molly.

Lizzie didn't deign to answer. She couldn't see why that should have any bearing on what needed to be done. "We can't lift him by ourselves. Is Mr. Rackham here?"

"No." Molly seemed unwilling to say more.

"Then we must send for the doctor and for some footmen to lift him back into bed." Lizzie took charge. "I'll stay with him. Off you go, Molly."

But Molly was reluctant to leave. "You can't stay with him, my lady. It's not right. What will the viscount say when he returns?"

"You'll only be gone for a minute. Ask for help at the duke's house." Lizzie pushed Molly towards the door.

The maid left with a final warning. "Just don't tell him anything. He takes everything the wrong way, he does." She tapped her temple and whispered, "He's not right in the head."

Anston started to bang his head against the floorboards. Insanity held no fears for Lizzie, she was used to dealing with people in varied states of sense and nonsense.

She knelt beside the invalid. His great head reared up to land on her lap. She grabbed him by the hair to stop him from moving. "Lay still. You are only making it worse."

She stroked her fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. "There, that is better, no need to move."

Aston pleaded. "No surgeon, promise me."

"As you wish," Lizzie assured him. "Molly will fetch some men to lift you back into bed."

The sound of the maid leaving by the front door brought Anston to his knees.

He rose and slammed his bedroom door closed, staggering from the effort to keep his feet under him. He turned the key in the lock, removed it and grasped it in his huge hand.

"Dace has to kill me now," he said in his angelic voice. "Only man who'd dare do it. Has to kill me. Swords at dusk."
Chapter 19

"Angel! Open the door!" called Dace. "Lizzie, can you open the door?"

"Hush," his wife called from the other side of the door. "He's fallen asleep. Don't wake him up." A short pause followed. Dace pressed his ear against the door. His wife swore in a peeved whisper, "Drat the man!"

"Which one of us are you dratting, my dear?" Her tone assured him she did not fear for her life or her virtue. Not that she had any real reason to fear Angel Anston, but with the wounded man in an emotionally fragile state, looking for a fight and an easy death, there was no denying he'd dare to ruffle her feathers.

"I can't reach the key. He has it clasped in one of his hands. His arms are too long." Her voice rose. "Don't come in."

"Are you near the door?" he asked.

"Don't kick it down. We are on the floor in front of it."

Molly rushed back up from the kitchen. "There must be a spare key in the housekeeper's set. Fancy him having one of his good days. If Ma were here, she'd give him a right clatter, make no mistake."

Dace tried each key until one turned. He swung the door open carefully. His wife knelt on the floor, sitting back on her heels half hidden beneath Angel Anston's voluminous nightshirt that she had pulled over her head like a tent. It didn't hide the fact she wore only her chemise and petticoat.

Angel lay with his head on her lap, completely naked from his nipples down. His sex, which he had trapped between his thighs, escaped as he moved and moaned. With a muttered curse, he trapped it with one hand and tried to thrust it down to hide it. The scar around his torso showed fresh blood under the puckered skin.

Molly gave a shriek of horror as Angel tried to hide himself with one hand and remove his nightshirt from Lizzie's head with the other.

His wife reached out of the safety of her tent to slap Angel's hand away. "Stop it! I won't look at it, don't ask me again!"

Molly rushed to the bed. "I should hope not, what a thing to show a lady. I've never seen the like. By Gawd!" She pulled a blanket from the bed as she stumbled over  
Lizzie's shoe.

Dace's mind refused to question how poor Lizzie's clothes had been removed in the first place. No man was more modest or more protective of women than Angel.

He swiftly covered the invalid, then knelt on the floor next to his wife, to peer under the cloth covering her head.

"I told him I did not want to see it. Absolutely refused. Why must every man try to show me his wound? I have seen enough wounds to last me a lifetime and will not look to see if anything is near the surface. He needs a surgeon, not me!" She gave a weary sigh and stroked Angel's hair from his forehead. "He refused to take no for an answer, and then he fell on me when he tried to drag a blanket off the bed to cover himself. I had to hit him when his agony made him bite me by accident."

Lizzie's slender gloved fingers stroked through Angel's hair in a gentle caress that belied her stern words. Some of her tresses had tumbled down her back. A few hairpins stuck through the cloth and hampered poor Angel's attempt to reclaim his nightshirt.

The softest whisper came from him, "Have to kill me now, Dace. Swords at dusk. In the area, back of the house. Can't make it to the park. Anyway, might frighten the children." Angel's head lay on Lizzie's lap, a faint smile of triumph hovered on his lips.

"And why do I have to fight you, my friend? What have you done, except be subject to my wife's strange attentions?" He tried not to let his mind dwell on the fact that his wife wore only her underwear.

What had happened?

"Molly, my love, go and ask my wife's companion to bring her some clean clothes. Discreetly. Ask to speak to Gladys, don't send a message."

Molly flew out of the door to do his bidding.

With great effort, Angel Anston turned on his side. "Is Molly your love?" he asked. At any other time, before Anston had been wounded, that question might have been worth his life.

Lizzie gave a sigh. She stroked on and on as she voiced her annoyance. "Don't be silly, Molly is like a sister to my husband. You will stop trying to find an excuse to fight him. I forbid it. You are England's most dangerous swordsman. If you attempt to fight my husband, I shall hit you again." She bent her head. "It is stifling under here. Could you unpin my hair, Felmont, I am stuck here."

He removed all the pins for her. "Just a moment. There you are." Her face was pink, and her hair tumbled about her shoulders in a nimbus of golden brown locks.

She gave him a sad, nervous smile. "He tore my dress by accident." Her words came out in a rush. "Molly was helping me sew it upstairs when we heard Anston fall out of bed. I assure you, I do not make a habit of visiting men dressed like this."

"He probably did it on purpose." Dace gave a smile at Angel's growl of denial. "You look like a ministering cherubim, dear heart."

Angel Anston moaned, then held his breath. Lizzie quickly offered him a piece of her petticoat to bite down on. He took it into his mouth, sweat poured from him.

At last the moans stopped. Lizzie straightened her back and eased her shoulders. "If you could hold his head while I stand up. I have a cramp in my leg and if I don't ease it, there will be two of us moaning."

Dace slid his hands under Angel's head. Lizzie slid out backwards. She limped to the bed for a pillow.

"I bit her on the thigh," whispered Angel. "Hurt her. Not sorry. You have to kill me now. Go and look. Teeth marks."

Poor Lizzie clutched the pillow to her breast with a wary look on her face. Dace hid his sadness at her fear of him. Not her fear of Angel Anston, but of his own right to view her body, to touch her. After all she had been through, she felt safer with Anston than himself.

Dace drawled lightly to his friend, "Isn't it your instinct to rescue every bride and war with every husband? You can't start biting the brides. Got it wrong there, Angel. Can't start chomping on the brides and still keep challenging the husbands. It will look bad in your obituary. You won't earn your wings that way."

Lizzie knelt to place the pillow under Anston's head. "He bit me by accident. You might have noticed, Felmont, that he is not the least bit angelic. And I believe that he and you have some common ancestor." She gently touched a red area on the wounded man's chin. "I hit him to make him let go."

His wife laced her fingers together on her lap. "A lady does not like to resort to violence, but I had no alternative. He has large strong teeth and I...." Her voice trailed off as she shivered.

"He deserved it. Dastardly thing to do." Dace went to get a blanket to keep her warm now she was chilled from the cool night air.

She let him wrap her in it, even held his hand in an odd way, half by accident and half reluctant to let go. "He couldn't help it," she said with a tremor.

Dace heard Molly's voice in the hallway.

Gladys bustled in. It did not take her long to see the state her mistress was in. "Come upstairs, my lady. I shall soon have you looking like yourself again. Why, you are wringing wet! I daresay Molly will be so kind as to bring us some hot water."

Dace could hear her clucking as she led Lizzie upstairs to change her clothes.

"Shall I get the footmen to lift you back into bed?" Dace asked. Stupid question, may as well ask Angel if he'd like to be tortured.

"No, I can manage it, in a while. What do I have to do to your wife to make you kill me? Or don't you care what happens to her?"

Dace sat on the floor next to his friend. "I care. The thing is, she doesn't like me, never has. I've told you how she was treated. Now she doesn't want to love anyone, especially not me."

"Rubbish." The whisper swept on, "She wept over me—after I bit her. Doesn't want me to die." At Dace's expression, Angel Anston smiled. "Why can't she love you? I think she is already halfway in love with you."

Dace could not believe it. Lizzie love a Felmont? Impossible! But worth spending every fiber of his being in an effort to make a bond of love between them.

"What else did you find out about my wife?" Dace stretched his legs out. "Tell me everything. How on earth do you find out these things? Why does every woman spill her heart and soul to you?"

"I ask questions. I listen to the answers. I sympathize." Angel managed to make it sound easy. "Your wife wants to dance. She regrets never having danced."

"Damn, Angel, her mother would only let Lizzie practice with me. She always refused to do it. I tried to force her once and she trembled so much in my arms that I forgot the steps."

"Where you engaged then?"

"Six months. Never told you she fainted at the engagement celebration, did I?"

"Your wife told me about it."

"Hellfire! I suppose I should be glad you haven't run me through."

"Not your fault, you tried."

They were still lying on the floor talking when Lizzie appeared in the doorway. Her face was pale. She wore a new gray walking dress with matching gloves. Her hair was neatly tied up, a smart new bonnet shielded her eyes.

"Mr. Anston." Lizzie nodded regally. "Good day to you, sir."

"Good-bye," Angel answered, using as little air as possible.

Dace saw his wife wipe away a tear. She turned and marched blindly away.
Chapter 20

The viscount rapped softly on Lizzie's bedroom door a few minutes after midnight. Lizzie watched sleepily while Gladys let him into the bedroom, only to see her depart with her knitting and her book tucked under her arm.

He entered with a brooding air, tension radiated from him. Lizzie tried not to stare or leap to dire conclusions. He walked to the fireplace and rested one hand on the mantle. She stayed curled up in her bed where she had been dozing until his knock woke her.

"Is Anston worse?" she asked.

"He took laudanum and is sleeping." The viscount smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"I'm sorry, I forgot the time," she said. "Gladys didn't wake me. She doesn't know about my obligation to go to you at midnight." Lizzie could think of nothing else she had done to give him a fit of the sullens. Surely he was not going to break the pact because she was a few minutes late offering herself to him? She had meant to go. She was wearing her nightrail and her new gloves.

"It doesn't matter, not tonight. I want to thank you, Lizzie, for all you did for Angel. He can be difficult and you did not meet him at his best."

"He wasn't so very bad, at least he didn't try to climb the chimney to find heaven, or mistake me for my mother." Lizzie closed her eyes and stretched, she stifled a yawn. She opened her eyes to find him standing over her with a Felmont glint in his eyes.

"May I use your bed?" he asked. "May I join you?"

"If you agree to leave it when you have finished," she replied primly, suddenly not the least bit sleepy, though she had not been able to keep her eyes open until midnight.

She turned from him to untangle her nightdress, and hoped he had not taken a notion to having her naked skin against his every midnight. It was far too disturbing to feel him that way. She tugged her gloves up past her elbows and closed her eyes.

"Lizzie, don't fall asleep," he commanded in a low voice.

She turned her head to look at him. He threw off his robe, dropping it on the chair by the hearth without taking his eyes off her. His high cheekbones and long Felmont face looked almost handsome in the soft candlelight. But there was something in his eyes she distrusted, something hidden there she could not read.

"Dear heart, I have a proposition to put to you." Clad in his nightshirt, he perched with one hip on the edge of the bed. "If you let me stay the night with you, I shall let you sleep unmolested by my lust."

She raised herself up on both elbows. Was he jesting?

All good humor was drained from him. She certainly did not want to be taken by him in his present state. Did not want to be taken at all, she hastily amended. Male lust was something men inflicted on helpless females, though even she couldn't quite believe that now. Not when her body enjoyed his touch.

"Unless you'd prefer me to...." He drew back the covers.

Lizzie rushed to answer. "Not in the morning, not then instead of now, Felmont. I shall not agree to be subject to you in daylight. You cannot sleep in my bed and take me in the morning."

"You tempt me, dear heart, to make love to you till the dawn streams through the window, with curtains open and you on the floor beneath it, warmed only by my body and a sunbeam. Do you doubt I can do it?"

Lizzie knew better than to challenge him. "I seek only to understand what you offer, dear husband." She called him by an endearment. He could not fault her. Her body chilled at his tension. Something was not right with him.

"Then, dear Lizzie, I ask for the night with you, untouched by lovemaking. Note, I do not say untouched. I intend to lie with you without subjecting you to the worst of my lust." He reached for her hand, pulling it slowly towards him, his warm hand caressing her gloved fingers. "I am sorry if I frightened you. I'm blue-devilled tonight. Forgive me."

"You are forgiven, and I agree to what you ask."

Still he hesitated. His eyes sad and fierce at the same time. Such a strange expression on his face.

"Do get into bed, Felmont. I'm cold." Lizzie lay down with her head on the pillow, her toes in the cold depths of the bed.

He smiled in a mocking quirk. "At last, you admit I have a use." His body slid down next to hers.

So warm. She shivered against him. He wrapped her in a tight embrace. Pulled her against him and buried his face in her neck. "Would it distress you if I asked to be allowed to unfasten your hair, Lizzie? I'd like to spread it over my pillow. It won't hurt, if you don't try to get away."

She knew he was not to be trusted! How was she going to sleep with him wrapped in her hair? Drat the man. Next, he'd want her nightdress removed.

His hands untied the ribbon holding her plait. Did the man not bother to wait for an answer?

She let him do it. He smoothed the lot of it over his pillow and rested his head on it.

"Ouch, you are tugging on it, Felmont. You cannot expect me to sleep like this?"

Obviously he did. His only answer was to place one enormous hand on the back of her head to bring her to share his pillow so she must lie next to him and let him kiss her into a sinful state.

Her controls began to crumble alarmingly after the first hour. She whimpered and rubbed herself against him.

"What's wrong, dear heart?"

His voice didn't help stop her squirming.

"It aches." There, she had said something inappropriate. She could only hope he didn't ask what ached. When she was upset, every thought tumbled out of her mouth unless she kept it resolutely closed. Think of all the confidences she'd entrusted to Edward Anston. He was certainly not a cherubim, nor a seraphim!

The viscount stopped kissing her neck to stroke her cheek. "Are you not recovered yet from our last time together?"

"Don't talk to me of wicked things!" Lizzie was loathe to admit she ached anew. Ached and burned to be his, while his hands grew idle and his kisses stopped.

Her husband propped himself up on one elbow, careful not to lean on her hair. "Lizzie, why did you stay at Felmont's Folly after your mother died?" he asked.

He stared down at her sadly.

She sighed. "I didn't stay for you, dear Felmont, so why does it matter?" The scent of him pleased her. She sniffed at him, taking care not to allow herself to taste him.

"I'd like to know. If you spill all your secrets to a man you have just met, you shouldn't mind repeating them to your husband." He tickled her waist until she giggled in his arms.

"Very well, I shall tell you." Lizzie paused to catch her breath. The tip of her tongue licked his chest, high up where his nightshirt gaped, a small gesture she hoped he didn't notice.

She did not think she had successfully conveyed the reason to Angel Anston.

"My mother loved my stepfather. When she was ill, he visited her every day. He admired her beauty, her toilette, her everything. In sanity and in madness, she waited for his visits. He never failed her. He never failed to comfort her. She died in his arms." There she had explained it. She had not wept. Her mind felt numb.

Numb was a blessing.

"It must have been a very distressing time for you, Lizzie." His voice, a low rumble of sympathy, almost made her weep.

She scrunched her toes furiously.

"Do you have a cramp in your leg?" he asked.

"No."

"Jim told me your stepfather attended your mother's funeral and then went searching for her. That must have been upsetting."

"Your father threatened to have him locked up. But I had no intention of leaving my stepfather to your father's tender mercy. How could I go? How could I leave him with no one to comfort him as he had comforted my mother?"

Her eyes stung with tears. She was not going to weep in front of him. She sniffed and searched for a handkerchief. He handed her one from the table beside the bed. "Thank you, Felmont."

She was exhausted.

"Hush, Lizzie, go to sleep." His hand rubbed the back of her neck, and slid lower to stroke the length of her spine. She melted into his embrace. Her heart beat in time to his touch. A sigh escaped her.

"Take this off. I want to feel you, not your nightdress." He pulled it up and over her head before she could do more than squeak a protest. He flung it on the floor, deliberately, so she could not put it on again.

"Does your thigh hurt? Did Angel do much damage?" He swept the covers down, leaving her naked.

Lizzie sat up to see. The teeth marks showed dark against the white skin on her thigh.

He caressed the mark gently, then brushed her hair away from her breasts. He kissed her cheek. "Lie down with me, Lizzie." He held the covers up until she wriggled down beside him. Her hair was spread over his pillow and he brought her hips to rest against his.

"I have promised, Lizzie. I shall keep my word. Lie still, go to sleep." He pulled her leg over his thigh. One hand held her ankle until she stopped trying to make him release her. He slipped his thigh between her legs. The battle was lost.

Every time he traced the curves he should not touch, her hips gave a little involuntary twitch.

His sex strained against her belly. His nightshirt kept him from touching her with it, but he was fully aroused. Lizzie closed her eyes. If he made love to her, then he'd have to go.

He flipped her over, being careful to raise his head so as not to tug on her hair. He held her away from him to stroke her back with both hands. "You are so very enticing, Lizzie. My body cannot understand why I must deny myself the joys of your body."

He pulled her closer, hugging her, until his hands slid up to touch her breasts. Those traitorous parts of her ached for his touch. His gentle tug felt like his mouth on her.

She was wicked! Enticed and sinful, just like her mother had been. Willing and eager for his touch. It was wrong. Down that path lay disaster.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice dark with lust.

Lizzie's body was ready to forgive him anything. Anything but him leaving her bed with a mighty groan.

He stood beside the bed looking down at her. "It seems I am more a Felmont than I knew. I can no more lie with you and leave you alone than I can make love to you and want to leave you afterwards." He gave a lust-driven sigh and made for the door.

"Goodnight, my love, sleep well. I shall not try this experiment again. Until the next midnight." He gave a slight bow.

The door closed with a sharp click behind him.

Lizzie rose to her knees.

He had gone. Inflamed with lust. He had gone!

Quentin Seraphim Dacey Felmont loose in London, inflamed with lust. Whores on every street corner. Brothels for every taste. Lizzie scrambled out of bed. She could not find her dressing gown. The Beast had left his on the chair. She put it on to cover her nakedness and wrapped the long belt twice around her waist, girding her loins for what must come next.

She crossed the hallway to open his door. There he was, dressing to go out. She had caught him about to go in search of a whore. How dare he? He stood in his small clothes holding his trousers, bare-chested. One shoulder covered by a bandage. How could he?

Lizzie shut his door, rested her back against it. He'd go out to catch a disease, would he? Anger roiled through her, so hot he should have burst into flames at her glare.

"What's the matter, Lizzie?"

"Beast! Bastard! Damn you to hellfire!" There she had told him.

He threw his trousers on the chair. "What is the matter with you? I did not—" He stopped. "Lizzie, are you angry because I didn't make love to you?"

"Beast!" she cried again. "You are going out to find a whore! Don't deny it!" Her jaw clenched in a shudder making her teeth chatter. "You are going out to find a whore! After all I promised so you would not do it!"

"Keep your promise, Lizzie, keep it now." He was on her in three strides. He stopped a breath away. "And I shall keep mine. Do it, Lizzie, or I swear you have lived by your pact the last time, for you have called me Beast twice. Didn't I warn you about that, my love?" He kissed her violently. Pushed her against the door, lifting her off her feet the better to kiss her.

Lizzie kissed him back. Furious at him, hating him, wanting him. She kissed and licked, and gasped for breath. Her belt dropped to the floor, he held her by her upper arms, raised her to suck and bite at her breasts until she cried out in pleasure.

"You are mine now, Lizzie. Agree to do anything I ask or your pact is dead," he warned.

"Go to a whore and I shall kill you!"

"Murderous female!" He laughed holding her close to carry her to his bed. He fell upon it, still holding her. She helped him rid himself of his smalls. For the first time she saw his sex curved thick and strong. She wanted him, she wanted it.

He saw her glance. "Touch me, Lizzie. You have worn gloves to bed for the last time. Remove them."

Lizzie tore them off and flung them on the floor. She reached out to encircle him.

"You are so wet, my love." His fingers pressed into her.

She curled around his hand, helpless, her thighs trying to close.

"No, Lizzie." His knees pressed down to hold her open for his hands.

Lizzie shrieked a protest.

Her body liked it.

Pleasure. Awful, guilty pleasure. He growled. "Must. Forgive. Can't wait." He plunged into her with a fierce moan. "You are mine, Lizzie. Mine."

She met his strokes, cried out for mercy and urged him on, but part of her mind held back, afraid to be lost in his magic. Afraid she'd tell him she loved him.

Too late. Her body bucked beneath him. Sizzling hot, wanting, wanting that awful mindless pleasure. She'd give him anything and everything for an eternity of this sinful bliss.

"Good, Lizzie, good, good Lizzie." He was still inside her, praising her traitorous body with his eyes closed, his hips gently swaying, while her female part clutched at him still.

Her treacherous body moved in time with his. He was sin personified.

"Stop," she begged. Even to her own ears her voice sounded wanton.

He obeyed, pulling out of her body with a look of crazed desire on his face. He kissed her savagely, kissed her mouth, her neck, her breasts.

She gasped at his mouth between her legs. "No! Don't!"

He laughed under his breath. "Anything I want, you promised. Obey me or your pact is dead."

Her body moved against her will, she fought herself for control and lost. Again and again, she lost herself and was mindless for endless time until he stopped. Why had he stopped?

He flipped her over. Lizzie gave a shriek of protest.

She scrambled on her hands and knees across the bed.

He caught her, drew her hips down to press urgently with whispered pleas, until he slid gently into her. She stilled, sitting on his thighs with her back against his chest. As full of him as it was possible to be.

"Hush, my lady." He held her shoulders to keep her from raising herself from him. "Sit still, Lizzie, I am in no rush to finish this," he said in a low voice. "I can feel your womb moving against me with every breath you take."

He nibbled on her neck.

She could feel herself tightening almost painfully around that part of him deep inside her.

"I adore you." He reached around her to gently stroke her breasts. "You are lovely, here and here. See how they fit in the palm of my hand? They are my treasures, Lizzie. Small and perfect. What a shame I cannot take them in my mouth from this position."

"They are too small. Don't mock me." But she knew he wasn't. His sigh, his touch, his words convinced her she was the object of his lust.

"You know I am not, dear heart." He stroked his hands down to her belly. "Can you feel me inside, all the way to here." He stroked so skillfully above the fullness inside that she ached and silently begged for more.

If his hand had not moved down to touch her, she might have resorted to the sin of touching herself.

"Lean forward." He positioned her like a doll. "On your hands and knees, Lizzie. That's right. No, bring your hips down, rock back towards me. Move as much as you like, or as little."

His warm hands at her waist compelled her to move away from him and then back, to be filled with monumental pleasure.

Her body caught the rhythm. She needed no guidance from him, her hips thrust back to take him. She could not stop. The terrible sweetness grew until each thrust took her closer and closer to losing control over her entire body.

"Move your knees wider apart, Lizzie. So beautiful, my love, take me to heaven with you."

Too late, her body moved in spasms of pleasure she could not fight. Back against him she slammed, each thrust creating such an intense pool of pleasure that she cried out and wept as she crumbled to pieces in his embrace.

He grabbed a pillow and tucked it under her belly, gently urging her to lie face downwards on the bed.

He followed, moving inside her, sweeping her hair from her back to kiss her shoulder blades, stretching her arms out away from her body. Moving, thrusting until she felt nothing but ecstasy, from her toes upwards. Every inch of her body spiraled in intense waves she was compelled to ride to the end.

At last, he groaned and collapsed beside her.

He lay quietly, stroking her back, playing with her hair. His voice rasped with emotion when he spoke. "You have no need of a pact, my love. I am your slave." He gave a groan of delight and leaned over to place a kiss on her shoulder.
Chapter 21

Lizzie awoke in the middle of the night. For a moment she wondered where she was. The viscount had gone. She had fallen asleep in his bed and he had left her there to be found by his valet or even the duke, if he chose to visit. Could he have gone to her bed? Had he left her as soon as his lust was sated?

So much for his desire to sleep with her! He couldn't have had another urge while she lay sleeping, could he? Had he gone in search of other amusements?

She carefully put aside the problem of her own lust for now. Learning to control it might take more than cold baths and the spare diet advised by holy men and saints. She doubted the viscount would agree to such a regimen for himself.

London.

Whores, clubs, gambling, and more whores. She scrambled out of his bed. His dressing gown lay over a chair. She wore it without stopping to tie the belt. Drat the man! Where had he gone?

Her bedroom was empty.

Of course. Did she really think he had moved there so she could sleep? A wave of loneliness swept away her longing for him. If only she could trust him.

Lizzie washed with cold water and dressed. She chose the simplest of clothes. A dark day dress, which had buttons she could manage by herself, except for the ones in the middle of her back. She draped a shawl over her shoulders and marched down the stairs. Two footmen guarded the hall in the middle of the night.

They snapped upright at the sight of her. A clock chimed the half hour. Lizzie gave a nod of greeting. "What time is it?" she asked.

"Half past two, my lady." The young man waited stoically for her to say something else.

They were probably wondering what she was doing, dressed and wandering the hallways. The thought of searching London for her errant husband suddenly seemed foolish in the extreme. How did one find a man in such a huge city? Without other men to aid her, she could not enquire for him in any of the clubs and brothels that littered the place. Did she expect to find him fornicating conveniently in the park across the street?

One of the young men said, "The surgeon has not arrived yet, ma'am. Lord Felmont is waiting for him at his house. Do you wish to send a message to him."

Lizzie intended to check for herself. Surgeons could not operate at night. It seemed an unlikely excuse. Angel Anston had not wanted a surgeon during the day, why would he suddenly need one in the middle of the night?

"I must go to help," she said. "Is the duke there?"

"His grace had not returned home. As far as I know, he is not with Lord Felmont," replied the young man carefully.

"I need you to accompany me to the door." Her voice sounded cool and collected.

One young man lit the lantern and the other swung open the door. Lizzie went carefully down the stairs after refusing her protector's arm.

The door to the viscount's house was unlocked. The young man opened it and stepped back for her to precede him. She thanked him and bade him return. She didn't want a witness to what came next.

"Molly?" called the viscount. "Come and help. Molly!"

Lizzie pushed the door open to Angel Anston's bedroom. He lay like a fallen giant across the big bed. The white sheets were spattered with blood. Her husband held Mr. Anston's arms down on the mattress with all his might. He had shed his coat. His shirt, open at the neck, showed his casual attire and haste in dressing.

"Going to pull it out!" Angel Anston fought against the viscount's restraining grip. "Let go of me! Damn you!

"Hellfire, Lizzie! What are you doing here? Fetch Molly, there's a good girl."

Lizzie did as she was bid. She turned and ran for the kitchen, almost falling down the few steps separating the servants quarters from the rest of the house.

Molly knelt sobbing by the settle. She looked at Lizzie. "I can't do it! He's going to die like my Will!" Gulping sobs made the rest unintelligible.

Lizzie turned to run back to the bedroom. She threw her shawl onto the chair by the fire. "Molly is unwell, she cannot aid you. What must I do to help?"

"Got to grab it, every time he moves it disappears." The viscount let go of Mr. Anston's arms only to receive a blow to the side of his head that made him reel. He cursed and knelt on one upper arm while he wrestled with the other, almost knocking a decanter of brandy from the bedside table with his feet.

Lizzie pulled the wounded man's nightshirt up. Blood seeped from a small opening in the scar which circled his torso. Old blood under the skin. Fresh blood oozed around a glint of slivery metal which appeared briefly only to sink below the surface again.

"Stop it, Mr. Anston." She laid her hands against the sides of his face. "Don't move." Calmly, she held him. She met his gaze. "We are here to help you, Edward. If your mother were here, she'd help you, but she is not. We are her emissaries. Let us help you."

The wounded man's eyes filled with tears. "Pull it out! Quick death or live pain free. Either one. Don't care. Pull it out!"

"Let my husband tie your arms to the headboard. If you lash out at me, you might kill me." She stroked his tears away. "I am going to take hold of it for you. Before I begin, you will drink some brandy with laudanum."

The viscount tied Angel Anston's wrists to the headboard with strips torn from a clean sheet. He took care not bind too tightly, and it was quickly done, but Lizzie thought Goliath would have been hard put to move after he had finished. With a rueful shake of his head, and one last test of the bonds, the viscount took himself off to get the laudanum.

No sooner had he gone than Angel Anston's belly began to cramp. The ornate headboard creaked as he struggled to lower his hands. "It's there, it's there! Get hold of it!" he moaned.

"Lie still, let it rise. I am going to catch it for you." Lizzie quickly cleansed her hands with brandy from the decanter. She climbed onto the high bed to kneel next to him and placed her fingers on either side of his wound. The metal edge surfaced, she tried to nip it between her fingers but it sank below the surface of his belly.

She took a calming breath.

Slowly, a silvered shred of metal appeared again. She pressed down on either side of it and slid her fingertips into the gore, to catch the metal fragment between her nails.

"Have you got it?" Angel Anston asked eagerly. Rivulets of sweat rolled down his sides. A spurt of warm blood splashed up.

Lizzie swallowed her bile. "Yes." She took a deep breath. "I shall not let it go." Her fingers were inside his wound. The edges of her vision began to go black.
Chapter 22

Dace hurried back to the bedroom carrying the laudanum. He almost dropped it at the sight of his wife unconscious, curled up on the bed with her head lying on Angel's thigh.

"Lizzie!" he cried.

"I'm fine. Just a little faint. It helps if I keep my head low." She propped her chin on Angel's leg. "I have the metal piece between my fingertips and I am not going to let it go. Don't worry, Mr. Anston."

"I like it when you call me Edward." Angel paused before he urged, "When you have recovered from your swoon, pull it out. I beg you, Lady Felmont."

"As we are going to be intimately connected for some time, Edward, you had better call me Lizzie." She stopped leaning on his leg. "Drink some laudanum for me."

Dace poured a healthy dose.

He held the glass while Angel sipped. "Too much. Bad dreams." When he'd swallowed the last of it, the wounded man berated Lizzie in a mournful whisper. "For God's sake, why won't you pull it out?"

"Because I will not be your murderer, no matter how much you'd like that, Edward." His wife gave a nervous glance to make sure Angel had not managed to escape his bonds. "We are going to wait for the surgeon."

"You cannot hold on to it for so long. Pull it out for God's sake!"

"Hush, I can hold it for eternity if I have to. Though, I doubt the surgeon will be as long as that." Lizzie turned to him. "Would you take my shoes off, Felmont, and cover my feet. I don't want to risk shivering."

Dace did as she asked, then covered her to the waist with a blanket. He went to stoke the fire.

How lovely she looked sitting there, bravely ignoring her fingers covered in blood. She took care not to look down. He had seen that carefully composed look on her face often since his return.

Sweet Lizzie _._

He went over to sit in the chair next to the bed, to warm her cold, stocking-clad feet with his hands. Her toes curled at his touch.

Angel asked, "Lizzie, why do you call your husband, Felmont, yet you call me Edward?"

Dace gave a weary sigh. He did it twice, but neither one took any notice of him.

He felt Lizzie uncurl her toes, distracted by the question.

"I call my husband other things in private. Why do you not use your title? Miss Rackham told me you are an earl." His wife changed the subject with efficiency. Angel was not his usual self—he let her.

"Not my father's son," was the brusque answer, uttered with half a breath.

Dace wondered if he should start talking with that whisper Angel used. His friend could ask the most personal questions, which other men dared not, and women listened to his every word as if he were the archangel Gabriel himself.

What seemed like hours later, the surgeon appeared with his assistant, though the clock had not long chimed three. Angel Anston slept fitfully through most of the surgery. His hallucinations ran to murderous incidents from his past, mixed with awful memories of his childhood. Only those who knew him well could understand what tormented him, from the fragments spoken aloud.

Fortunately, Lizzie did not understand his soft murmurings, his invitations to try again, so politely spoken. Lethal encounters reenacted by a shrug of the shoulders, a twist of the wrist.

When the shard of metal finally slipped from Angel's belly, Lizzie still held the tip.

Dace carried her away from the bed and they dropped it into the cinders in the hearth, together.

"You can put me down, Felmont." His wife tried to order him about. Dace began to see some justice in the duke's attitude to women. "I am not the least bit disturbed. He didn't smell at all. Once I got over my faintness, I had only to keep my eyes closed while the surgeon used his knife about my fingers. Do let go." Her elbow tried to pry him away from her side.

He insisted on holding her close to his heart. But he could not break through the barrier she held over her emotions.

* * *

Even at breakfast, when Dace saw her next, she paused only for coffee, drinking half a cup, then she bustled away to go shopping with Gladys. He insisted on a kiss before she left. Her eyes never met his. All emotion frozen by her refusal to feel.

Dace returned to watch Angel Anston sleep on, breathing normally. Free from the pain that had made his life unbearable for so many months. He had an excellent chance of recovering, if his wound did not fester.

Dace sat beside Angel's pillow and brooded. What marriage was this? A night of passion—but not an ounce of love from his wife. He should not have taken her, not when he had promised not to.

Lizzie was right, he was a Felmont. Her body responded to him, while her mind still loathed him. Loathed his worship of her body. Loathed even the pleasure he made her feel.

He forced pleasure on her. She feared his lust, feared where it led. Feared that the pleasures of the flesh would lead to an early grave. How could he battle those demons?

* * *

For the next week, the viscount spent the mornings sleeping. Lizzie knew he spent the nights with Angel Anston to keep his friend company while Molly rested. Fever meant the invalid had troubled nights, suffering bouts of delirium, although Lizzie was relieved to know the terrible pain no longer tormented him.

The viscount's midnight visits to her were of short duration. To her shame, her husband managed to rouse her to pleasure, though he did not linger at his lustful activity.

But this night he had not knocked on her door. She lay awake waiting. Sexual congress was addicting and she had caught the sickness. Her mother had been afflicted the same way. Every vice indulged with her husband. They had both died horribly, she couldn't bear to think of them.

Lizzie could not sleep. She ventured down the street to Edward Anston's bedroom, just to see her husband, just to hear his voice. She did not fear he had gone to indulge himself in the fleshpots of London. She had become quite used to being a convenient body on which he relieved his desires. He had not asked her to do anything hideous, and she doubted her ability to deny him anything he desired to do with her. She began to trust that there'd be no other, even though no one who knew the Felmont family would agree.

The viscount greeted her with a smile, a triumphant gleam in his eye. The dimple at the corner of his mouth flashed before he composed his face to a more dignified expression. He crossed to the door and led her inside, closing it quietly.

"How is Edward?" she whispered. It would never do to have her husband think she had missed him at midnight. The arm around her shoulders brought her to his side as he drew her towards the hearth.

"Bad night. Thank you for coming. Angel has been off his head, he's just fallen asleep." He pulled her to sit on his knee on the chair beside the fire.

He kissed her on the top of her lace cap. "I missed you."

Lizzie raised her face. Her husband gave a delighted low rumble and kissed her lips. She touched his lean cheek, felt the stubble on his jaw and rasped it with her fingertips. The scent of soap from the Priory and his own scent wafted pleasantly to her nose. She sighed aloud before she could stop it.

He gave her a hug which almost stopped her breath. "I shall not ask if you missed me, Lizzie." He paused, she could feel him laugh deep in his chest, though not a sound came out. "I hope you don't make a habit of visiting men in the middle of the night?"

"Not unless they are ill," she replied. She had lived in her stepfather's bedroom at the end.

"Where shall we go shopping today, dear heart?" He held her with one arm while he caressed her back with the other. "I have heard of a man who sells plants from China, wonderful exotics. Shall we go and have a look at them?"

"Yes, I'd like that." She raised her face for another kiss. A giggle escaped her, she was filled with desire for him and love. She felt carefree, and not afraid at all.

Angel Anston gave a cry of anguish. "Damned fornicating devils!" he cried in full voice. Lizzie had never heard him shout with such power. "Fornicators!"

She cringed with guilt. Her husband rose with her to place her in the chair. "Not calling us names, my love. Sit tight. Angel has been like this for hours."

He went to stand by the bed. "They have gone, Angel. All of them have gone. I have her, she is safe. Not injured. You saved her."

The wounded man lay still, listening to her husband's soothing voice. "Safe?" he whispered in his angelic voice.

"Yes, she is safe." The viscount wet a cloth and placed it on Angel Anston's forehead.

Lizzie ventured over.

"Don't get too close, Lizzie. Poor Molly has a black eye. Angel lashed out suddenly. We tried tying him up but it made his nightmares worse. It's better like this."

She put her arm around his waist. He tucked her head under his chin and walked her to the door. "Back to bed with you. Is a footman waiting to escort you back?"

She nodded and scrunched her toes in her shoes.

"Don't cry, Lizzie, Angel won't die. He is getting better every day." Dace held her close to kiss her wet cheek and offer his handkerchief.

For the rest of the night, she slept with it clutched in her hand. In the morning, she awoke with tender feelings in her bosom. That way should lead to disaster, but she had fallen over a cliff and could not climb back up to sanity.

She loved a Felmont! Any woman who ever tried it, ended up with a broken heart or a fatal disease.

Her husband saved women, just like Edward Anston. He was brave and heroic. Edward trusted him. The simple truth was that Dace had survived years with a man who killed anyone who harmed women. But Felmonts didn't harm women on purpose. She knew them well. They loved women and stopped at nothing to obtain the object of their desire. They loved the chase and the dance of love for as long as it lasted, and then they moved on to the next conquest. Marriage rarely suited them. They adored women who were not bound by propriety, who led them a merry dance and kept them intrigued by their daring. Women like her mother, not like her.
Chapter 23

Dace saw Saint Sirin raise his head from his music with a mocking expression on his face. The duke's voice purred in that annoying way he had, "Is your wife of a musical bent?" The violin he held gave a light trill. "Can she sing?"

That damned drooping eyelid irritated Dace. He knew when it was done for effect and when it was real from fatigue. Now was not the time to try it on him.

Dace gave him the Felmont stare. "Sing? What has that to do with anything? I should have let Angel have you. Damned French are a menace to society."

The duke gave a disdainful sniff as he returned to his perusal of the sheet music. "I'd be honored if you'd join my party. Sarah has missed you. Perhaps I shall permit her to visit you."

"She is my daughter. Hellfire! She is not yours!"

The drawing room resounded with a scale of high notes as Saint Sirin ignored him.

The duke stopped playing to tune his violin. "More mine than yours at the moment. If you think I'll let her go to be brought up by—" His words stopped abruptly, wary of a challenge. "Do you know what it is to be an outsider? To have the wrong accent in this country? It is very hard, my friend."

"The Priory is a good family home, Sirrie. My family shall live there. Don't worry about Sarah talking like Ma or any of the Thwaites. With the proper governess there will be no question about Sarah's accent."

The duke sneered, "You'd live at Felmont's Folly with your wife and deprive your children of the same."

"The Folly is a cold place. Even full of guests, it echoes. I have never liked it." Dace pulled a chair to sit opposite Saint Sirin. "Your children are not here. You spend months away from them."

"There you are wrong, I visit them often." The duke played a melody with a master's touch.

"But they do not live with you."

"They live at my most luxurious residence. They will not grow up to say I did not think them good enough to live with me. Dace, our daughter is a bastard. There can be no denying that fact. It will taint her life. Even if you love her and you want her to live in the house you grew up in, others will whisper in her ear that she was not good enough to live at Felmont's Folly."

"Then Lizzie must live at the Priory with us. Except I have promised she may live at the Folly, in the house she loves." What a depressing thought, Lizzie wandering around her house, caught in her world of stone.

"She is your wife. I do not advise you to beat her, but rule her or your life will be a misery. A man must be master in his house. Women are unhappy and deceitful when left to their own devices."

"So glad you are not married, Saint Sirin. Kindly refrain from insulting Lady Felmont."

"Do you deny she is unhappy?"

"Not all the time."

"It is only a matter of time before you wear horns, my friend. Some man will triumph and make her smile, where you fail. How your lady will enjoy your humiliation!"

"Had a happy marriage, did you?"

"You may bring your wife to Quorr House, let music soothe her. You'll have to share. May be able to squeeze two beds into one room, I certainly can't manage two rooms."

"One bed. We only need one bed," Dace said quickly.

"What little pleases you," remarked the duke. "If you are sure Anston is on the road to recovery, you may come to Quorr House. I go there tomorrow to welcome my guests."

"I do thank you sincerely for your help with Anston. Rax could not have handled him. I know how difficult he can be. He is the nearest thing to a brother I will ever have."

"My pleasure," murmured the duke. "What are neighbors for? By the way, I always thought that way about you. Must be the nose. I can't think how it got onto my face." He gave a smile. "I suppose we are all related, somehow?"

* * *

Lizzie entered by the kitchen door of her husband's house. Mr. Rackham and Dace rose to their feet. She had not meant to disturb their breakfast.

Molly lifted the brown teapot in a gesture of invitation. The skin around one of her eyes showed lurid colors that drizzled green and gold onto her cheek. Lizzie declined as silently.

Her husband came to the door to kiss her cheek.

She felt her face warm. "I am looking for Mr. Rackham's sisters," she said by way of explanation. "Are they here?"

Mr. Rackham gave a cry of dismay. He ran from the room, leaping up the three steps in one bound.

Her husband muttered an oath. "They aren't here, are they, Lizzie?"

"I don't know. We are supposed to be going shopping together, but they are not at their house. They left a message for me to meet them here, but they are not allowed to visit Edward, are they?"

The viscount put an arm around her. "Come along, my dear, you must chaperone them." He pulled her along, up the stairs. "It's too quiet."

He knocked on Angel Anston's bedroom door. "Not a good sign that it's closed." He opened the door.

Muffled squeaks came from the five Rackham sisters huddled together in a corner. Their sprigged muslin dresses, made of the same material, made them look as if they all wore one giant dress.

Poor Mr. Rackham was fenced in against the wall by a chair held by a tall, demented, sweat-drenched Angel Anston. His nightshirt hung loose upon his body, a week's growth of beard darkened his face. "Fight you for them," he snarled.

"I don't have to fight you, Angel. They are my sisters. You have to give 'em back, my mother won't like it," protested Mr. Rackham. He made no attempt to defend himself other than to twist away from a chair leg which came perilously near his throat.

"Must marry," Angel said.

The Rackham misses seemed not to find the prospect alluring, judging from their horrified expressions and fearful squeals.

Lizzie could not fault them. Marriage to an insane giant with a Felmont nose and a penchant for fighting was not any young lady's romantic dream. And yet, perhaps it had been, until they met him in person.

Dace would not let her enter the room. "Wait here, dear heart, lest he capture you too. He means Rax has to marry one of them." He strolled in to address the madman. "What on earth are you doing to Aunt Porridge? You'll have to marry the old thing if you are not careful."

Angel swung the chair in a great arc at her husband's head. Dace leaped agilely out of the way. The bedpost vibrated from the force of the blow.

The chair drooped in Angels' hand. He rubbed his other hand over his belly to check that he had not split himself in two.

The Rackham girls screamed as one. They turned to flee for the door, but Angel Anston barred the way. He swung his chair too and fro in a long sweeping arc, not at them, just in their path so they couldn't escape.

Mr. Rackham hurried out of the way and ended up huddled with his sisters looking as brave as they did.

The viscount called out to them. "Don't try to leave until he has calmed down. I can't fight him, it would tear his wound open."

Lizzie stepped into the room. She stood perfectly still with her hands lightly clasped in front of her. "Stop this noise at once," she commanded, in her best speaking-to-madmen voice.

Everyone froze. Angel Anston stared at her down his long nose, breathing heavily. As if she were not immune to the snorting Felmont stare.

"Edward, get back into bed or I shall send for the doctor." She folded her arms and waited. Angel Anston put down the chair. He made his way to the bed and sat on the edge.

"Lie down," Lizzie commanded.

He obeyed her.

The viscount ushered the Rackham ladies out into the hall. Their brother pointed sternly towards the front door and disappeared with them.

Moments later, through the open window, Lizzie heard him admonish his sisters. "Heavens! I say these things for your own good. You can't go visiting him until he is right in the head, and then you can't go because it isn't decent. He's strong as an ox. Could slaughter me with his little finger, then the family fortune goes to Great Uncle Severin and the lot of you will be married off, in all haste, to his ancient cronies. If that fate appeals to you, by all means visit Anston again."

On hearing his name, Angel reared up from his pillow.

Dace went to close the window. "They are not talking about you."

"Afraid for her," muttered Anston. "She had five heads, tried to save her,"

"I understand." Lizzie kept the laughter from her voice. "Rest now, Edward." She had learned to keep all emotion from her voice. Madmen fed on emotions. Her stepfather had received encouragement and interest only when his topics of conversation were halfway decent.

She accepted Dace's kiss at the front door as she left. Every day brought her closer to accepting the idea that it was safe to love him, though sometimes she awoke alone in the night, worried about her own sanity.
Chapter 24

Two small green birds with long tails climbed around the bars of their cages to chirp and whistle at each other. The viscount had bought them as gifts for Sarah and the duke's daughter. The birds were supposed to have come all the way from Australia, if the vendor could be believed. Lizzie thought them ridiculously expensive, though they were amusing and had no fear of people.

The carriages were all laden with the results of her shopping expeditions. She had bought far more than the viscount. He had replenished his wardrobe in sober hues. She had indulged in every glorious color, and she meant to wear them.

Music greeted Lizzie from the moment the gates of Quorr House opened to admit them. A merry quartet played them in. The drive from the gates to the house was over a mile long through landscaped park. As the coach approached the house, the gardens began, bed after bed of flowers in ornate shapes, with fountains playing from statue-laden ponds.

A long cascade from a distant mount, tumbled over steps to fall into Neptune's pool where marble nymphs gamboled in the spray.

Elegant ladies strolled, parasols in hand. Gentlemen prowled after them in a predatory fashion.

Lizzie had heard of the Duke of Saint Sirin's parties. Her stepfather had boasted the night air resounded with the cries of lovers at Quorr House, and any man not sleeping the sleep of the damned at dawn had only himself to blame. But Gladys had heard more recently that the only lovers tolerated were music lovers. Gossip said the duke was quite strait-laced at his own home, where his children lived.

"Are you getting ideas for your gardens, Lizzie, if you allow yourself to admire a French fashion, dear heart? Or is that forbidden in your mind?" Dace surveyed the scene calmly. "We might have to stay for a few days. Can't just drag Sarah away. Saint Sirin says she is fond of music. Are you, my love?"

"Yes. The musicians went with Uncle Tempest after he cut my funds. I missed them." The birds suddenly began to whistle encouragement to the musicians. Lizzie laughed at them and spoke louder to be heard over their noise. "It was so soothing in the evening not to have to converse, just to listen in peace."

"Are you giving me a hint? No, don't answer." He tried to silence the birds by giving them a finger to nibble. "I shall be silent and not chatter in your ear while you enjoy the music. Never fear."

"Thank you, Felmont." She looked out the window as they neared the house. "The place is crowded." A sudden thought straightened her back. "Has the duke given permission for you to take your daughter from him?"

"In a sense, I could take her and damn him, but as she looks on him as a father figure, I'd rather not wrest her from him by force."

"You did insist on separate rooms, didn't you?"

"Of course, dear heart." He looked down his long Felmont nose at her. "Saint Sirin regrets he can't oblige."

Lizzie almost laughed at his wary expression. She had no objection to sharing a bed at Quorr House, at least that way she'd know where he was at night.

It could not be denied that the lure of sharing his bed forever made her heart beat faster with a strange nervous pulse. But would he be heroic and moral, when not constrained by Edward Anston's presence? Wasn't death or life an easy choice even for a Felmont.

"You will not fight me on this, Lizzie. We stay in one room, there is no other. Just for a few days, I swear you need not fear being close to me."

Lizzie forced herself to be honest, to let slip out of her mouth the worry she felt about him. "You are a Felmont. It is only a matter of time before one of the demi-reps steals your heart."

"My heart? Dearest Lizzie, can it be you care where I bestow my affection?"

"We can share here," she conceded, not wanting to discuss her feelings or his.

"Only here? Am I doomed to cold nights for the rest of my life, dear heart?"

She gave him a scornful glance because she knew she did care. It was too late. She was doomed to love a Felmont. She loved him!

Even now he suspected it. Tension ran through him, one side of his mouth quirked down as his eyes questioned her. Lizzie looked away and tried to suppress a nervous shiver.

The carriage stopped outside Quorr House. The large Palladian mansion, built by a coal merchant whose widow detested country life, sprawled elegantly amid its formal French parterres and terraces.

To say the house was crowded was an understatement. Carriages rolled up in a steady stream. The duke greeted his guests, while his orchestra played Mozart in a pavilion surrounded by flowers.

From a vantage point where he could see but not be seen, Consideration Felmont watched. He had waited all day for a glimpse of the woman he loved. At last, he watched the viscount hand Lizzie down from the carriage. He saw her look of distress, the nervous turning of her head away from her husband, her hurried steps away from him.

He lingered to plot and plan how best to rescue her from a man she so obviously detested and feared. He needed to give her a reason to leave her husband, something she'd never forgive. Not that Dacey Felmont had to sin, Lizzie just needed to believe he had strayed.

* * *

Lizzie looked out the bedroom window at glasshouses stretching to the stables in the distance. Luggage and servants entered by the doors out of sight beneath her. Gladys bustled about the room, making it appear even smaller.

The bed did not dominate by its size, it was simply that there was so little floor surrounding it. Lizzie kept near the window to let her companion organize the room with brushes, powders, and a few new clothes. Most of her purchases had been locked in the coaches due to a lack of space.

The viscount had made her wait in the hallway while he changed his clothes. Lizzie dressed with Gladys's aid, before sending her off to enjoy the amenities of the house. Her husband had not waited, but had taken himself off to the nursery to see Sarah. Lizzie had never been lodged so high in what must be a governess's bedroom or perhaps a maid's. A footman guarded the private staircase to this part of the house. Instructions to admit them had come from Saint Sirin himself.

Lizzie followed the sound of girlish screams to a large room, luxuriously furnished for a nursery. When she entered, two little girls stopped sounding like penny whistles and ran to the viscount sobbing.

"He flewed out the window!" cried Sarah. One cage sat empty on the table in front of the open window, the other birdcage, still with its occupant, rested on the floor.

Dace perched on a nursery chair to hold the little girls. Their governess watched from the far corner of the room. Lizzie thought it strange she didn't intervene, until she saw the duke sitting in an easy chair at the edge of the carpet.

The wailing sobs did not abate. Each little girl saw the other cry and howled louder in sympathy. Sarah stood inches taller than the duke's daughter, healthier by far than the thin, frail child with her father's drooping eyelid.

Lizzie returned Saint Sirin's greeting, though she couldn't hear a word of it over the sobs from the children. He gave an eloquent gesture of despair.

"Crying is not allowed!" the duke warned the little girls. "Stop it at once." The soft purr of his voice was drowned by the sobs. He clapped his hands.

Sarah dried her tears at the sound and turned to comfort the duke's daughter. The little girl wailed to the heavens.

"Come here, Jeannie." The duke carried her to his seat to sit on his knee. "You will make yourself ill. Stop crying."

The little girl howled her sorrow on her father's chest. Tears ran in a flood down her thin cheeks. Her delicate features were suffused with pink patches on her white skin. Sobs shook her narrow shoulders.

"All this, over a bird!" The duke patted his daughter's back. "I'm sure it's only a green finch with those long feathers glued to its tail. You must stop crying." Saint Sirin waited in silence. His daughter howled even louder at her inability to obey him while she clutched his cravat. "Hold out your hand, Jeannie. You shall receive two taps for disobedience."

Sarah tore herself from the viscount's embrace to rush over to the duke. She put an arm around her friend. "Don't cry, Jeannie." The little girl frowned a warning at the duke. She hissed at him, "It was my fault, not Jeannie's. I opened the cage."

"Only because I told you to do it," sobbed Jeannie. "So I could touch him."

"Stop crying," ordered the duke. "You are going to make yourself ill, you'll cry yourself into a fever."

The little girl wept on, casting piteous glances at her father. "Hold out your hand, Jeannie. I shall not ask you again," he ordered sternly. The little girl slid from his knee to stand in front of him.

Sarah stood next to her and bravely held out her hand. "It was my fault. Don't weep, Jeannie, I shall take the taps for you."

The viscount went to kneel on the carpet beside Sarah. "Can't advise you to do it, Saint Sirin. Not to either of them. There might be hell to pay." The casual tone of his voice did not hide the meaning of his warning from the duke.

Saint Sirin's drooping eyelid twitched. "Then you stop my daughter from weeping herself into a fever. _C'est fou!"_

It was the first time Lizzie had heard the duke speak French.

"Why are you so sad, Jeannie?" asked the viscount. "Can you tell me?"

"He flewed away," she sobbed, holding onto her father's knee while he tried to stem the tears with his handkerchief.

"Birds like to fly," ventured Dace. "Maybe he'll be happier living free outside."

"No," Jeannie howled. "He doesn't have any friends here. He's going to be all alone." She bent her head and sobbed on her father's silk britches.

Sarah sobbed with her friend.

Saint Sirin stroked both their heads. "I shall be forced to give you both taps if you don't stop," he warned. Neither girl seemed moved by his threat.

Lizzie gave a great lugubrious sigh worthy of Bertram Felmont himself. Everyone turned to look at her. She hitched her skirts up to display her feet. "If you scrunch your toes up, it will help you to stop crying," she advised. "Scrunch your toes and walk around the room."

The little girls tottered around the carpet. As if by magic, they both stopped crying.

Saint Sirin raised an eyebrow as he glanced at Lizzie's ankles. "A useful trick, Lady Felmont. I thank you." His upper eyelid drooped more than usual and the lower lid twitched.

Lizzie couldn't help feeling sorry for him. She quite forgave him for being French.

Dace took the little girls by the hand and tottered with them. "Having friends is important, isn't it?"

Sarah nodded. "I'm going to let my bird go, Jeannie. They can be friends forever, just like us, but they can live free like sparrows do."

"You'd let your bird go for me?" Jeannie leaned around the viscount's leg to kiss Sarah on the cheek. "Thank you! _Merci!_ "

Dace helped them carry the cage to the table by the open window. The green bird hesitated at the door of his cage. He whistled loudly.

An answering call echoed from the curtain rod where the lost bird watched the room with bright, black eyes. Dace shut the window before either bird flew out of it.

"My bird! He didn't fly away!" Shrieks of joy rent the air.

"Why is it females must scream like tin whistles whether pleased or sad?" the duke asked in his soft purr.

Sarah gave him a warning frown, which silenced the duke so effectively that Lizzie had to stifle laughter.

The little girls fell into each others arms. "Jeannie," said Sarah, "I'm going to give my bird to you, so they can be friends together."

"Don't go, Sarah," whispered Jeannie. "I missed you so much. I don't have a mother like you do."

Lizzie felt the tears start in her eyes. She clenched her toes with all her might.

"You can share my mother," said Sarah, "just like I share your father."

The viscount stroked Jeannie's thin cheek. "Felmont's Folly is not a day's journey from here. You are welcome to visit us there and you'd like the Priory too, I grew up there."

"Can Sarah live here as well as there?" asked Jeannie.

The duke gave a slight laugh. "Why don't we kidnap Lord and Lady Felmont? We can keep them here as our prisoners." The duke's sarcastic tone was lost on his daughter.

"Can we?" Jeannie asked innocently. "Or you could marry me a mother."

"Two taps if you ask that of me again, Jeannie," he warned with a long suffering sigh.

"There are lots of lovely ladies here," his daughter replied. When he frowned down at her, she gave him back stare for stare.

Lizzie muffled a giggle at the sight of them, so alike with the drooping eyelid and the haughty expression.

Jeannie blinked first. " _Grand-mère_ says it isn't healthy for a man."

"What isn't healthy?" asked the duke in a sinister voice.

"Having only one daughter," Jeannie gave a triumphant smile.

The duke reached out to tickle her waist. "But I have two daughters, don't I, Sarah?" he asked, holding his arms outstretched to embrace both girls.

The viscount protested, "Fair's fair, Saint Sirin, if you have two daughters then so do I." He tugged at their ticklish waists until he tumbled backwards under a heap of giggling girls.

Lizzie knelt beside him to protect his shoulder from an accidental blow and joined in the laughter. "We can be one family, all of us together," she suggested. "Can't we, Dace?"

Her husband smiled at her deliberate use of his name.

Lizzie hoped he knew she offered him her friendship. Not her lust or her love. Both of those unfortunate passions she intended to keep hidden in her breast lest the knowledge of them incite him to do his worst. For an eager moment she wondered what his worst might be, before a shudder at the thought of all the horrid deeds her stepfather had boasted of slipped unbidden into her mind.
Chapter 25

The low sun bathed the gardens with a rosy glow when Lizzie ventured outside, feeling rather naked in her Greek costume. The viscount was waiting for her near the door, where roses perfumed the air. He bowed gracefully, his costume an oriental splendor with deep purple beaded tunic over black, open at the neck and slashed in the sleeve to reveal his bare arms when he moved them.

For some reason this seemed strangely disturbing, though she had seen his arms in bed, or could have if she'd opened her eyes.

He'd been deep in conversation with Harry Felmont, his disreputable young cousin, who glanced about nervously before he tried to kiss her cheek. Lizzie offered him her gloved hand.

Harry kissed the air above it with a rueful laugh. "I thought you were going to make your bride like Felmonts, Dace. What went wrong? Surely you've had enough time to work your Felmont magic."

Lizzie changed the subject, well aware the magic involved was of a licentious nature. "Who is looking after your mother?"

"Uncle Bertram offered to take care of her. He wanted me to be able to...." He hesitated and glanced at her husband. "He wanted me to be able to accept the duke's kind invitation. It seems Saint Sirin lacked a tenor."

The viscount clapped his cousin on the back. "Give my friend a message from me. Tell him to keep out of sight or suffer the consequences." He led Lizzie into a ballroom conjured from towers of flowers and gauzy swags, where guests dressed in exotic costumes watched the dancers.

He answered her questioning glance with a wicked smile and a murmured, "Rax can be such a nuisance. Can't sing but loves music, somewhat like you, Lizzie. He's a neighbor. Sneaks over without an invitation."

Lizzie knew he joked, but she had no idea who was being given a warning from him. Not that she cared, not when he led her onto the dance floor. Lizzie held his hand. A month married. One bed, one bedroom. How was she to manage? Loving him in such close quarters meant he'd discover it, if he hadn't already. Felmonts were romantic creatures. They enjoyed love and passion, though they rarely found it at home.

"May I have the honor of this dance, my love?"

Lizzie allowed him to take her gloved hand. Not that one of Lord Elgin's foreign statues wore gloves but this Greek goddess was not inclined to fast behavior. She'd noticed several women were gloveless.

Demi-reps were by definition immoral. Naked hands were the least thing they worried about.

"You look very lovely in your costume, my dear," he said, as he led her into the dance.

Gladys had reassured her that the thin strips of cloth binding the light muslin to her body did not look indecent, though the mirror showed it made her breasts stick out shamefully. Not that she'd ever had much to worry about, but they were distinctly bigger than before.

The viscount's glance made parts of her stick out even more in tiny peaks of shame.

How embarrassing!

"My love?" He smiled at her.

He looked too handsome for words. She had seen disreputable females pointing him out, whispering behind his back. Well, they could not have him, he was hers.

"The waltz, my love. If you'd dance with me, we'd look less conspicuous. I might have to kill some of your admirers, if I don't hide at least the front of you from them."

Lizzie hastened into his arms. She had a view of his chest. Her feet moved with his, her body guided by his light touch. Round and round they flew until she could not stop a gurgle of delight escaping.

"What a compliment you pay my dancing, Lizzie. Forgive me for taking the liberty." A warm hand slid beneath the lacing at her back. "Just to rest my shoulder," he professed innocently while stroking her.

Lizzie stepped closer, bridging the gap between them. Pressed against the length of his body, they danced on in perfect unison with each other. Her breasts rubbed against him, her whole body inflamed with desire.

Suddenly he stopped. She tried to urge him on.

"We must wait for the music, dear heart," He rubbed her back. The lacing broke.

"Drat!"

"Drat indeed," he agreed. "Come, I'll hold you together as we go to the retiring room. One of the maids will fix it."

He walked with his arm around her, then waited at the entrance to the house as he listened to the music. His shoulder ached like the devil from the heavy beading on his costume. At least that was his excuse for divesting himself of a troublesome tunic that prevented him from feeling Lizzie pressed so fervently against him. He threw it onto a chair.

A harried steward bustled over to him. "Lord Felmont?" The man consulted his list. "You are to sing after this. If you'd come with me."

Dace summoned a footman. "Wait here for Lady Felmont. Tell her she is missing the musical event of the century. I shall return as soon as I can."

* * *

Lizzie looked around for her husband. The viscount had disappeared. Why had she thought he cared enough to dance attendance on her? He was a Felmont and was probably off with a demi-rep instead of waiting for her.

A footman approached to tell her Lord Felmont had gone upstairs. It was past midnight. Did Dace mean to keep her to their pact in the midst of all this glorious music?

She hurried up to her bedroom, stopping to light a candle from a lamp burning in a sconce at the turn of the stairs. The sounds of the party muted, only a faint refrain of song floated up with her.

A little hot wax dripped on her fingers as Lizzie counted the doors to find her room.

The window let in enough moonlight for her to see the viscount's beaded tunic glistening, entwined with some pale cloth, on the end of the bed.

The soles of his naked feet and the backs of his long naked legs drew her gaze up the bed to his buttocks. Pumping, thrusting, as pale fingertips caressed the sides of his naked back. A woman's black luxuriant hair draped over the pillows in a swathe of raven waves.

Lizzie staggered with shock. She stumbled over a pair of high-heeled slippers lying on the floor, where they had been kicked off in the heat of passion. The candlelight reflected on their gilt bows.

She gave a mew of anguish. She cried out, "Beast!" How could he? She hoped he burned in hell for an eternity.

Burned!

Lizzie thrust her candle towards the thrusting buttocks.

She grasped one of his ankles to steady herself.

The flame sizzled his flesh. The Beast gave a muffled moan. Lizzie ground her candle out on the curve of his buttock. The muscle clenched, and yet he didn't stop but thrust even faster.

The woman's hands gripped the Beast's waist. A strange sound came from her, a moan of anguish or of ecstasy.

Lizzie threw the candle at his head and lingered only long enough to see it bounce of his back. She cried out, "Fornicating Felmont!" She picked up the harlot's slippers to fling them after the candle.

What use was there in watching them sin in the darkness?

Lizzie gave a great sob and fled.

She ran down the stairs and out the door into the hall. The footman looked at her as if she were mad. She stopped long enough to slap his face for his part in the plot to humiliate her. The first time she had ever struck a servant.

She ran towards the darkness, away from the voices, away from the music and the light, stopping only to vomit behind a bush.

Damn him to everlasting hellfire! She hoped he burned in hell for an eternity!

* * *

Lizzie didn't weep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him with his whore. As the carriage jolted through the night, she saw his betraying body doing the devil's work with that disgusting woman, over and over again.

Damn him to everlasting hellfire!

Lizzie was an hour into her journey before she remembered she had left Gladys at Quorr House with all her clothes.

The thin costume she wore made her glad of the carriage rugs stored under the seats. She could not show herself at an inn. "Stop the horses," Lizzie rapped on the roof. "I need to get out."

The night was cool and still, moonlight illuminated the road. Her outriders gathered around the coach.

Lizzie marched down the road away from protection, back the way they had come. Around a bend in the road she halted to draw a shaky breath.

Not a sign of him. Silent darkness surrounded her.

An owl hooted nearby, startling her. The hedgerow rustled. Lizzie walked on, away from the old berline, away from safety.

He was not coming after her. He didn't care. He must have known she'd seen him, surely he'd heard her gasp of horror. If he had missed that, surely he'd felt her burn his bottom.

Half a sob escaped her. He didn't care. Not at all.

Lizzie pulled her love, her heart, all her emotions out of her breast. She tossed them to the ground and trampled on them. She ground her very soul into the earth beneath her feet and cried out, "Damn Dacey Felmont to hellfire for eternity!"

She was never going to weep for him again! Dignified restraint for the rest of her life. She turned and walked back to her carriage.

They stopped at dawn to rest the horses and for breakfast. The trouble with servants was they always needed to be fed at regular intervals, even when her heart was dead.

It was during a lengthy stop at noon, not far from Felmont's Folly, that Gladys arrived in the landau, trailed by the other coaches laden with all their baggage. She climbed into Lizzie's carriage with a bag of necessities and a reproach on her lips, but Lizzie silenced her by sobbing in her arms. All the toe crunching in the world could not stop the flood.

"There, there, Lizzie, my dear. Don't weep so. Whatever happened?" Gladys rocked her as she had when Lizzie had wept her childhood sorrows. "His lordship was in a right taking when you disappeared. Went racing off after you, but if he'd asked me, which he didn't, because he surely thought I was with you, then I'd have told him you'd go back to Felmont's Folly. No use haring off to London in search of you. Mind you, better to let him cool down before he finds you. There's no knowing what he'll do."

The Beast had not whored enough at Quorr House? Now he had gone to London to play the devil with her money. To slake his thirst for wicked, diseased women.

She was free at last! He had not bothered to come after her—he'd gone to London to whore anew. Or was it Molly? Had it been Molly all along, brought secretly to Quorr House to whore with him. The Thwaites had dark brown hair. In that gloomy bedroom, Lizzie could not be sure of the hair color but those shoes were too fragile and high to belong to Molly.

Lizzie wiped her eyes with the handkerchief Gladys offered.

Freedom.

The Beast could not stop her from leaving him. What a foul joke! He didn't care! He did not love her! All those caresses were what men did to whores as well as wives. They meant nothing!

Nothing!

A skillful lover could make a woman love him against her will, against her better judgment, against all reason.

The body was a trap. Sink to the level of acknowledging the body with its loathsome needs and yearnings, its hungers—and all sanity was lost.

Betrayed by the Beast in the bed they were going to share! Even every midnight was not enough for him. Even her promise to let him sate all his urges with her, meant nothing to him. A guilty twinge shook her. Had she done all he wished? Or had he not asked her to do those wicked things all Felmont's relished?

Now she'd never have the chance to refuse to do them for him.

Tears flowed anew.

How could he have wanted another woman, unless all his words and actions were lies. What had her stepfather said? Excite a woman, pleasure her until she is as eager to please her lover as a bitch in heat. Lizzie had missed his next revelation by humming while counting backwards from a thousand.

Maybe she should have listened, maybe her stepfather would have let slip how to make a man sated and happy. Not that she'd have the chance to do it now. No, she'd never make love again.

Never!

Love was nothing but a vile trap.

The Beast had caught her with his lure of bodily pleasure. It wasn't as if he hadn't warned her he meant to do it. _You'll have to fall in love with me._

Fall in lust, he meant.

How many women had given themselves up to lust thinking it meant love? Love had nothing to do with lust. Lust made fools of women and Lizzie was never going to lust again.

Women died from it. If she had not caught him in the act, she might have become diseased when the Beast had recovered enough from his exertions to ravish her. When boredom drove him to make her play the whore for him. To entrap her into loving him, into making her the wife he wanted. A willing, wanton woman.

A surge of jealousy rose like bile from her stomach. Was that eager female an old lover of his or a new one? Was she his ideal woman? The one he might have married, if Lizzie's Tempest uncles had not made her pay dearly for repairing Felmont's Folly?

They had made the Beast pay dearly, she had to admit it. Now she knew what love was, she knew why he wanted to marry a woman who loved him. A woman he could love. A woman who welcomed his sinful debauching attentions, one who sighed for him and moaned for more.

Not that she had not done that on occasion, entirely by accident. If she had done it more, would he have strayed? Or having enslaved her to wicked folly, would he have cast her aside for more erotic pleasures, for more bountiful bodies? She had not seen that horrid woman's breasts but Lizzie was sure they were larger than hers.

When the tears stopped, a familiar mantle of numbness surrounded her. Forever more, she'd welcome it. Calm dignity. The only way to live.

Unless she trapped him. Not by love. She was no fool, he'd never love her. She didn't want his love! But what if she captured him and held him prisoner, in chains?

Lizzie clenched her fists. She'd tell everyone he'd gone mad.

He was a Felmont, everyone expected them to go insane from syphilis. It wasn't really a lie—left to his own devices he'd go insane anyway. She'd spare him the trouble of whoring himself to death. He'd live much longer if she ruled him.

Chains, light ones, no use making him uncomfortable. He'd soon get used to wearing them.

A Scottish castle. If she rented an old castle with lots of places to chain a man, then all she'd need would be a way to lure him to her.

Easy! She simply had to send him a message telling him she was carrying his child. He'd never know it was a lie. It might even be true. Once in her power ... Lizzie gave an hysterical laugh. It wasn't as if she didn't have the funds to do it.
Chapter 26

Angel Anston saw Molly poke her head around his bedroom door. "There is a gentleman to see you," she said, as she opened the door. "Mr. Bertram Felmont."

The old man bowed. "Good afternoon."

He looked travel worn and limped into the room with the aid of a stout cane. His ancient frock coat showed stains on the breast, his shoes and stockings were covered in dust. But it was his Felmont nose that drew Angel's attention.

He returned the greeting with some curiosity.

The old man's gaze lingered on his face. "Forgive me for troubling you, but I am in search of my son."

"What makes you think he is here?" asked Angel. He raised his pillow so he could lean against the headboard of his bed. Had his father surfaced from the dregs of humanity to claim him at last?

"Someone told me I might find him here," the old man replied.

Angel stared at the long Felmont nose shadowing the thin mouth. So many years of waiting only to find his father was an ancient old man with bad legs. He felt deeply disappointed that Bertram Felmont was too old to kill with any honor.

"Come, Felmont," Angel commanded, "Sit down." He gestured to the plain wooden chair beside his bed. Perhaps honor was less important than justice. He tried to make his smile one of welcome not one of deadly intent to murder, only to find his guest returned the smile with a gruesome grimace and an intent stare. There could be no doubt the old man saw the likeness between them.

* * *

Dace halted at the open bedroom door, wary at the sight that greeted him. Angel Anston knelt on his bed dressed in a nightshirt. He held a sturdy cane in one hand and his belly with the other.

Having to stop his friend from decorating the floorboards with his brains, didn't trouble Dace. Even the thought that Lizzie had found Angel out of his mind with no one to protect her, didn't scare him witless. His wife could handle Angel Anston. What scared Dace was why Lizzie had fled in the night, alone, without him. Why had she stomped down the road, away from her outriders, to weep and curse his name?

"Am I interrupting practice, Angel?" Dace asked.

"Finished." Anston gestured to the place near his pillow where the chair usually stood. It lay several yards away on its side.

"Can't," said Dace. "Your weapon is not sheathed. I didn't survive Bonaparte to have you finish me off. Not when I need your advice."

"Too tired to kill you." Anston slid the cane under the bedclothes and lay down carefully. His hands explored his chest, his belly. He lifted his palms to check for blood and found none.

Dace went to retrieve the chair. "Did Molly hit you with it?" he asked, keeping his tone lighter than his mood.

"A rat came at me." Angel frowned a warning that Dace ignored. He hadn't survived so long without being able to tell when Angel was in one of his good moods, and not in one of his murderous moods.

Dace asked lightly, "Is that what the cane is for?"

"Yes." An unholy light played in Angel's odd-colored eyes.

"Liar." Dace dragged the chair over to the bed. He fell into it with a weary sigh. He didn't care if Angel killed him for the insult.

An answering moan rose from under Angel Anston's bed.

Dace leaned an elbow on the covers. "Hellfire! That is not my wife under there, Angel, is it?" His hands went cold. The walls of the room shifted.

The knowledge that men could faint from a surfeit of emotion when not engaged in deadly warfare almost floored him. That he'd think such a thing of Angel, made him as insane as his friend.

He knew Lizzie had returned to the Folly. He'd followed her long enough to see her safely on the road home surrounded by her outriders, close enough to hear Dickon ask where they were going in the middle of the night and hear the answer.

Angel asked quietly, "If you think it's your wife, why haven't you killed me?"

"If my wife is hiding under your bed in the hopes of escaping her fate, why haven't you killed me?" asked Dace. "Let her watch you do it. I might as well be of some amusement to her."

"Maybe I put her there." Angel rubbed his chin as if he could still feel the bruise from his first encounter with Lizzie.

"Never known you to collect women under your bed, is this something new?" The banter helped clear Dace's head.

It wasn't a woman under there or Angel would be lying on the floor trying to coax her out, not standing guard with a walking stick so she couldn't escape. Besides, most women frightened him, which ruled out any virgins or young ladies being placed under the bed for safekeeping.

"Lady Felmont is not here with me, Dace. Why'd you think she'd come here?"

"Because you are the only man who can stop me."

"What do you want me to stop you from doing?"

"You could talk me out of going after her. Something wicked is brewing in me, Angel. Felmont wicked. Damned if I'm not going to do it. Damned if I do."

Another moan floated up.

Dace echoed the moan, it was decidedly familiar. Something hit him on the ankle.

"I think your rat just bit me. Shall I kill it for you?"

"I'd prefer to do it myself."

Dace felt Angel's fingers ruffle his hair. "What happened?" his friend asked.

"She fled from me. Didn't want to share the bedroom with me, I think. Lizzie is scared of me."

"Wrong, wrong, wrong. Scared of herself. Scared to let go. Doesn't trust."

"Nor will she, not after what I am going to do."

"I won't stop you. I trust you. Do what you must."

Something smote Dace's toe. "Who is under the bed, Angel?"

"My father."

"Tell me it's not a Felmont. We've been through this. They are all dead. Not one of them is old enough to be your father."

"Liar," countered Angel.

"How do you know he is your father?" Dace asked.

"Told me so. Said he was looking for his son." Angel gave a triumphant smile.

"If the rag and bone man came in looking for his son, you wouldn't think he meant you." Dace laughed at the idea.

Angel pointed to his nose. "Same. Almost. Will look like that, if I live as long as he has."

"Cousin Bertram?" called Dace.

"Sweet boy," floated up from beneath the bed.

"Sorry to break this to you, Angel, but Cousin Bertram has a son. And there is a very good reason he'd be looking for him. Promise you won't spill the brains of the oldest male in my family, if I haul him out from under there?" he enquired politely.

It never was a good idea to come between Angel and his prey. Wellington had given him the job of keeping his famous swordsman out of trouble, because Dace was the only man to survive a fight with him. Not that Angel had been really trying, he'd been too drunk to see straight, and he never killed innocents.

"Haul away," said Angel. "You'll see we've got the same nose."

Dace offered his left hand to the man under the bed. He pulled Bertram Felmont out into daylight and helped him to the chair by the hearth.

"Thank you, Quentin Seraphim." Bertram Felmont dusted off his frock coat. "If I might trouble you for the return of my walking stick, stolen by your demented friend?"

Dace didn't mind the use of his name. It seemed petty to quibble about it when kidnapping Lizzie and forcing her to sleep with him was occupying his mind. He was trying to think of a place to keep her away from the rest of the world, until she loved him.

Dace sighed. He was as insane as Angel.

"Give it back, Angel." Dace edged towards the bed. "He needs it to walk." At his friend's mutinous expression, he turned to Bertram Felmont. "I could buy you another. Might be easier to let Angel have it. At least he hasn't cut your heart out."

Bertram Felmont shrugged disdainfully. "Who was his mother? The second countess, if I am not mistaken."

Dace gave him a warning frown. Had Cousin Bertram learned nothing from his encounter with Angel?

Hellfire! Dace saw Angel throw aside the bedclothes to slide out of the bed, one hand grasping the walking stick with deadly intent.

Dace made no attempt to stop him. He raced back to Bertram and clamped a hand over his mouth.

"An innocent question, Angel! Meant no insult, did you, Cousin Bertram?" He wagged the old man's head in a negative. "Let me tell you, Angel, if this man had been your father, he'd have acknowledged you, treated you well, and posted sovereigns to you under the seal of his letters. He'd have sent you hampers of hothouse produce to your school with cakes for you to share with your friends. He'd have taken an interest in everything you did and shed tears of joy on your return at the end of every term. Isn't that the truth, dear Cousin Bertram?"

Angel lowered the walking stick. "You'd better let go, he's going blue in the face."

Dace released his grip. "His nose got in the way of me holding his mouth shut. Damned inconvenient arrangement." As the color returned to the old man's face, he added cheerfully, "I was always jealous of Con. You can't kill the only Felmont to ever take an interest in his offspring. Why don't you adopt him, Angel. You could pretend he's your father. He won't mind. Would you, Cousin?"

Bertram Felmont's mouth sneered beneath his long nose. "Bedlam has beds for you both. By the way, dear Quentin Seraphim, my son has not learnt the error of his ways. And as for your wife? Where would she be but at the Folly with her dogs and her servants. Would you care to share my carriage, so much more comfortable than riding." He searched in his pocket for his snuffbox and offered it to both men with a graceful flourish.

Dace refused. "Filthy habit! Don't give any to Anston, if he sneezes it might kill him."

The snuffbox disappeared. Bertram Felmont did not indulge himself. He stared at Angel from a safe distance. "You could be my nephew. You have a look of my brother Edward. He died in '85 in a duel with the late earl, your supposed father. I believe Edward is your given name?"

"Yes, it is," replied Angel, in that soft voice men learned to fear.

Cousin Bertram gave the Felmont stare. "Perhaps the earl did not want to forget to whom he owed his son? Do you feel yourself to be a worthy monument to his name?"

"Out, Bertram, out!" Dace grabbed the walking stick from Angel and hustled the old man out of the room. "Angel doesn't know how to play those games."

"Surely, now he is family he must learn?" said the old man with a low laugh.

"More likely to turn you into a pin cushion to teach you not to talk like that," Dace warned. "He's not quite right in the head." He called to his friend, "Sorry, Angel, no insult intended."

"I am too old for a challenge, sweet boy." Bertram patted Dace's cheek. "Bring your friend to visit me at the Dower house, when he has recovered."

"Are you returning today? Tell Lizzie I am searching for her and you have no idea where I am."

"A sad mistake, dear boy. I go to set the hounds after my son. If he hears Lady Felmont has been abandoned, I fear what he may do. That man in there will kill Consideration if he tries to save dear Cousin Elizabeth from you."

"You are entirely wrong—I shall kill him. Make no mistake, Bertram." Dace patted the thin cheek and returned stare for stare. "If Con touches Lizzie, if he forces himself on her, he dies by my hand."

* * *

Lizzie looked up to see James rush into the amber room with a look of anxiety on his handsome face. He had worn it since learning she had abandoned the viscount. Not a hair had been seen of that monstrous liar and debaucher. One whole week at Felmont's Folly was not enough time for him to find her!

The sight of Bertram Felmont sipping daintily from a china cup stopped James from doing more than hover at her elbow.

It was a fascinating sight.

As a child, Lizzie had invited the oldest Felmont with the longest nose she had ever seen, to take tea with her dolls just for the sight of him trying to get one of her tiny cups near his mouth.

His Felmont art of conversation had been completely wasted on her, as the sight of the tip of his nose moving in time to his words had so intrigued her that she'd never listened to a word he said. It was a trick she resorted to whenever necessary.

The long nose quivered with distaste at the interruption, then continued its perambulations. "If only love were not the fatal affliction of Felmonts, my dear. I fear Consideration has let drop a hint he is on his way here to, shall we say, console you?"

A warning about his obnoxious son never came amiss. "Perhaps I shall have to shoot him after all." Her words left Bertram Felmont aghast.

During the moment it took him to recover, Lizzie looked up at James. "Yes?"

"Lady Felmont." James nodded with an odd crick of his neck towards the window.

Lizzie turned to look. Fells Mount loomed in the distance shaded by scudding clouds. Excitement, resolution rose in her breast. James warned her that the viscount was near. "Are you ready?" she asked.

If it had not been for the presence of Bertram Felmont, James might have tried again to make her change her mind.

"Yes, my lady." He sounded less than enthusiastic about the task. She had promised to protect him from the viscount's vengeance, to no avail. The warning words _cunning bastard_ had dropped from her staid helper's lips, as had _twisted sneak_ and _peer of plotting._

The one thing James had steadfastly refused to believe was the viscount's sin. Even though she had seen him sinning, seen the black hair streaming over the pillow, almost tripped over the high-heeled shoes on the floor by the door and seen the clutching hands at his waist.

Not that James had called Lizzie a liar but he kept insisting it was all a mistake. Could the viscount really have mistaken that doxy for his wife? Could he have found her in their bed and not noticed the difference? Could he have been so deafened and blinded by lust that he just imagined that black-haired whore was his wife?

Lizzie doubted it very much. Wouldn't he have noticed the difference afterwards? Shouldn't he have raced after his wife to explain? He must have noticed her attack on his buttock.

Or had he simply grown bored with his whore and finally noticed his wife was absent? He had noticed something, for Quentin Seraphim Dacey Felmont had been seen on Fells Mount.

"Here? Close by? Are you sure?" Lizzie enquired of her nervous helper.

"On the road to the Priory, my lady, before he goes to the service at Saint George's church."

Drat the man! Not even planning to arrive at the Folly first. Did he intend to confess all to his foster mother and beg her forgiveness? Lizzie scrunched her toes in her shoes. "Tell Gladys to get ready and have my carriage brought round."

Bertram Felmont gave a delicate cough. "Cousin Elizabeth, if you need my assistance in dealing with the viscount, you have only to ask. Do not, I beg you, flee from your home."

Lizzie laughed in anticipation. She had the chains ready in a bedroom. All she needed to do was capture her wayward husband and lock him up for eternity.
Chapter 27

Clouds lingered on the high ground covering all with a white mist, which reduced visibility to scant yards.

Gladys peered out the window of the carriage as the landscape disappeared. "If the sun doesn't burn this off we shall be in a pickle, Lady Felmont. His lordship might escape into the mist. I don't want to shoot the vicar by accident."

"Just threaten, don't fire at him, Gladys." Lizzie said for the third time since the horses began the long pull up the hill.

"Winging him in the arm might be the only way to catch him, my lady."

Gladys relished her role with far too much enthusiasm.

Lizzie could understand the urge to actually shoot one of the Felmonts, but could not in all conscience condone wounding her husband. "The viscount will not put up a struggle, he believes us weak and helpless. Luring him to the Folly should be an easy task. Shooting him must be a last resort," Lizzie said firmly.

"I am sure you can lure a Felmont male anywhere, if he thinks there is wickedness for him to indulge in," said Gladys, while she checked her pistol for the tenth time. She carefully did not name or suggest any particular wickedness with which to tempt the viscount.

Lizzie resolutely refused to think of any licentious acts. It took such concentration that the carriage halted outside the churchyard before she thought herself halfway there.

Mist obscured the church itself. Lizzie got down and looked around warily. She felt his presence in the pit of her stomach. Ancient yews provided lots of hiding places amongst the gravestones. He could be lurking anywhere. Lizzie dashed in a panic for the church. She wanted to hit him, to smite him with all her might. To crush him. She must not weep on his chest. She must capture and hold him forever.

She hoped the burn on his bottom had festered, though she intended to dress the wound for him. The thought made her quite distracted so that she stumbled as she walked.

"Watch out, Lady Felmont. You nearly tripped over poor Mr. Beaufield," called Gladys. Lizzie looked back to see her companion trotting among the gravestones as if it were all a game.

The church on the fell had not a dozen people in the pews. A few women who lived on the fell were already seated, a cheerful group of gossips who, no doubt, knew the whereabouts of their husbands.

The vicar smiled a welcome with his lips closed to hide his rotten teeth. He bowed and escorted her to the Felmont pew to fumble awkwardly with the latch.

The pew door swung open. Lizzie hurried in. Every fiber of her being declared her a coward, nothing except her determination to save the Beast from himself kept her sitting with an expression of calm dignity on her face.

Her heart skipped a beat as the viscount stepped into the pew, tall and lean, his long face looked quite handsome, if she ignored the gloomy look he gave her.

Lizzie slipped across the polished seat to make room for him until her elbow hit the far end of the pew.

He was here. With her. The thought of capturing him and holding him prisoner made her blood sing. It was all she could do to stop herself from hitting him over the head with her hymn book. Instead, she studied it as if she had never seen one before. Just let him wait until after the service.

She hoped Gladys didn't catch cold lingering outside with her pistol. The beautiful scent of him made her ache for him. She hated herself for it. She hated him. Felmonts debauched every woman they touched.

"My dear wife." The Beast moved closer, sliding along the polished bench until he was far too close for comfort. "I hope I find you well?" he said in the low rumble she knew so well, that she had missed so much.

"Quite well," Lizzie replied primly. She conjured up the horrid sight of him fornicating in their bed with that disgusting woman. She refused to enquire after his health. He was probably poxed after his debaucheries at Quorr House.

"I heard you are nauseous in the morning, my love," he whispered, not leaning closer but she shivered all the same as his words tickled her ear.

Lizzie's hint in Ma's ear had not gone amiss.

He drawled on, "You can imagine how pleased I will be to be able to aid you tomorrow morning when you wake up in my bed. The pact, dear wife, is dead."

Lizzie watched the vicar take his place in front of the congregation. She hissed her words to the Beast. "Our marriage is dead. If you'd be so kind as to accompany me back to the Folly, I shall give the house over to your keeping and depart."

He had the nerve to laugh at her. "You don't have a hope in hell of leaving me, my dear. Resign yourself to your fate. Your precious pact is dead. Shall we bury it in the graveyard?"

His threats left her unmoved. There hadn't been a pact since she'd found him fornicating with a whore. Damn him to hellfire!

Lizzie girded her loins for what must be done. His dark coat touched her. His mouth quirked down in a sad smile she did not trust at all. His hair was tied back, but his dark waves had curled in the damp air. With a start she realized he was wearing a very bad wig.

How very odd.

She sniffed silently for she had missed the scent of him. Sleeping with soap from the priory under her pillow was not the same.

His foot nudged hers in an effort to make her look at him. "Can't we find a way to talk to one another, Lizzie? There was no need for you to run from me."

If she looked at him, she'd scream his sins at the top of her lungs from the Felmont pew. It was impossible to say what she had witnessed at Quorr House, not in a church.

What a fine place to shout his sin.

She was almost tempted to do it. Didn't he know she had seen him, had he not even noticed her attack with the candle? She'd caught him in the act of pleasuring a woman, in the bed they were meant to share, and he didn't even know it, or, did he not care?

Lizzie smiled a smile worthy of Bertram Felmont. "Do come to the Folly after the service and we shall talk for as long as you wish."

She saw him nod out of the corner of her eye.

The vicar began to pray.

Lizzie stayed awake for half the sermon. Recently, she had been overwhelmed with fatigue, simply could not keep her eyes open. Perhaps she was pregnant. It was really too soon to tell, not after all the shocks her body had been subject too. Not that she objected to him knowing if she was increasing. After all, no one was going anywhere and it would be cruel to deprive him of his only child.

When she awoke, the pew was empty. The vicar could be heard at the church door taking leave of the last of his parishioners.

She had lost the viscount. Tears welled up. If she wasn't careful she'd vomit where she sat. No sooner had she thought it than the need became urgent. She ran from the church, past everyone, until the mist hid her.

Dry heaves shook her.

Her only hope was Gladys with her pistol. Where had she gone? Had the Beast caught wind of the plan and captured Gladys or had he gone hurrying off to his whore, just like his father, only with poor Gladys following behind.

Lizzie ran to see if they were on the road leading down to the village. Her coachman caught sight of her and started the horses. She trotted in front of them, peering into the mist, until nausea overcame her again. She scrambled over a low wall, not wanting an audience though there was not much she could do about the noise.

The low cloud enveloped her. Lizzie wiped the tears as they ran down her cheeks. Men were such horrid uncaring creatures. She'd lost her chance to kidnap him. She'd never get to chain him to a bed.

The viscount's voice floated through the mist towards her. "Is that thing loaded?" Gladys must have answered for he spoke again in a voice vexed beyond control. "Of all the ridiculous notions my dear wife has had, this must be one of the worst."

Gladys's voice rang out, "Stop! Stop, my lord, or I will shoot!"
Chapter 28

Lizzie sat back in her carriage, her heart in despair.

Gladys looked much put out by her failure to capture the viscount. "I had him, Lizzie. He strolled out of the church right into my clutches, or so I thought, but no, he went to the necessary. I could hardly follow him there waving my pistol for all to see."

"No, you couldn't," Lizzie agreed.

"I waited a full fifteen minutes then I asked the vicar to go and see if his lordship was all right. Bless me, if he hadn't disappeared into the mist."

"If you waited by the door, how could he escape?"

"I had to leave to get the vicar. My guess is the viscount got wind of our plot from one of the Thwaites. The next thing I hear is you casting up your accounts, of course I went to your aid, and there he was. Drawn, as I was, to the sound. Blast him if he didn't disappear into the mist just as the vicar arrived to find out who was making all the noise."

Gladys pulled the pistol from her reticule. She checked the powder and shot. "The viscount is up to something, my lady. This one is the trickiest of the lot, barring Mr. Bertram Felmont, who being older, has more experience in sneaky behavior and plotting."

Gladys nodded to herself. Lizzie knew her companion had long regarded Bertram Felmont as the most entertaining of them all.

"We will catch him," said Lizzie. "Even if it is folly to try to save a Felmont from his worst instincts."

She started as a shot rang out.

Gladys looked astonished and dropped her pistol onto her lap. "I didn't fire!" she protested.

Lizzie grabbed the pistol. She took aim at the door. "What is going on?" she called. She could hear the outriders milling behind the carriage, unable to see what was happening.

Dickon's smiling face appeared at the window. "It's Dace, my lady. Oh 'ell, I forgot, my ladyship, your worship, 'tis his lordship himself. Eee, by–" Dickon disappeared from the window. She heard him shout to the outriders, "It be Lord Felmont!"

His laughter had dispelled Lizzie's worst fear, that they had been waylaid by a highwayman. She heard the boy say, "What're you doing, our Dace?"

Lizzie peered out the window, she could see only as far as the wall. There, not five feet from where she sat, slouched Quentin Seraphim Dacey Felmont himself. Weaponless, hatless, gloveless, wrapped in a black cloak. He had cast off his wig and showed a handsome head of cropped hair, which somewhat softened the effect of his nose.

The most beautiful Felmont she had ever seen.

Lizzie opened the carriage door herself, for the first time in her life, and pointed Gladys's pistol at her husband. "Get in," she commanded.

He showed no inclination to obey her.

Lizzie leaned out and poked him with the pistol. He took a hesitant step in her direction, never taking his eyes from her weapon. She hoped he was afraid, very afraid, yet she quelled the urge to shoot him.

"Get in," she hissed in a fierce whisper. "Sit forward."

The carriage lurched under his weight and the springs groaned. Lizzie forgot herself in the excitement and waved the pistol at her companion. "Gladys, come sit with me."

Both of them did as she commanded.

Gladys gave a snort of disgust. "You watch out, Lizzie," she warned. "Lord Felmont is making a game of this."

"He won't, not when we get home," replied Lizzie. Chains must have a sobering effect, even on Felmonts.

The viscount kept his eyes on her pistol.

A wise man. The urge to make him sorry for being a Felmont, to punish him for fornicating with a horrid woman in their bed, made her itch to shoot him.

During the journey back to the Folly, the viscount said not one word. Probably the longest time he had ever kept silent in his life. No apologies poured from his lips. They did not quirk in mockery, nor smile at her.

Lizzie did not accuse him of his crime. She stared at his clumsily tied neck cloth and wondered how he came to look so hastily dressed when he had been so neat in the church. His clothes swam about his body, as if made for a taller, broader man. He wore top boots, badly scuffed at the toe. His new haircut made him look like a different man. He'd worn his hair short in his youth. It made him look younger, but there was no doubt as to who he was, though the expression on his face was wrong. He seemed, questioning. He no longer threatened her with the end of their pact, he did not warn her she could not leave him. He said nothing at all, just sat opposite her and looked at her as if he'd never seen her before.

If he wanted to play a game with her, then she intended to let him, as long as she held the pistol.

They entered Felmont's Folly by the front door, which Charles and Arthur held open under Gordon's ferocious glare. Lizzie covered her pistol with a shawl. The viscount looked around as if this was the first time he had seen the house.

Was the Beast insane? He looked around as if he didn't recognize the Folly. He looked surprised to hear his footsteps echo under the dome. The black top boots seemed to be made for a giant. The Beast clunked along, prodded by the pistol. The way he walked seemed odd, his body no longer moved with the air of owning the world, as all Felmonts did.

Instead, he moved in fits and starts, stopping to peer around at every detail as if he'd never seen it before. Whatever game he was playing, Lizzie was having none of it.

He seemed particularly taken with the painting in the dome. Lizzie looked up and saw the portrait of her as an angel had been changed.

She was naked! Sitting on a cloud, naked! Her great belly making her the only pregnant angel in creation. Drat the man! Only the wings folded coyly around her hid most of her breasts from every man's view. Even then, more was revealed than she had ever possessed.

Why had no one pointed it out? Why had no one told her?

Her husband's eyes shone with suppressed laughter. His amused glance at her body and then her portrait and back again, drove her wild. She gritted her teeth. Why should she care what he did? She meant to lock him up for eternity!

"Gordon, where is James?" asked Lizzie.

Gordon shook his head with a cackle of laughter. "Yon coward's gone to the Priory to see his mother, my lady. I'll chain up this rascal for you, with the greatest of pleasure."

At the mention of chains, the Beast gave a great start. Lizzie poked him with her pistol to persuade him not to flee, an effect quite spoiled by Gordon's laughter.

She prodded the Beast in the belly to make him walk backwards towards the staircase.

The twins giggled together like the youths they were, as she followed the Beast up the stairs. Lizzie had given careful thought to where she intended to chain her husband. The obvious choice, her mother's bedroom in the east wing, the last of a suite of rooms that opened into one another, seemed cruel and too remote.

If the Beast called out in the night, if he wanted to confess his sins, if he wanted to beg for mercy, she intended to be close enough to hear him.

Gordon hurried ahead to open the viscount's bedroom door.

Everyone seemed to be taking enormous enjoyment in what to Lizzie was a glorious revenge. The only person standing hesitant and silent, not stifling laughter, was the Beast himself.

He sat on the edge of the bed and allowed Gordon to fasten a chain around his ankles. The scuffed, black boots rumpled as the old man tightened the fetters that had been borrowed from the stables.

Gladys and Gordon left to fall into hysterical laughter as soon as they were out the door. She could hear them plainly enjoying themselves. Gladys cried out, "Serves him right!" to which Gordon replied, "Hear, hear!"

The Beast stared at her in silence. He held out his hand as if in supplication. Lizzie shook her head.

She felt obliged to say something. The words fell from her mouth before she could stop them. "I won't let you die like they did."

* * *

Someone was kissing her. Lizzie moaned. It was wicked to like it. Wicked to open her mouth to allow the liberty of his tongue on hers.

She awoke with a cry.

A hand covered her mouth.

It was deepest night. Only the ticking of the clock and her heart pounding in her breast broke the silence.

The man, a dark shape above her, whispered, "Hush."

How she had missed the scent of him, the touch of him.

"Hush." The dark shadow in her bedroom belonged to Dace. She knew it.

How had he escaped?

Drat the man!

Lizzie refused to melt in his embrace. She tried to push him away, taking care not to injure his wounded shoulder. He stood his ground, not giving an inch, not allowing her to repel him.

"Gladys," she mumbled past the hand over her mouth. She tried to call louder only to have him whisper, "Hush," in her sensitive ears.

Kicking him was out of the question, her bedclothes were tucked in. She could only scramble up to sit on her pillow. How she had missed him.

Fornicating Felmont! That is all he was, all he'd ever be. She put her arms around him simply to make him embrace her so she could call for help. Like an idiot he released her mouth, but instead of holding her to him, he twisted her arms behind her back and tried to tie her wrists with a soft cloth.

"Gladys!" Lizzie called. "Help!"

He meant to ravish her. He wanted to infect her with that dread disease caught from whores. Who knew how many other women he had been with since she'd run from him?

She fought for her freedom, for her life.

He wrestled with her, pushing her down with his body. To her embarrassment, he found the soap from the priory under her pillow. Let him think what he liked. She enjoyed the scent of it.

He gave a low laugh and slipped it into his pocket.

She'd know that laugh anywhere, and she did not need any light to know who laughed at her. She spat like an angry cat, "Let go, you fornicating bastard!"

No sooner had he tied her, than his hand returned to cover her mouth. "Hush."

"Untie me at once." For some reason Lizzie was not the least bit disappointed when he did not.

If he ravished her while she was tied up, it was not her fault. Perhaps that whore had not been diseased. Visions of her mother suddenly filled her head.

Lizzie struggled frantically to be free. Such an awful death! She bit at his restraining hand.

"Hush." He released her only to bind her mouth with another of his soft cloths.

Lizzie opened her mouth to scream. The cloth gagged her jaws apart. The monstrous demon tied it behind her neck, leaving her with her mouth slightly open. She could moan and she did.

The door to her dressing room cracked open. Gladys tiptoed in, carrying her pistol in one hand and a candlestick in the other.

The light showed the viscount dressed entirely in dull black, in his odd set of raiment. It could not be his own. His jacket pockets bulged. His top boots were silent on the carpet. He looked like a thief in the night from a restoration melodrama.

Why couldn't Felmonts be sensible?

At the moment, Lizzie would settle for sane. The viscount had slipped far too quickly into madness. Could syphilis have touched his brain so quickly?

The choice between being rescued and being ravished by the debauched viscount was no longer in doubt. He'd not dare risk being shot.

"Stand clear of Lady Felmont, my lord," ordered Gladys, with her dressing gown tied tightly around her waist and her nightcap covering hair-papers. She aimed the pistol at his head.

To Lizzie's dismay the dastardly man just laughed. He strode over to Gladys and bent from his great height to kiss her cheek.

Gladys gave a gurgle of laughter. "Get away, I shall shoot you."

Alas, the pistol was no longer in her companion's hand.

Lizzie scrambled out of bed as best she could with her hands tied behind her back.

She made it to the door and turned her back to it to fumble with the lock, in time to see the Beast hustle poor Gladys into the dressing room and turn the key in the door.

Her companion's laughter from inside her prison didn't encourage Lizzie expect any help from that quarter. The Beast placed the pistol on the table with the candlestick.

Gladys's fascination for all things Felmont might have dire consequences! Her inability to shoot the viscount meant he could ravish Lizzie on the floor, with no one to stop him. He'd surely take his revenge on her helpless body for chaining him to his bed.

Lizzie gave a moan, now was not the time to have wicked thoughts.

She fumbled with the lock. Panic grew as he covered the space between them.

"Hush." He leaned down from his great height to whisper the word in her ear. Her breasts arched towards him of their own accord. She shivered, inches from him, and yet he did not touch her.

Could he think of nothing else to say? Could he think of nothing else to do? She shook her head. The gag in her mouth prevented her from cursing him.

He mimicked her gesture.

He placed both his hands on the door on either side of her head. Lizzie had to look up at him. For her trouble, she received a kiss on her upper lip and one on her lower lip.

While she stood breathless, he knelt to fasten her knees together. His face pressed against her belly, she drew a shaky breath. Her heart leaped around like a lamb in springtime.

Why had he done that?

Her knees together? Did he not mean to ravish her? Not that she wanted him to, not at all.

A wave of disappointment swept through her.

He retrieved her slippers from beside the bed and the black cloak from the chair close by. Without a word he pulled her away from the door to wrap her in it. He lifted her feet to stroke her cold toes before encasing them in her slippers.

The footmen on duty in the hallway were not disturbed. The Beast pulled her towards a jib door hidden in the paneling that led to the service hallways and staircases. She tottered with him in a slow shuffle.

The viscount carried her down the stairs by holding her tightly to his body with his left arm. He walked along the hallways with a strange mincing gait, as if trying to keep his boots on.

The only word out of his mouth was _hush_.

Suddenly, a cool breeze wafted about them. Surely he could not mean to take her outside? At night, with only her nightrail under the cloak? The door had been propped open—robbers could have entered. Had he no sense at all?

Lizzie pulled back. She had humored him long enough. Perhaps she did owe him an explanation for how she was going to treat him, but she did not intend to let him take her outside.

She shivered in the cold air. He had tried to get her to leave the day they had to marry. He'd thrown her in the berline and sent her off, eager to be rid of her. He'd tried to frighten her away by threatening to kiss her.

Drat the man! Was he going to throw her out of Felmont's Folly, in her night attire, for all the world to see? She'd be ruined. A laughing stock!

She jerked out of his grasp and sat down. He could not possible carry her out, not with his injured shoulder.

But he made no move to pick her up, just pushed her over to lie on her side and smacked her bottom with a stinging blow.

Lizzie had never been struck before. The shock of it made her furious. She tried to twist and lash out with her feet.

He struck again.

It didn't really hurt. He intended to humiliate her, to punish her, to throw her into the night clad in slippers and nightrail.

Tears began. The gag choked her, she coughed and could not catch her breath.

The viscount hauled her up to lean against the wall. He removed the gag. "Hush." Could he say nothing else?

"Don't," Lizzie whispered. "I only wanted to keep you safe. Do you want to die like they did?"

Her words gave him pause. She saw him tilt his head as if in sorrow. He wiped her cheeks with his fingers in a gentle caress.

"Hush." As if knowing that stupid word was not enough, he held her to him. Politely. As if she were his maiden aunt, not his wife.

Lizzie buried her face in his coat. His arm snaked under her bottom and he lifted her from her feet.

Drat the man!
Chapter 29

It was not so very bad being kidnapped.

The enormous horse had an easy gait. The viscount held her wrapped in his black cloak, in the crook of his left arm and held the reins with his right hand. Lizzie felt such relief at not being left to fend for herself in her nightrail that she did not wonder where they were going or why, until they started the climb up the fell.

If he wanted to find a quiet place to berate her with his complaints about her treatment of him, he could not have found a more certain place not to be disturbed. The trees overhead gave way to moorland, the higher they climbed. The huge horse walked steadily on, not noticing he carried two on his back.

Did the viscount mean to leave her up there?

Lizzie squirmed to look up at him. Before he could open his mouth to hush her again, she blurted out, "What are you going to do with me? If you leave me up here, I shall never forgive you!"

"Leave you, _chérie_? When I 'ave gone to so much trouble to steal you?" He spoke with a French accent, like that highwayman had done when he'd broken her arm all those years ago.

Lizzie gave a great start. "Stop it, Dace! You want to frighten me half to death, I know it is you."

" _Bien sûr, chére Elizabet'_. I am your 'usband—now." He gave the slightest of hesitations before adding with a laugh, "I vow you shall never 'ave another."

She could not get another word of sense from him.

His offer to gag her again bought her silence.

They passed the church of Saint George of Fells Mount and continued on until they turned down the path towards the hunting lodge.

The door was unlocked, the interior clean and aired. No doubt the viscount had ordered it made ready for a shooting party.

The blackguard made himself at home, lighting a fire in the hearth, emptying his pockets of the food he had obviously pilfered from the kitchen before kidnapping her. Sausage, cheese, rolls and what could only be one of Mrs. Comfrey's pork pies. No wonder his pockets had bulged and that smell was now explained. Not even the soap from the Priory could mask it.

He turned to her with the smile of a Felmont up to wickedness.

Lizzie stamped her feet. "Stop smirking at me, Felmont! I know very well who you are." Lizzie let him remove the cloak. She crept closer to the fire.

"But no, you know nothing about me, my wife." His false French accent irked her. He brought a chair close to the hearth and indicated she should sit. "If your _derrière_ is not too painful?"

Lizzie sat with dignity.

He knelt in front of her, toasting himself. The floorboards boasted no carpet, a hunting lodge invited muddy boots by its very nature. The shutters were closed. It was an uncomfortable place to spend the night as it had no bed.

"Why have you brought me here?" Lizzie liked his new hairstyle. Not that she intended to tell him so.

"To make you my wife, _chérie_." His stubborn staying in character began to unnerve her.

"Do stop talking like that. Why are you pretending to be French?" She glared at him to hide her nervousness. "Do you think I do not know your Felmont nose? It's too big to miss."

He stroked his nose. "You do not like it? Then why did you marry him?"

Lizzie curled her legs up under her to keep her toes warm. A cold draft swept the floor. "Why did I marry you?"

"Him, _chérie_. The man you have locked in your bridal bed. Why did you marry him, if you mean not to enjoy 'is beautiful body? You notice, I do not ask you to admire 'is nose."

She had no objection to telling him. "I was forced to marry him and I locked him up because he is depraved, debauched, immoral, and thoroughly wicked."

He shrugged. "You describe all men. You 'ave never enjoyed the way he touched you?"

"Never," Lizzie shot back. It might be a lie but he could not prove it unless he admitted who he was.

"Good. We shall make love together." He watched her draw back into her chair. "I know how to treat a lady. With me you shall be loved from sunset to sunrise. Shall we begin now?"

Lizzie slapped away his questing hand. "Quentin Seraphim Dacey Felmont! Stop right now! I have had enough of your madness, of your folly. I swear you shall never touch me again. Not after what you have done."

"What did he do, _chérie_. I vow never to repeat it."

"He fornicated with a black-haired whore." The look of disbelief on his face irritated her. "You were too busy with her to notice me, but I saw you." Tears began. Lizzie curled her toes in vain. It only worked when wearing shoes.

He waited until she searched for a handkerchief, then he offered her one of his with his sympathy. "He is the veriest blackguard! Caught fornicating. No wonder you keep him under lock and key. I shall kill him for you, _chérie_ , and you will life 'appily with me for the rest of your days."

"I know who you are, Felmont. If you refuse to be locked up, then I must leave you." More tears dripped at the thought.

He let his hand rest on her thigh. "You have left him, _chérie_. Let's 'ope he rots."

"Don't say that. You wouldn't say it if you had actually seen it happen." Lizzie refused to think of him rotting.

"Then he shall have a quick death. Stabbed in the heart for breaking yours." The Beast demonstrated the stabbing movement for her.

She sneered at him. "You did not break my heart, for I never loved you."

" _Bien sûr_ , how could you love me when we 'ave never met?"

"Annoying, dratted Beast! You are Viscount Felmont and I can prove it."

"Prove it, _chérie_? _Impossible_ ," he said in the French way.

"You have a wound on your shoulder from a cannonball. I have only to remove your shirt to prove you are a lying Felmont."

"Remove my shirt if you wish, _madame_. We get to know one another at last." He was calling her bluff. "I'll make it easy for you." He knelt close to lean against the edge of her chair.

Lizzie undid his black bombazine shirt. With his help she tugged it over his head. An old faded, darned undershirt covered him almost as thoroughly as before. Lizzie undid the buttons at the neck. She had to tug it free from his belt and pull it over his head on her own.

There was his bandage, spotlessly white, wrapped around his right shoulder.

"Proof! You may put your clothes back on." In truth, Lizzie had to admit the sight of his chest unnerved her. Many hours she had spent next to it, on top of it or under it. She fought the urge to touch him. If he lived up to his Felmont reputation, she was doomed to be ravished by him sooner rather than later.

"But you have not removed the bandage, _chérie_. What does your husband keep under his?"

"The same thing you have and I do not want to see it."

"But you must, _chérie_. If you do not, then you admit I am your husband and I must seal our union by claiming a husband's rights." He stroked her knees.

"Union! Don't mention union to me! You are my fiendish husband, you are him! How dare you." She stopped talking to push his hand away. The wretch! He was her damned Felmont.

"Remove it, or I shall remove your clothes," he warned.

"Get away from me! Do you expect me to sit here naked?" Lizzie could neither retreat further nor get past him.

"Remove my bandage, _chérie_. Or you will sit naked very soon. Or half-naked like one of those angels above the door of your 'ouse"

"They are not–" Lizzie stopped. Dace never called them angels. How many times had she heard him say _they are damned winged victories, leave heaven out of it_. She trembled. "I hate you!"

Lizzie reached for his shoulder. She did not touch his skin, except to search for the end of the bandage tucked underneath. He moved closer, leaning against her knees, placing his forearms along the armrests of her chair. His breath whispered to her.

Gooseflesh rose all over her.

She did not want to see his wound!

The last of the dressing slipped down. Lizzie felt it give and gave a squeal. She closed her eyes. All her blood had turned to water.

"It is not so very bad. Look, _chérie_ ," he urged in a low voice. He leaned closer to put his arms around her.

Lizzie opened her eyes, afraid he'd accidentally touch her with his wound. She saw a shoulder unmarked, except for some bruising. For a moment Lizzie thought she had looked at the wrong one.

Neither of his shoulders showed scarring or any sign of a wound, except for the bruising. His nakedness swam before her eyes.

"Hellfire, Lizzie! Don't faint," he drawled like a damned Felmont.

Her head sank onto his shoulder with a dull thud. For an awful moment, she'd been scared to death. Her breath sobbed on the way out. She hated men, all of them, except the dead ones.

"Hush, _chére Elizabet'_ ," he murmured. "I warned you, I am not the man you think me."

"Why?" Lizzie's teeth chattered together. She could not frame another question.

The fire shifted in the grate. A piece of burning coal flew out of the hearth onto the wooden floor. He turned quickly to brush it back onto the slate. His back showed long and lean, with a mark high on his right shoulder.

"What is that?" Lizzie uncurled from her chair. Her legs might not be able to support her at the moment, but kicking him away might be necessary.

He answered casually, still busy with the bright glowing ember. "A brand, _chérie_. They brand thieves in France."

For the third time in her life, all of them his fault, the floor rushed up to hit her.
Chapter 30

"Whisked her off, he did." Gladys poured tea for Bertram Felmont in her withdrawing room. "Just an hour ago. I ask you, the nerve of the man after what he'd done." She smiled at her guest. "So kind of you to come to my aid, sir. I'm sure I don't know what to do now, except she must be rescued."

Bertram Felmont raised an eyebrow at her. Of course, he didn't know. Gladys debated with her conscience for an instant then let herself tell him all. "Dear Lady Felmont caught Lord Felmont in active passion with a whore in their bedroom at Quorr House. I should not be telling you this, but you are my only hope. Gordon will not listen to a word against him, even though he helped chain the viscount to the bed."

"Cousin Elizabeth chained her husband to a bed?" A ghost of a smile appeared on Bertram Felmont's thin lips. "And Jim Thwaite? What does he say?"

"In on the proceedings, if you ask me. How else could the viscount have escaped? After all Lady Felmont did for that family, why it is disgracefully shabby letting her be taken off in her nightclothes. It's all my fault for not shooting him, which I might have done if I'd known he meant to take her away from the Folly."

Bertram Felmont sipped his tea, deep in thought.

Gladys did the same, not wanting to interrupt his musings. At last he answered, "Our dear Quentin Seraphim must be in love with the other woman. Do you know who she is?"

"A black-haired harlot is all the description I got. Gracious, Mr. Felmont, what makes you think he's in love with her?"

"He risks his marriage for her. From the sounds of it, he wanted to be found out. I have never believed him to be stupid. Making use of the marriage bed to fornicate with his whore is asking to be discovered, don't you think?"

"But why kidnap Lady Felmont, if he is in love with the harlot?"

"That is what I cannot make sense of. Perhaps Lady Felmont was mistaken. Perhaps someone wanted to make her think the viscount had played false. There is nothing more likely to make her loathe and fear him. Those miserable deaths were a salutary lesson to all of us."

"I thought," confided Gladys, "if he had not made an attachment while he was away, that he'd warm to her once she settled to married life."

"Poor cousin Elizabeth, I always thought that if she knew him better, she'd forget to hate him and simply love him." He gave a Felmont laugh, dark and dangerous, which gave Gladys a thrill of excitement. "I can only say, you will find him with his love, wherever she is."

The door opened suddenly. Gladys had never entertained a man in the middle of the night before and did not relish James Thwaite's expression of shocked disapproval. She was not doing anything wrong by asking for help. If it was up to her, she would dismiss James for the part he had played in this farce.

"Forgive my intrusion, Miss Dyson. The viscount is demanding to speak to someone and I thought perhaps you'd better try to calm him down. Removed his chains, he has, and wrecked the room. Tried to brain me when I opened the door. Begging your pardon, Mr. Felmont." The under-steward eyed Bertram Felmont with suspicion. "I don't suppose you know anything about Lady Felmont's disappearance?"

"Nothing at all, but I am very curious to see the viscount." Mr. Felmont rose and offered his arm to her.

Gladys took it with pleasure. Mr. Felmont was always such a gentleman, never treated her with disdain, not like some of the female Felmonts.

James led the way down the hallway to the west wing. Gladys called out, "This isn't the right way! The viscount was locked in his bedroom, next to Lady Felmont's."

Thuds and curses suddenly echoed up the hallway. "So I heard, Miss Dyson," James said politely, "but there is no one in that room now. The viscount is locked in Lady Felmont's mother's bedroom, and Gordon says he is not to be let out. He says the viscount has gone insane and doesn't know his own name."

The doors were all open the one guarded by the Thwaite twins and their brother from the stable. Blows rained on it. A torrent of threats rolled towards them.

Gladys stopped in her tracks.

"But if the viscount is in there, who kidnapped Lady Felmont? I swear it was him, I know it was. Oh dear, whatever am I going to do now?"

"Do not worry, Miss Dyson. You sent for me, what else could you do? I wonder if that damned highwayman has her at last." Bertram Felmont patted her hand. It calmed Gladys. They were a wily lot. If anyone could sort out who had kidnapped whom, it was Bertram Felmont.

The Thwaite twins stepped aside. Gladys noticed James and his brother, the one not quite right in the head, hung back. Quite a family affair.

"Allow me," said Bertram Felmont. He unlocked the door and opened it.

A Felmont appeared, bloody and bruised. He had been beaten, his face so swollen he was almost unrecognizable, except for the family nose.

"My dear boy, what is the matter?" asked Bertram Felmont. Gladys thought his mild tone was curious.

"Father! Thank goodness you are here. Dace has taken Lizzie and locked me in. He knocked me about, then chained me to the damned bed."

Gladys gave a gasp of surprise. It was Consideration Felmont! The young man tried to leave, but soon found his way blocked by the Thwaite twins.

They moved aside at Bertram Felmont's touch. Gladys followed the old gentleman into the bedchamber. The room was ruined.

The new curtains littered the floor with debris from the chairs and gilt plastering from the walls. Gladys deplored the destructive nature of Bertram Felmont's son. He had always been a wild, spoiled boy.

Mr. Felmont moved to the window to perch on the low ledge. "You have been busy, my sweet boy." He motioned to his son to approach him. "How you did it, I do not know, but you are going to put me to a deal of trouble. I have old fashioned notions of marriage, Quentin Seraphim."

Gladys almost crowed out loud. Mr. Bertram was calling his son by the wrong name! He was playing the game, though Gladys was not sure what exactly it was. Even James gave a muffled snort of relief. The Thwaite twins grinned. Even the one not right in the head seemed pleased. She didn't know what they were all so pleased about, but she tried to look pleasantly surprised.

Bertram Felmont gave his devilish grimace. "There are enough unhappy wives, you shall not make yours so."

"Are you mad, Father? It's me, your son! Dace said he'd beat me beyond recognition. Do you think I'll stand by and let him take her away? Tell them who I am! Tell them to release me!"

Consideration made for the door. James and his brothers blocked the way. Con hurled a chair leg at them. Gladys edged closer to Bertram Felmont, who spoke in that vitriolic drawl he did so well. "My sweet boy, your wife has been kidnapped by a thief. Dragged off against her will. I very much fear you will learn a painful lesson from this."

"I am not the viscount!" Blood seeped from Consideration's nose as he approached his father.

"But who else can you be?" the old man asked. "If you were my son, I'd have to disown you for interfering in a marriage, without an invitation." The words issued from his thin lips with such threat and warning in their tone that Gladys had never heard the like outside a stage.

Gladys saw their effect on Consideration was immediate. "Father, don't–"

"I'm not your father, my boy." Bertram Felmont offered his son a handkerchief. "You are obviously suffering from madness. A few weeks of rest will find you much recovered. Quite yourself again. I shall send you a book of sermons to help pass the time." Bertram Felmont rose and offered Gladys his arm to escort her to the door. "Or, I have some interesting essays on brewing ale, if you'd prefer those?"

Con wiped his nose and scowled an answer.

"By the way, my son and his gift for music are on their way north to Yorkshire. To make an effort to please Miss Ramsbottom. To play her like an instrument of beauty, to sing a duet with her that will last a lifetime."

"Father, you can't ask me to marry for money, not when I know what it means to love."

"You are not my son. He won't be welcomed home until he returns with his bride," said Bertram Felmont severely. "Of course, I might relent if he promises to never interfere in a marriage, without an invitation!"

The old man bowed Gladys out of room and shut the door.

"My dear Miss Dyson," he asked, "do you suppose a brandy might be of medicinal use to restore our nerves?"

Gladys agreed brandy was a necessity. She couldn't wait to hear all about Miss Ramsbottom and her fortune. Mr. Felmont was better than a play for entertainment.

She was very relieved that the viscount had kidnapped Lizzie, to make peace with her, and that Consideration Felmont was locked up so he couldn't interfere. All was right with the world, as long as dear Lizzie didn't catch cold outside in her nightdress. But Gladys trusted the viscount to do all that was needed to keep Lizzie safe. Love would triumph in the end, she had no doubt about that!
Chapter 31

Lizzie shivered with cold and fright. She had not exactly fainted away. Lying on the floor helped clear her head.

"Damn it, Lizzie!" He swept the burning cinder back to the hearth, then swept her up to hold her close to his naked chest. She could hear his heart beating in a most disquieting way.

When he had recovered, he reverted to his hideous French accent. "If you faint again, _ma chére Elizabet'_ , your little _derrière_ will suffer." He ran his hand down there. "Not more than one handful each side—does your 'usband complain of it?"

"Let go of me, you damned Felmont! You painted that on just to frighten me." Lizzie's relief at knowing it was Dace made her giddy. Not that she hadn't known it all along! How could he scare her so, when he knew how highwaymen terrified her? In the dim light of just the fire and one lamp, it was impossible to see the internal injury to his shoulder.

He kissed her neck. "You can rub it for me, _chérie_ , after I have made you mine."

"Wash it off, you are being ridiculous. Branded? How can you pretend such a thing just to torment me?" She'd never touch him again, that way lay an awful death. Stroking his shoulder didn't count as a caress.

"Alas, _chérie_ , I can't wash it off. It took long enough to heal." He released her to let her kneel between his knees, to let her peer over his shoulder.

Lizzie touched the brand. "How did you get this?" she whispered in his ear and felt the slight shudder of his reaction to her breath. "What happened?"

He gave a careful half shrug. She sat back on her heels to face him. "Tell me."

"Angel was wounded. I borrowed a French surgeon, along with his wagon and his patient. It was giving them back that got me in trouble. Got caught. The branding was just a joke before they killed me. Angel sent some men to rescue me."

"Did it hurt dreadfully?"

"No. The smell was the worst. Knowing it was my flesh burning." He leered comically. "So, _chérie_ , now you know I am a thief, and I 'ave the brand to prove it. Am I worthy to be your 'usband? You shall soon forget about that rotting Felmont and love only me."

He rose to go to the window. "Do you hear that?" He peered through the shutters. "Someone is coming up the fell. A friend of yours, my _Elizabet'_? I shall fight him for you." He gave a comical grimace and resorted to his own voice. "But first we saddle that damned Lucifer. Watch out for his teeth. He bites."

He gave her no choice.

The horse snorted a warning from the stables adjoining the hunting lodge. The Beast ignored both their pleas to be left out of his mad folly. Lizzie thought it unfair when the horse tried to bite her while it was being saddled. They didn't hang horses for highway robbery.

The Beast tossed her up to ride pillion behind him.

She shivered as the wind swept over the fell, unhindered by trees or dwellings. Not even holding on for dear life made her any warmer. She heard a horse and carriage getting nearer and nearer, and finally could see a glimpse of it from over the Beast's shoulder.

The viscount roared into the darkness, "Stand and deliver!"

"Heavens!" cried Rax as he came into view, seated in a pale curricle that glowed in darkness. "Do you have to make so much noise about it? My apologies, Lady Felmont, I assume you are here, must just make clear that I could not talk him out of it. Head is as hard as an oak plank!" The curricle stopped beside Lucifer. The pair's whinnies were answered with a low snort from the huge horse.

"You were supposed to bring a carriage, Rax. Hell of a long way in a curricle," complained the Beast.

"My sisters needed the carriage. I really don't know how you talk me into these escapades." Rax tutted to himself. "Are you listening to me?"

"If you'd help my wife down, we'll be on our way."

"Help her down? Where is she? Not up a tree, Dace. Tell me you have not stowed her in a tree!"

"Behind me. Quick."

Rax scrambled down and caught Lizzie as she slid from Lucifer's back.

"I will not go with him." She took Mr. Rackham's arm. "He is pretending to be a highwayman to frighten me half to death." She clung to his elbow. "Help me get back to the Folly. The marriage is over! If he touches me, I shall scream loud enough to wake the dead!"

"Tsk, Dace, what have you done? Your lady is in her nightclothes, if I am not mistaken. Couldn't help but notice, not that I didn't avert my gaze as soon as I realized her condition." Mr. Rackham led her over to his curricle and helped her climb up to the seat.

To her dismay, Dace tied Lucifer to the back and came to sit next to her, squashing her between them.

The journey over the fell took the rest of the night or as much of it as Lizzie stayed awake for. Wedged between the two men, kept warm by a rug shared by all three of them, she dozed over the smooth areas and was jolted awake over the rough. They were headed towards Driscombe, in the vicinity of Quorr House.

Lucifer took a dislike to Mr. Rackham, no doubt the horse blamed him for keeping him awake all night. It nipped and lunged until the Beast tied the huge charger in such a way as to keep its head down and its teeth clear of Mr. Rackham's person.

"Are you going to rob the duke?" Lizzie asked the Beast.

" _Bien sûr, chérie._ Why not?" He gave that half shrug she knew so well. "If you want me to rob the duke, I shall do it for you."

"Good!" Lizzie crowed. "He shoots highwaymen."

Hedgerows began as they descended the fell, with rustlings and night squeaks heard in their busy depths. An owl hooted his displeasure at their interruption of his hunt. The dawn lit the sky as they rolled along a road edged on one side with a high stone wall that ran for miles.

Lizzie wondered what great house or asylum lay beyond it, for it was built to keep the uninvited out or its inmates locked inside.

Mr. Rackham stopped and turned the pair into a narrow lane guarded on both sides by the high stone walls. The lane ended abruptly at tall gates, chained closed.

Iron spikes pointed outward and upward in a distinct warning, yet the lane was not well traveled nor well maintained. An air of neglect hung over the entrance to the grounds, so unlike the Duke of Saint Sirin's gatehouse, yet she knew they were close to Quorr House. Not that she'd dare arrive there uninvited, in her nightdress, to ask for his help. Her curiosity grew with her confidence in the daylight. What did Dacey Felmont have in his twisted mind?

Lizzie sat up straighter. She knew Mr. Rackham was the duke's neighbor. Had he brought her to visit his family.

The curricle lurched as Dace got out to try the gates. He rattled them, shook them, and then went to explore the side postern doorway almost hidden by a hazel shrub.

The low sun shone under the clouds, but what it illuminated gave her no comfort at all. A crow flew down to perch on the gate to inspect the travelers. It cawed a query that was echoed by a chorus from a rookery far inside the grounds.

"Where are we? Do you live here, Rax?" Lizzie asked. She abandoned her formal manners with everything else she had left behind at the Folly.

Mr. Rackham gave a nervous cough. He kept glancing back towards the road as if he feared they'd be discovered by someone passing by. "No, I don't live here." He tsked and tutted his distress.

"Aren't you coming in with us?" Lizzie wondered if she could throw him out and flee in the phaeton. The team sidled, wanting to be on their way. Lucifer gave a great snort of contentment near her ear.

Rax gave a nervous start. "Oh, I live nearby, Lady Felmont. You can practically whistle for me. I'm just across the river, so is Saint Sirin. No," he said, as Dace returned to drag her out of the phaeton, "I must be on my way. I do hope you forgive me, for everything." He handed her the rug and waited until the Beast untied Lucifer.

His voice trailed off while he backed the horses to the road. "Do try to explain it properly, Dace. My mother would hate to see me hanging at a crossroads. I'm sure the only reason I've survived this long is your sojourn on the continent."

Mr. Rackham turned to address her. "That he can bring you here of all places, dressed or rather in such a state of undress and expect to survive it. Heavens!" He waved his whip, tipped his hat and set off with a final despairing glare at the viscount.

"Good day to you, Lady Felmont."

"Coward!" Dace called after his friend.

Lizzie wrapped the rug thoroughly about her body. "Who is going to kill us? I'm not going in there."

"Rax spoke of my death, not yours, _Elizabet'_. Don't worry, I 'ave a pistol and sword to defend myself. Come, I want to show you my lair."

"What a shame." Lizzie lifted her chin to give him a Felmont stare. "I believe I'll plan your funeral in case you are wrong."

He laughed and leered. "Look for one last time at freedom, _chérie_. You stay locked in my lair until you love me."

He meant to ravish her. For a moment she warmed and then she laughed at the idea of loving him in any way. She might shake hands with him, on his deathbed, but nothing else was going to happen.

The gates had not been opened in a century from the looks of it, but she did not want to linger where any passing stranger might peer down the lane and see her. She hurried to the side door, well-oiled, no doubt used by the servants. At least, she hoped there were servants. She had no wish to spend any time alone with her husband.

He followed her with a slight delay in persuading Lucifer to duck under the stone lintel. The horse seemed content to be led like a large dog.

The drive had reverted to weeds. The land sloped down towards a river she could hear in the distance. The trees lining the drive had originally been pollarded, a dead one stood like a silvered sentinel with a rounded head of ghostly branches, the others crowded overhead casting a deep shadow.

Lizzie followed the path from the postern door. It skirted the drive to fall towards the river through a set of long sweeps edged with stinging nettles. She trod carefully in her thin slippers.

Dace followed leading Lucifer. Occasionally the man toyed with her hair or touched her shoulder. She could not outpace him so she shrugged him off.

The path opened onto a lawn, beyond it a castle rose out of a lake formed by a widening of the river. A leftover from a bygone era, half fallen into ruin, with towers at each corner that were dilapidated with age, allowing a glimpse of thatched roof inside. An ancient clapper bridge connected the castle to the lower edge of the lawn.

"Is it very old?" Lizzie asked. She stopped to stare, to let Dace approach close enough for her to lean against him.

"The stone walls date to the thirteenth century," he said. "They replaced an older wooden fortress. There's an Elizabethan cottage in the bailey. Rather elegant, isn't it? Rax is keeping an eye on it for Angel. He makes sure the old retainers don't want for anything. It's called Desolation Castle."

"What an odd name."

"I think it got changed from Dissolution. Monks built the walls around a monastery on their island. Damned Vikings kept raiding 'em. The roof went during the Reformation. The Anston family bought it and built a great house from the stone buildings. Don't go looking for it. Angel sold the lot of it, down to the timber and tiles. It was quite a sight to see it being carted off. You can see the outline of the foundations on the lawn when you look up from the bridge."

"This is Edward's home!" Lizzie was not scared of _him_. "Why is Rax so frightened of Edward?"

"Angel isn't always angelic, though he tries to be." Dace laughed. "If Rax has any trouble with Angel, I'll tell him to apply to you for aid." He pulled her to him and kissed the top of her head. "Bravest woman I've ever met."

When he wasn't pretending to be something he was not, there was no denying the viscount had a certain charm. As if he read her mind, he leered down at her. "I thought you'd like to see it, _ma chère Elizabet'_. I 'ope they have breakfast ready. A man cannot make love on an empty stomach."

She refused to answer him, her snort of laughter didn't count. She just walked on with her head held high and the rug wrapped about her wicked body.

They walked over the clapper bridge. The Beast kicked a pebble into the moat. It plopped into the depths leaving a trail of tiny bubbles. A silver pike flashed by among the dark reeds to see what had disturbed the calm water.

There were no signs of life, except a thin tendril of smoke from an old thatched cottage in the castle courtyard. The grounds were an enormous kitchen garden. Netted fruit trees basked against the walls, scenting the air with their sweet burden.

An old gray dog barked and wagged its tail amid the currant bushes, while a cat hunted butterflies between the rows of cabbages.

"If you were really a highwayman, you'd have kept Mr. Rackham and held him for ransom." Lizzie giggled at the idea. She liked having Rax around, he seemed to make the Beast saner. At least Rax sympathized with all she had to put up with being married to a madman.

"But _chérie_ , who would pay to 'ave him back," asked the false highwayman. "Besides, I know where he lives, is a simple thing to catch him and 'is sisters."

"You can't mean to kidnap his sisters!"

"Why not? If they enjoy what I do to them?"

"Horrid Felmont!" Lizzie laughed with him, certain the Rackham sisters would think it a great adventure.

"One day, I h'aspire to be your Viscount Felmont, for now I am only your 'ighwayman."

Clouds obscured the sun. A servant hurried out of the house bowing low to them, except he could not straighten up. He took the reins still bent double. Lucifer clomped off behind him with a contented whinny.

The Beast led her, in much the same manner, to a tower room. He did not want to use the cottage, explaining that a few old servants lived there and he didn't want to displace any of them.

The round tower room had a bed covered with fine linens and pillows. There were wax candles, an expensive Turkey carpet and chests, one of which looked familiar. It was the old snuff chest from the Priory.
Chapter 32

Lizzie yawned and stretched. It hadn't been a dream.

The viscount lay beside her, propped up on one elbow. "Welcome back, _chérie_. Now I ravish you."

"Stop threatening me. I refuse to speak to you unless you behave like a gentleman." She turned her head away.

"Then, I remove all your clothes and ravish you." He sat up to better match his action to his words.

"Don't! Stop it! I'll talk to you, if you stop." Lizzie struggled. Her breasts were bared before he paused to consider her words.

"I vow not to ravish you unless you are silent, _Elizabet_ '" He bent to kiss the upper swell of her breast. "But you must tell the truth or I punish you."

Lizzie pulled her nightdress up to cover her shoulders. He held it gaping apart to expose one breast, somehow it seemed more naked than before when both were uncovered.

She said in a haughty voice, "Not being a Felmont, I do not lie. I have never lied."

"Then you sin by omission, _chérie_."

"That was not lying. Not telling your father you had rudely rejected me was a kindness, I'd no wish to see him try to flog you to death again. There was no need for you to call me scrawny, plain and graceless when you broke our engagement."

"My heart was broken."

She turned to him, her voice wavering, "Don't lie."

He stroked her with a feathery caress. "I loved you like the callow youth I was then. You were unattainable, a remote goddess living behind a glass wall. I could do no more than press my long Felmont nose against the panes and yearn for a kind word from you."

"You did not yearn."

"I didn't really know what love was until we married. I wanted to own you, Lizzie. I wanted to have the right to touch you. I'd have agreed to any conditions to make the pact with you. As long as you allowed me to make love to you."

"I dared make the pact with you because I was sure you didn't want my scrawny body."

"Exactly why I never dared tell you how I felt. As your highwayman, I declare you free from the pact you made with your 'orrible husband. I have sworn to make love only with my true love—unless you refuse to talk to me, then I ravish you all day and all night, _ma chère Elizabet'_."

His love didn't save her from his betrayal, it made the pain worse. If he loved her, truly loved her, he'd never have needed to fornicate with that horrid black-haired whore. She had to get away from him before she ended up like her mother, dead because of Felmont desires.

Lizzie's traitorous body let a wave of nausea sweep over her at the thought of never seeing him again.

"What is wrong, my pale bride?" he asked. "Does it trouble you to carry his child?"

Lizzie let a gasp of dismay escape her.

"Ah, it troubles you that I know your secret." He caught the tear with his lips against her cheek. "Don't weep, _chérie_. Have I not promised to ravish you only if you are silent?"

"You lie all the time! You are pretending to be a highwayman!"

"I have treasure to share with you. Behold, my chest of spoils. Only some of it is stolen, the rest is borrowed from Rax's sisters. We 'ave to give it back."

He went to bring the small chest from the Priory over to the bed. "See for yourself."

Lizzie struggled to lift the lid, agog with curiosity. What had he hidden there? He helped her, resting the heavy lid against his thigh.

Dace watched her stir the tangled necklaces in the treasure chest. He'd felt calmer going into battle.

His wife looked up. "This is the snuff chest from the Priory. You took it from Molly's sons even though I told you they were welcome to have it. Do you think me a child still?"

Dace shrugged. Pain radiated from his shoulder. Damn! He staggered back with involuntary steps and dropped the chest to the floor. the lid fell backwards, tipping the contents to the floor, to litter it with a shower of false jewels, fake pearls, and tin coins.

"Shall I rub it for you?" his bride asked with sympathy.

It was likely to be the last time he got a kind word from her, maybe he should stop now and take her up on her offer. There'd never be another.

He could see that damned necklace on top of the heap.

Her breath caught. Her cheeks paled. She reached out to pick it up, bending over the tipped treasure chest.

He began his explanations. "Your mother wore it to upset my mother, Lizzie, so I relieved her of it. Your stepfather had insisted my mother return the Felmont necklace so your mother could wear it. Your mother thought it beneath her, it being only garnets. She wore it to please him and distress my mother. Young fool that I was, I never thought what I'd do with it after I stole it. Could hardly return it to my mother."

His wife stared at the necklace dangling from her fingers. Her other hand clasped the edge of the fallen chest.

He knelt near the heap of jewelry.

"I never saw you on the floor when I robbed your mother of her jewels. I stepped on you by accident, Lizzie. I'm sorry, my love, I'm so sorry." He wished he had Rax's charm and could apologize with such conviction that women fell at his feet.

"You bastard! You thieving Felmont!" Her color returned. She leapt to her feet to hurl the snuff chest at him.

It bounced off his head with a glancing blow. If he hadn't been committed to telling the truth, he'd have pretended to fall senseless to the floor to let her believe she'd killed him. If she wanted to punish him, he'd have to let her.

He got to his feet to face her.

"You may strike me, Lizzie. I'll not lift a hand to stop you."

She threw the necklace at his face with a shriek of fury. "You Beast! You thief!"

Her cries of outrage stopped when he kicked the treasure chest out of the way, though he was careful not to step on the necklace to reach her.

His wife leaped backwards to stumble against the bed. "Don't you touch me! Damned highwayman! Thief! I had nightmares about that highwayman for years, and it was you!"

He met her gaze, did his best to look innocent and knew he failed. "Not going to touch you, Lizzie. You may strike me to punish me, then afterwards I need you to forgive me."

"Why are you glaring at me?"

"Because I am afraid you'll hit my shoulder."

"You'd let me hit your shoulder?"

"I'll suffer the torment of the damned, if you'll forgive me once I stop writhing in agony at your feet."

She said primly, "Insanity runs in your family, even when not diseased."

He gave a great sigh. "I was insane to rob your mother. I was young and stupid. That's the truth, Lizzie. Hit me. Get it over with. Then forgive me."

"Don't tell me what to do!"

Poor Lizzie had feared and suffered all those years and it was all his fault.

She hissed at him, "You trod on me by accident! My mother knew, didn't she?"

"Yes, she teased me about it often enough. After you survived, she stopped threatening my life. If you'd died from your injury, she'd have had me displayed dead in chains at a crossroads. Later, she laughed about being tired of holding you on the seat and let you sleep on the floor. If she'd been a better mother, it would never have happened."

"If you hadn't robbed her, it would never have happened. Next, you will be blaming me for falling asleep."

His darling bit her lip. She didn't want to cry in front of him.

"My mother rambled on and on, she spoke of many things in her madness. She laughed when she spoke of highwaymen. My fear amused her. Even insane, she didn't think to tell me." Lizzie threw the necklace against the wall. "The only good thing I can say about her is, she never told your father."

"Hit me, get it over with. It's hell to wait, Lizzie." He kicked aside the few stray trinkets at her feet to kneel in front of her. "I apologize for robbing your mother. It was a damned silly thing to do. I'm very sorry I broke your arm by accident. Please forgive me, my love." He rested his forehead on her.

Lizzie raised her husband's head by tugging on his hair. "You may take the accident with the door on our wedding night as your punishment. We are even now." She ran her fingers through his dark locks for one last time. "I intend to leave you, divorce you, and free you to marry the black-haired whore you desire."

"I don't have a whore, black haired or otherwise, whom I desire." He rose to stand so close to her she could feel him tremble as he spoke. "I want only you, Lizzie. From the look on your face, I have to apologize for that, too. Hellfire!"

"Fornicating Felmont! You desire only the woman nearest to you. Admit proximity is your only criterion for lust."

"Not true." He moved closer until she was pressed up against him.

"Not true?" she said with a Felmont drawl. "Then how do you explain whoring in our bed at Quorr House?" She'd never forgive him for that, never trust him, never dare to love him.

He drew her into an embrace. "We aren't leaving here until I find out who whored in our bed with Consideration Felmont."

Lizzie gave a gasp and tried to push him away. "Don't lie to me! Why would a man who has tried for years to entice me to love him take a whore to my bed?" Her fingers tangled in his shirt. "Don't you know who she was? I am not helping you find your whore. No doubt, she'll say anything you ask to enjoy your attentions again."

"Lizzie, I'm shocked you'd think that." His fingers stroked her sensitive back.

"Why? Aren't all whores also liars?"

"Not that. You implied that my attentions are enjoyable."

"I am not talking to you anymore." She feared what her addled tongue might prompt her to say.

"Good, then I shall ravish you, _chérie_."
Chapter 33

Lizzie scrambled onto the low bed. "You'll never touch me again," she cried.

"Then you must talk to me, dear heart. Talk to me of trust."

"Are you mad? Trust a Felmont? When they lie and cheat and debauch and make women forget how dangerous they are to health and life."

"Even Felmonts can fall in love and be faithful."

"Don't speak of love to me!" Lizzie bit her lip. She couldn't let him talk of love, not when the thought of loving him made her ache with sadness. "If I must speak to you, then I shall confine myself to domestic matters. Where is dinner? Do you intend to starve me to death?"

"You fell asleep before you could eat." He sat on the edge of the bed and dragged her over to sit on his knee. "Look, dinner awaits, my love."

A tray with cold chicken, bread, and fruit from the garden tempted her. She didn't struggle as she should have. She sat in the circle of his arm and ate a little of everything.

The food made her sleepy.

Exhaustion wearied almost every inch of he, but Lizzie resolutely ignored the wicked bits. She fell asleep watching him, wanting him, making solemn promises to herself never to reveal her heart to him.

When she awoke her, wicked bits still ached for him. Lizzie had to tell herself, severely, that she was not disappointed that he had forgotten to ravish her.

Perhaps her falling asleep while eating dinner had dulled his ardor.

Lizzie opened her eyes.

She had to stop falling asleep at the slightest opportunity. Not that she had slept for long. It was dusk. The birds were calling the end of the day in a frenzy of chirps and whistles.

She stretched and tried to turn. No! The Beast had tied her to the bed. Her wrists were bound with soft cloths, her arms outspread. Her ankles were tied together.

Drat the man!

His spoke in a low voice from near the window. "Sleeping beauty awakens at last."

"Untie me at once," she ordered.

He knelt near her ankles to run his hand up her leg.

"Don't!" Her command didn't move him, he played with her knees. "I'm thirsty."

He gave a sigh and moved to help her drink a mouthful of lemonade. "Is that better?"

"Yes. Thank you." Lizzie let him stroke her hair over the pillow. "Dace, it is not midnight. At least keep to our pact, if you must ravish me." She'd take Lucifer and run from him long before midnight.

"You pact is no more, my love. I am not your husband, I am your highwayman. Alas, gone with the pact is my right to ravish you. Don't look so sad. Talk to me and you shall be safe from my lust. Stay silent and you are mine," he warned.

"You speak! Say what you must." Lizzie waited while his hand lazily stroked her knees.

"I am innocent of whoring in our bed at Quorr House."

Lizzie snorted her reply. His hand shot up her thigh to cover a place that needed no warming.

"Don't!" That way lay ruin, disease and death. Her mind knew it, her body knew only that it wanted him. "I saw you fornicating with her. Every time I close my eyes I can see you thrusting into her." Lizzie stopped to think.

Even a lit candle extinguished on his bottom hadn't stopped him, but surely he'd bear a mark from her attack. How was she going to see if he had a mark there?

His stroked her belly where his child lay sleeping. "Saint Sirin and everyone at Quorr House saw me singing when you thought you saw me fornicating. It is an easy thing to ask them to bear witness, but a difficult thing to prove without a doubt." He bent to kiss her. "Trust is hard won and easily lost, my love."

"My mother trusted her Felmont husband and died for it." Lizzie felt his hand rove higher to the underside of her breasts.

"He married her because he loved her. Felmonts are capable of love."

"He married her and killed her."

The Beast shook his head. "No one has told you this, Lizzie. Your mother was poxed before they met. She gave it to him and it killed them both."

Suddenly, Lizzie made sense of all those half-whispered conversations she had overheard. After her mother's death, all the times her stepfather had thought she was her mother and had told her there was nothing to forgive, as he declared his love.

The Beast wiped the tears as they dripped from the corner of her eyes. "It could just as easily have been the other way around. Two of his brothers gave syphilis to their wives. And Harry's mother, poor Aunt Clarissa, has gone mad through no fault of her own. It led to my father's obsession with keeping his mistresses close by his side so they could not stray and infect him."

He sighed. "Not very romantic, is it? All this talk of death and dying from love and lust. You had to know. Forgive me for telling you?"

Lizzie nodded. "I've wept enough for them."

"Good, because now I intend to prove you can trust me." He kissed her cheek when she turned her mouth away.

He meant to caress her into being a docile fool ready to accept his wickedness! Lizzie struggled against the restraints. "Stop that at once! How can you say the word trust then touch me? I trusted you and you betrayed me."

Not her ear! Or her neck! Let him go and kiss Lucifer if he must kiss something.

Lizzie moaned. What was he doing? Why had he stopped?

He stripped off his shirt. When he made no move to remove more of his clothes, Lizzie considered how best to give him a hint to do so.

"You aren't allowed to retain any clothes." Her clumsy tongue ran away with her. "Not if you intend to remove mine. Not that I want you to. But if you must, then you must disrobe completely."

Asking him to turn around when he was naked so she could see his bottom was beyond her. She could, however, ask him to fetch her something from the other side of the room after he had finished divesting himself of his clothing.

She looked the other way, not wanting to seem eager. Only when his naked body perched on the bed next to her did she turn to meet his gaze, deliberately not looking at his obvious desire for her.

"Trust me, Lizzie. You are in my power now–"

"I'm still thirsty," she said plaintively, and watched as he went to get the glass of lemonade. There it was! On his left buttock, a mark! He was nothing but a Felmont liar and fornicator.

Tears choked her as she sipped from the glass he held.

"Careful, Lizzie," he warned.

"Get away from me!" She tried to bite his hand. Had she burned the right side or the left? She couldn't remember. What did it matter? He bore the mark of Cain on his bottom and all his protestations of innocence were lies.

"Hush! I am not going to sate myself in your trembling body." One side of his mouth quirked as he smiled down at her. "I promise you can trust me, Lizzie. I shall do nothing that can harm you."

He moved to hold her in his arms. To caress her.

Lizzie struggled at first, until she realized her traitorous body was trying to get closer to him. After that, she closed her eyes and tried to ignore the warm hands that stroked in places desperate for his touch. She could no more deny the pleasure he brought her than she could believe his lies.

The Beast stole her breath with his kisses. Surely she couldn't catch a disease from kissing?

His unsteady breathing and whispered encouragement goaded her to curve her knees apart to let him soothe her. To let him touch that part of her unable to resist his Felmont temptation.

True to his word, he brought her to sinful pleasure, alone.

"I love you, Lizzie. Sweet wife. If this is all I can have of you for now, I am content."

She fell asleep in his arms.

* * *

Lizzie awoke with a start. Where was he? Had he gone to slake his lust with his black-haired whore? He had unfastened her bonds.

She rose and hurried to the narrow window to look for him.

He stood naked, waist deep in the lake, illuminated by the moonlight.

"No!" Lizzie shrieked. She raced down the stairs to cross the courtyard at a run. The clapper bridge defeated her. She dared not run across it, so she hurried over at her fastest walking speed, not wanting to fall in and risk meeting a pike in the dark water.

"Get out of there," she called to the Beast. "Get out before the pike bites you."

He stood absently rubbing his shoulder as the water lapped around his waist. "What is it, Lizzie? Do you want to talk to me?"

"Get out before the pike bites it off!" she commanded. Didn't he understand the danger to the manly part of him?

"What do you care, dear heart? Let the pike have it. I shall sacrifice that part of me you disdain to prove my love for you." He gave a mournful sigh.

Lizzie leaped off the jetty into the water to save a Felmont from his folly. She waded out to him, giving little squeaks of terror at being in dark water in the dead of night. "Cover yourself with your hands, Dace."

He shook his head.

With a groan of fear, Lizzie plunged her hands in the water to cup that most private part of him. For an awful moment she thought a pike had already swallowed it. Nothing reared from his body or floated in front of him. Her frantic hands searched until she found him and cupped him.

"You Beast! You are wearing your britches!"

"Thank you for caring, my love. If you'd remove your hands, I'd be grateful. Not that I don't relish your touch, but I have sworn to find release only inside my true love."

Lizzie rubbed his hardness through the cloth.

He lifted her hands from him with a frown and a groan. "Your presence, alas, is no help at all. Angel swore this would work. I'm beginning to doubt his Felmont blood, despite the nose."

Lizzie leaned against him. Her hands reached around to touch his bottom. "Does it hurt," she asked.

"Not when you are with me. Hurts like hell when we are apart, my love." He bent his head to kiss her.

Her lips met his as water lapped against her back and his hands caressed the arch of her back. She stood on her tiptoes to reach up into his embrace. To shiver in his arms, up to her breasts in cold water, passion warring for ascendancy over her fear of the pike.

When at last she broke the kiss, she whispered to him, "Don't tie me up again."

"It's the only way I dare touch you, Lizzie. Couldn't risk you encouraging me, lest I fail to keep my word."

Lizzie wrapped her arms around his waist and rubbed her cheek against his naked chest. "When have I encouraged you?"

"My love, man is a hopeless beast. You encourage me when you breathe, when you sigh, when your body curves around mine, when you tremble with desire and passion. When your lips seek mine and your hips raise in invitation."

"I have never invited you."

"Not with words, my love, never with words." He kissed her. "Trust me, Lizzie, one day I hope to earn your love. Until we return to the Folly, I am not your husband and do not claim his rights. I am your highwayman. A wretch aspiring to one day earn your heart."

The sound of wood creaking on iron, and the sound of oars splashing drifted over the lake.

Dace hid Lizzie in his arms.

"Heavens! Dace is that you," called Rax in a hoarse whisper. "Lady Estelle will be at Quorr Lake soon. I've had a devil of a job finding out who owned those things. Maybe I'm wrong. I just cannot imagine how anyone persuaded her to do it."

His wife clutched his waist. "You shall not go! Tell your friend your wife won't allow it."

Dace pulled her hands free. "We are here to find the woman so she can tell you it was Con not me."

His wife turned from him to splash her way to the jetty.

He waded after her. "Something just nibbled me. Damned if it wasn't a trout. Glad it wasn't your pike, Lizzie."

Rax waited some yards from shore, rowing in circles. "Tell me that is not your wife in the water, Dace? Are you mad? What are you doing?"

He gave a gasp of horror, then coughed in a fit of embarrassment. "Lady Felmont, if I am not mistaken you are still in your night attire. Never fear, I have brought you some clothes. Actually, they are costumes. My sisters, the older ones, have eagle eyes as far as their wardrobes are concerned and the younger ones are too small. I had to raid the attic."

Dace hoisted Lizzie onto the low bridge. She tried to kick him away, but was hampered by her reluctance to hurt his shoulder.

He climbed out and swept her into his arms to carry her to the boat.

"Come on, Rax," he called. "Row us over there."
Chapter 34

Consideration had no time for niceties. It was late, almost midnight. He'd ridden a long way to London with his insides still aching from the viscount's blows. He glared at Molly as she stood framed in the doorway at the back of the house. "Tell me where she is. Where has he taken her?"

He'd rescue Lizzie from her rapacious husband if it was the last thing he did. For the moment, he meant to follow his father's advice and not insist on carnal pleasure as soon as he had the lady in his power. But surely she'd return his love when he'd saved her from her brute of a husband.

From the kitchen door, Molly stared at his fading bruises. "How should I know? Not that it's any business of yours, Mr. Felmont. Husband and wife are together. Leave well enough alone is my advice."

"Tell me where she is. Where has he taken her?" Con crowded her backwards into the kitchen.

"How should I know?" Molly repeated in an annoyed tone.

He closed the door and glanced around the room. They were alone. "I am not leaving until I know where that blackguard has taken Lady Felmont. Don't make me use force." Not that he had ever used force on a woman, except for the barmaid at the Cock and Bull that one time, just to make her let go.

"I'd like to see you try, my sweet boy," Molly sneered, using his father's words.

Con grabbed her by an arm and squeezed carefully so as not to leave a bruise.

Her answering fist in his stomach took him entirely by surprise. He knew women fought, had seen them punch with some science in matches fought half-naked. To be on the receiving end of a surprisingly strong arm, took his breath away.

He shook her like a terrier with a rat. "Where are they?"

Some minutes later, Angel Anston stood at the top of the steps leading into the kitchen, to find Molly gasping for breath, trying to stuff a long Felmont nose into the coal scuttle as she wrestled with a man on the floor in front of the hearth.

The gentleman resisted her efforts with vigor, somewhat at a disadvantage due to what seemed like an injury to his ballocks. When the man's head disappeared under Molly's skirts in another of her attempts to smother him or break his Felmont neck, Angel decided to stop it.

He coughed.

His belly did not encourage him to try that again. Instead, he tipped over a bucket of slops kept under the scrubbed table. The resulting mess drenched the contestants.

Molly climbed off the gentleman's shoulders. She glared at Angel as if he were at fault and slammed out the door.

The Felmont struggled off the flagstones with many groans and gasps. He could not stand upright, only managed to crawl to the settle where he rested to catch his breath and wait for the pain to release him.

Angel leaned against the table. How did one, with any honor, kill a man who had just lost a fight with a woman?

He couldn't do it and felt the loss in his soul. "A noble effort, Felmont. My advice is never to fight with a woman unless you are willing to die for your victory." His voice sounded feeble. The threat not felt by either of them.

"Damn near did die!" The man laughed in a good-natured way between gasps of pain.

Angel would have known him for a Felmont from his sense of humor.

"Couldn't punch her. Deuce! Just give me a moment."

"Take as many as you need." It was impossible to stay without joining in the laughter. His belly detested laughter. "Be warned, Dace is tempered in war. He'd kill you, not just try."

Angel had lied about Dacey Felmont's skill with sword and pistol until the youngster had bested him in a very unfair fight. He'd never fought drunk again.

He went to see how Molly dealt with victory.

She strode around the area muttering to herself, slashing the darkness with her fist, flapping her skirts. Most of the slops had soaked in or fallen off. She stopped to shout at him. "What are you doing out here? Sit down!"

He perched on the low windowsill.

"If I'd gone with my Will, he'd not have died," she cried.

"You are not as strong as you want to be, none of us are. Cannonballs, rockets, bullets. They punch back."

Molly roared, "I knackered Consideration Felmont!" She stamped through the moonlit puddles not heeding the arcs of silvered water sent up from her clogs.

"He deserved it," said Angel.

"Don't tell him where they are."

"All Felmonts return to Felmont's Folly, don't they? Sooner or later, they must return." He held his belly before he ventured a laugh. "I have always wanted to see it."

* * *

Mr. Rackham rowed Lizzie and Dace across the river to the Duke of Saint Sirin's estate. The viscount tied the bobbing green boat to the dock and held her hand as they followed the path to the old stone Quarry for which Quorr House was named. Rax excused himself and fled to his home a mile away through Saint Sirin's park.

"You cannot mean to walk around half naked, Dace." Lizzie eyed his chest. He looked so beautiful that it made her heart ache. "We've got to go back and get dressed."

"Why? Aren't we going to meet my mistress? Surely she has seen me naked before?" He gave a Felmont laugh. "You can cover me with your hands, my love, if you decide it is necessary."

Lizzie ignored his invitation, it was just too tempting.

She was glad her nightrail could be mistaken for clothing in the dark. She paused to wring water from its hem. What if that awful woman wanted him back? What if she saw his chest and decided to never let him go?

Only a remnant of the quarry's granite outcropping remained, like a stone bowl holding a spring-fed lake. There was even a bathing edifice in the style of an Indian temple crowned with jagged spires. An amusing folly that pleased the eye when viewed from afar, but was cold and damp inside.

Lizzie shivered in her damp nightrail.

The Beast wrapped her in his arms.

"Is she pining for you?" Lizzie had to remind herself she could never love him or touch him again. "Is she waiting for you?"

"Only family are allowed on that floor, Lizzie. We are family. Sirrie's relations are family. Footmen guard the entrance. No one is allowed in but family."

"But I saw her with you," Lizzie said slowly, emphasizing every word. "I saw her black hair spread over the pillows, I saw her silver slippers. Did you forget that I burned you on the bottom? You have a wound there, I saw it."

"What did you burn Con with, dear heart?" He held her away from him. "Is that why you were so eager to have me naked? I am sorely disappointed."

Lizzie didn't believe him for an instant. He didn't look crushed, he looked distinctly hopeful.

He gave a grunt of laughter. "Damn, Lizzie. If you want to see my scars, just ask. That's an old stab wound. Probably still has stitches visible in it. Angel put them in for me when the damn thing bled every time I sat down. Did you really burn Con? I thought he walked with a bit of a limp." He lowered his head to whisper, "I'll let you look at my war wound in the morning, for a fee."

She wriggled against him to stop the tickling in her ear. "What fee?"

"Anything I want to do to you."

Lizzie suddenly felt much warmer. She pushed his arms away.

He hauled her back against him. "You've never met the duke's oldest sister. Maybe, she could have been the one."

"Don't you know? Didn't you seek an introduction before you took her to our bed? Did you seduce Saint Sirin's sister?" She struggled in vain to free herself. "I don't care if she was a cousin or an aunt! He will call you out if he finds out."

"It wasn't me! Rather difficult to ask him, Lizzie. Can't walk up to a man and ask which of his close female relatives are most likely to have used our bed with Con. Next, you'll be suspecting _grand-mère_."

"Confess your part!" Lizzie commanded in a stern whisper. "I really don't want to know who your whore was. It's disgusting! In our bed! War wound, indeed. How unlikely. I'm sure men don't go around stabbing one another there."

"Rax says she is here every night." He turned her face up towards him to give her a Felmont stare. "We are going to wait for her and she is going to tell you she was not with me. And you are going to believe her."

"If she loves you, I'm sure she'll say anything for you," Lizzie replied with a sob.

His hands slid down to hold her closer.

Ethereal singing drifted through the trees.

From over Dace's shoulder, she saw a black-haired woman step into the clearing. Her robe clung to her figure. Her maid hurried past carrying towels to the steps of the bathing house.

Lizzie caught her breath. She'd recognize that hair and those silvered high-heeled slippers anywhere. She slithered around the Beast to see for herself who had whored at Quorr House.

The lovely voice stopped when the lady kicked off her slippers.

"Hush!" warned her husband under his breath.

"Who is there?" called the lady. "Marie, do you see anyone."

The maid stared down the path. " _Non_ , _madame_."

Lady Estelle reached the water. "Guard my things well this time. That nasty child might try again."

Her maid removed the robe to reveal a bathing dress and the wig to reveal her mistress's short dark hair. She gathered the silver slippers while her mistress stepped into the shallows.

Lizzie trotted after the Beast as he strode over the lawn towards the water. She didn't need to be beckoned, though he turned to make sure she followed him. His _love_ saw him and gave a little scream. Not a very warm a welcome. No doubt the presence of his wife did not add joy to the occasion.

Dace led the way to the edge of the water.

The maid jumped when she saw him so near her and dropped all she held. Lizzie saw her stare at the viscount's chest with a great deal more interest than necessary.

He pointed down at the wig, robe and shoes. "Excuse us," he called. "My wife lost her ring when we were here earlier." He pretended to search around the flat rocks. "Admit, Lizzie," he whispered, "You did not see more of her than these. Con set the scene. You didn't stay long enough to see the fakery involved."

Lady Estelle sneered from a safe distance as she floated in the water. "Your daughter made a nuisance of herself the day you left. I had her caned for sneaking out of the house to steal my things."

"What!" Dace stood up in fury. "It's a long way for Sarah to walk all by herself just to purloin a few articles of yours."

"The duke whipped her for being at the lake. He did not seem to mind her stealing." Perhaps the lady read something in his body from his stillness, for she hurried to justify herself. "Your daughter was found wearing my wig, Jeannie had on my shoes. Your daughter confessed that she went alone to the lake to steal them."

Dace bent down to pick up the robe. He tore it in two to fling the pieces into the water. "Do forgive me, terrible temper!" Dace thundered. "Did it never occur to you–" He shook his head. "No, of course not. Only family allowed on that floor."

"Bad breeding shows in your behavior, as it does in your wife's. You are as vulgar as she is." Lady Estelle saw her wig being held over the water. "Put that down!"

"My daughter confessed so Jeannie would not be punished. Do not think of accusing my daughter again." He threw the wig into the water and turned to Lizzie. "Shoes?"

Lizzie tossed them far into the lake. She whispered to him beneath the screams of outrage coming from the lake. "How could anyone persuade her to do it? I saw her hands gripping and stroking."

He muttered low in her ear. "You saw Con with her wig."

"I saw her hands stroking him, clasping him. I saw hands, Dace." Lizzie didn't argue about the identity of those thrusting buttocks. "She must have been with Con. It wasn't you, I know it now." There, she had said it.

"How do you know, dear heart?" He led her into the darkness between the trees to find the path to the river.

She patted the scar on his bottom through his britches.

"She never looked at your chest the way I do."

He laughed and hugged her. "I might never wear clothes again."

"You'd catch cold in the winter." She ran her hands up his back, which earned her a kiss that stole her heart.

It was nearly midnight. To take her mind of her lust, she said, "I don't think Estelle likes men at all. Do you think Con forced her to do it?"

"If he did, I'd have to kill him before Angel does. But I doubt Con is capable of stealing more than a kiss unless madly in love with the lady. Somehow, I doubt Lady Estelle is the woman he loves. Be careful when you meet him next, Lizzie."

Hand in hand they walked up to the little boat bobbing in the river.

"Hellfire! We forgot to tie Rax up so he couldn't run home. I can only row us in circles. Will you help?"

Lizzie smiled at him. "Yes, if you show me how." She let him help her into the boat. "Are we going to go home now, Dace? Back to the Folly?"

"No, I am still your highwayman and you are my prisoner. I'll have no husband's rights over you. At least, not until we return."

She quelled the urge to splash him on purpose. It was hard enough to go smoothly in any direction. He made it look so easy.

He reached around her to lift the oars into the boat when they neared Angel's castle. The current gently swayed their bodies together. "My love, I ask only that you think about our lives entwined. How to trust and how to love are the two most important of life's questions. You must answer them for us both. I can only wait and hope and love."

She could think of nothing to say. Trust and love a Felmont? To do it was one thing. To admit it, quite another.

He said with a wicked French lilt, "Unless you are silent?"

"I have offered you every midnight." What else could he want?

He bent to kiss the top of her head. "And I want so much more."
Chapter 35

Not far from Felmont's Folly, a carriage wound its way along a dark road. Mr. Whittaker snoozed and snored his way home, tired from a long day sitting in judgment on his fellow man.

The horses halted, disturbing his sleep.

"What is going on?" he called out. "Why have we stopped?"

The carriage door swung open and a silver pistol snaked inside to poke him sharply on the knee. Moonlight glinted on the weapon while a low voice wheezed, "Who is within?"

"Whittaker. Who the devil are you?" the magistrate called out as he smartly moved to the far side of the seat.

The hooded felon peered inside to reveal a long Felmont nose badly disguised behind a mask. It was impossible to hide the length of it from one who had known the family all his life.

Mr. Whittaker lost all fear of losing his purse or his life. "Stop this nonsense, I say. If you think to lay your crimes at Lord Felmont's feet, you'll rue the day you tried. What game is this?"

The highwayman sniffed under the seats, shifting Mr. Whittaker's feet aside with the pistol.

A muttered sigh spoke of disappointment and loss. The dark figure retreated. The carriage door politely closed.

His driver found his voice, if not his courage. "Do I shoot him, sir?"

"No. Drive on." Mr. Whittaker did not want to risk his horses being shot by his coachman.

What was going on, had another Felmont lost his mind?"

* * *

The coach, drawn by four perfectly matched horses, edged its way over the neglected drive. Birds twittered high in the branches above Lizzie's head. Her insane husband stepped out from the deepest shadows under a leaning oak into dappled sunlight.

"Stand and deliver!" he roared.

Childish shrieks of delight greeted his command. "Papa! Rob us! We have coins for you."

The coachman drew to a halt.

Lizzie wondered how she had been inveigled into holding the viscount's horse while he committed daylight robbery. Lucifer nudged her hand until she stroked his nose.

The viscount stalked towards the carriage. The door swung open. Giggles greeted him.

The Duke of Saint Sirin spoke in that odious way. "Get in or I shall be obliged to shoot you. Dashed highwayman!"

His daughter's voice squeaked, "You sweared, Papa." She tried to imitate her father. "Dashed highwayman, get in!"

Dace disappeared into the carriage. It bounced over the rough track, leaving her with Lucifer.

Drat the man! Lizzie looked down at her outfit. A highwayman need have no fear of being missed wearing a costume so outlandish. It was worse than Dace's huge boots and his coat with many pockets.

Even if she discarded the enormous black feather adorning her huge, brimmed hat, the rest of her male attire proclaimed her supposed occupation from the silver candelabra sticking out of her boots, to the loot sewn to cascade from her pockets. The glass rubies dripping from the bosom of her shirt were a particularly fine touch.

Mr. Rackham's sisters were nothing if not thorough in their costumes.

Her husband was not coming back for her. Lizzie was sure he'd forgotten all about her. Lucifer disdained to stand still and, with a determined tug on the reins, set off for his stable in the castle. Lizzie let him lead her back.

The sound of another carriage arriving made her coax the horse behind an overgrown rhododendron bush.

A landau rounded the turn. The five Rackham sisters jolted over the rough ground in their open carriage. Low shrubs caught at the wheels as the horses picked their way down the drive.

Lizzie scrambled up into the saddle by way of a sturdy branch. Not the most graceful way to mount but she had no time to spare.

Lucifer obeyed her command to move only too well. He shot off, going from walk to gallop in less time than it took to reach the drive. The stirrups swung too and fro, far from her feet.

Luckily, Lucifer seemed more interested in the visitors than his stable.

"Stand and deliver!" Lizzie called as she neared the landau. For a horse used to facing the cannonades of warfare, the Rackham sisters' delighted laughter should not have made him stop so abruptly that she almost lost her seat. Lizzie saw the great head snort and advance towards Miss Rackham's flowery bonnet, intent on sampling the exotic fair.

That lady saw the danger immediately. "Keep him back, Lizzie!"

Easier said than done. No matter how Lizzie pulled on the reins, Lucifer ignored her to clack his teeth together in the air where Miss Rackham's head had been. She dived out of the way and scrambled amid her sisters' skirts to remove her hat.

"Keep him away!" Miss Rackham hid her flowery bonnet under the seat.

Lucifer reared as if to climb into the carriage. Lizzie clung to his mane for a few of the longest seconds of her life.

Hands reached for the reins to pull the great head down.

"Hellfire! Hold on, Lizzie!" Dace caught her as she fell.

* * *

Lizzie lay on a blanket in the dappled shade of an old elm tree not far from the clapper bridge. She was penned on one side by a wicker basket containing the remnants of a luncheon long since eaten, on the other side by a pile of discarded bonnets and coats.

The duke's musicians played Mozart on the far side of the river. The music rippled over the water while traces of clouds drifted over the hazy sky.

The duke swam well, she noticed, at least he hadn't drowned yet. He made a circuit of the island, stopping every few strokes to look down. The Rackham sisters watched him with a lively interest, but only the youngest one dared approach the clapper bridge and stand on it as he swam underneath in britches and shirt.

The littlest girls played in the shallows, chattering to each other, watched by Dace. He flicked water at them. They retaliated with squeals and soon had him wet from head to toe.

The duke swam back to take his place as guardian of the young girls. Lizzie saw him smile at them. The glimpse she caught was rather nice.

The duke caught her eye with an expression of lazy disdain, mingled with what could only be Felmont lust. Lizzie gave him the Felmont stare. He did not intimidate her as he did the older two Rackham sisters, the ones who were even now studying too closely how his wet clothes clung to his body.

A shadow fell over her. "Sleeping beauty awakens at last. My heart is broken, you didn't wait for my kiss." Dace claimed his kiss and tried not to drip cold water on her. Lizzie laughed at him. She enjoyed the sight of him as much as the Misses Rackham enjoyed watching the duke.

Dace dropped down to sit beside her, his arm cool around her waist. "What's Jim doing here?"

He pointed across the river to where James rowed inexpertly, while his companion, Rax, shouted instructions clearly overheard above the music. "Haven't you ever rowed before? Aim upstream or the current will take us down to the village."

Neither oar struck the water at the same time.

Rax stood up. "I'll do it!"

"Sit down," shouted Jim. "You'll tip us over. I can do it."

"Let me take the oars," insisted Rax.

Lizzie saw the boat wobble precariously as the two tussled over the oars. She went with Dace to stand on the clapper bridge.

He called across the water. "Is everyone safe at home?"

"Aye," Jim called back. "If I don't drown first, I'll tell you what I came to tell you. Good afternoon, Lady Felmont." He tried to stand to greet Lizzie and was saved from a wetting by Mr. Rackham, who grabbed him by the arm and thrust him back in his seat.

Lizzie laughed at them and retreated, to let Dace go on his own to haul James out of the boat.

Dace waved as if to say everything was well at the Folly, then he led James away to talk in private.

* * *

Jim rested his back against a tree trunk. "You've got to come back, our Dace. There's mischief brewing. Someone is stopping carriages, dressed like a highwayman. Everyone thinks it's you."

"Why would they think that?" Dace asked, though he knew his youthful escapade had been whispered about for years.

"Who else would stop people and then not steal anything?" Jim shook his head. "They think you are searching for Lady Felmont and, if she is not returned to the Folly soon, there are some as think Mr. Whittaker should investigate."

"Hellfire! It couldn't be Con, could it? Is he pretending to be me, to have me charged with highway robbery? But why hasn't he robbed anyone? It doesn't make sense."

"That's what I said. Some think you've gone insane and killed Lady Felmont and buried her body on the fell. That you've lost your wits and are searching for her, just like your uncle looked for his dead wife."

"Nonsense! But I know how rumors spread and have a life of their own. There is no help for it, we must return. I shall be sorry to do it. I wonder if Lizzie will feel the same?"

James snorted a laugh. "I bet Lady Felmont wants to see her house again. She must be right tired of looking at you all the time."

"Your confidence in my power to appeal to my wife is encouraging, Jim. Shall I toss you in the river to teach you how to swim?"

* * *

Rax hovered at the edge of the lawn with one foot on the clapper bridge barring the way. Dace listened to him with amusement. His lovely Lizzie waited, asleep, in her berline for him to join her.

"It's all very well you rushing away because Angel Anston is on his way, I understand perfectly," Rax said in a furious undertone. "If he finds out you had Lady Felmont in the lake in the middle of the night, he'd skewer you, and then, no doubt, you'd want me to plan your funeral, if he hasn't killed me first when he sees all this. It's supposed to be in ruins. Desolation! What am I going to do?"

"Rax, never fear. It's very simple. You tell your sisters to prepare his house. Tell 'em I told you Angel adores bright colors. By the time they've finished, poor Angel won't know what you did and what they did. He can't say or do anything to them because he has taken a vow to protect all females. Even the ones who frighten him."

Rax stepped aside to let him go. "Brilliant, Dace! Truly brilliant! They think he is so romantic. I'll just drop a hint, say I'm thinking of having the chimney's swept and do they think it will be enough. Mention colors as an aside. I'll say you told me. That way if he finds out, he won't come after me."

"I've got to get back. God knows what Con is up to. Jim thinks he is parading around pretending to be me while he plays highwayman. Don't worry, Rax, I don't think Angel is coming here. I I am not mistaken, he'll try to kill Con, if I don't do it first. Best to leave him alone if he does venture down from London. And don't let your sisters bully him."

"He won't want to marry one 'em, will he?" Rax grimaced at the thought.

Dace walked towards the berline. "Encourage them to chase Sirrie, instead."

Rax followed him. "You think they don't? It's all your fault. They think the nose is handsome. That is what comes of introducing them to it too early. Being a duke helps him, I suppose. Can you imagine hearing him every day at the breakfast table?" Rax lifted an eyebrow and tried to droop one eyelid. "Good morning, I trust you slept well?" he purred, with such a likeness to Saint Sirin that Dace laughed.

"He is the best of men."

"He likes you." Rax added with a mournful sigh, "Heaven only knows why." He opened the carriage door. "Go home. Live happily ever after. If anything dire happens to you, I intend to comfort Lady Felmont. Consider yourself warned." Rax kissed Lizzie's hand, half waking her from her nap. "Goodbye, Lady Felmont."

Dace spoke low, "Kill Consideration Felmont if he tries to comfort my widow against her will."

Rax waved them away. "My pleasure," he called.
Chapter 36

"We have to stop," Lizzie commanded, when they reached the turn in the road near the Thwaite cottage. She hoped James had done her bidding and made sure no one would be there. "I want to rob someone." She fiddled with the jewels sewn onto her highwayman costume as she lied to her husband. "I think we should rob Bertram Felmont."

"Of his jeweled cane, my love?" Dace rapped on the roof to tell the coachman to halt.

"Why not? As long as we give it back." She couldn't return to the Folly, not yet. She'd been thinking about her plan all the way home.

The viscount opened the door and helped her down. She'd made sure they stopped close to the Thwaite cottage. He sent the carriage off to the Folly and escorted her through the wide farmyard gate into a garden devoted to the kitchen. Flowers peeped among the vegetables. Someone had been weeding, for it was as neat and tidy as Ma herself.

"Is anyone home?" Lizzie asked. She desperately needed to do something and didn't want any witnesses, or anyone close enough to hear.

"No, dear heart, the Thwaites have a boisterous way of welcoming anyone who comes to call. I doubt any are hiding to surprise us." He seemed wary of her.

No doubt he thought her reluctance to return to the Folly was odd. She stifled laughter at the thought of his reaction, though her heart ached with unspoken words. "Can we go inside?" she asked, as if nothing more was on her mind than curiosity.

Lizzie followed Dace and watched him retrieve the key from under a stone near the door. The cottage inside was neatly scrubbed and silent. It looked as if the inhabitants had left just moments before.

"Why are we here, Lizzie?" Dace put his arms around her.

She melted into his embrace. His body tensed and he held her away from him. "Did you want to see the place I grew up in?"

She smiled up at him. "Do you think I never visited Ma? After you'd gone, I often stopped by to make sure she lacked for nothing, and to make sure your father didn't take his bad temper out on her family."

"Thank you, my love, for all you did for them." He bent his head to kiss her. "Are you as reluctant to end our adventures as I am?"

Lizzie slipped deeper into his embrace to find him trembling. "Even if I promise not to chain you to a bed?"

He stroked her back. "My love, if you'd stayed with me and laughed with me, we might both have enjoyed the chains."

"I didn't enjoy it. It made me sad." She rubbed her cheek against him and eased her arms free.

"I know. But you must admit that Gordon and Gladys enjoyed my dilemma immensely. Luckily, Jim had the situation well in hand. He had the twins hold Con for me until you'd gone to bed and I could substitute him for myself." He let her open his coat.

"Is Con still locked up at the Folly?' Not that she cared. She reached up to ease his coat down past his shoulders, taking care not to press on the injured one.

"No, my love, he escaped long ago and has been making mischief ever since." He sighed as she stroked his chest. "Why did we stop here?"

Her heart overflowed with joy, but she couldn't tell him and spoil the fun. "I have to do something...." She eased his coat down to his elbows, trapping his arms behind him. He'd never be able to escape now.

He didn't even seem to notice she had him at her mercy.

"Lizzie, let me confess, I have found a friend in you. If the rest is too much for you, my love, then I ask you to live with me in peace and friendship. I shall wait to make love with my own true love, and simply live in hope at midnight."

She opened his shirt one button at a time, touched by his words, and almost strangled by the lump in her throat. Luckily, she didn't need a voice for what she intended to do next.

Her husband looked down at her. "Lizzie, remember when we made our pact in the library. I told you I wanted to marry for love. I wanted a wife I could love, and one who loved me. I have half my wish. I love you. I want you, you alone to be my wife. How lucky for me you are mine. Even if you never love me in return, I'll love you, Lizzie. I'll love you for the rest of my life."

A muffled sob was all the answer she could manage. She kissed his chest. That got his attention. All his words disappeared into a deep rumble in his chest.

"Lizzie? Are you sure you want to keep the pact? It gives me rights at midnight that I'd renounce to gain your love."

Couldn't he tell that he had her love? She could only nod and stay silent to encourage him with her touch.

Her husband began to vibrate. She gave a muffled sound of encouragement, and positioned him against the kitchen table. She touched him with both hands until he rose on his toes to groan his pleasure.

"Lizzie, I swear I shall live by your pact forever, if you'll live happily with me."

Lizzie looked up and raised an eyebrow. She stayed silent.

"Sweet, lovely Lizzie," he whispered, as all the muscles of his belly moved under one of her hands, she needed the other to hold him. "Could it be you have forgotten that you are still in my power. Didn't I warn you that if you are silent I shall take it for consent?"

A laugh was her only answer. She had him trapped with his arms as good as tied with a rope. She kissed him with a low hum of pleasure as she stroked him, sure he couldn't move.

He growled, "It is daylight and you are silent, my love."

She laughed, content to let love shine from her eyes as she looked up at him.

To her surprise, he shrugged out of his coat and wrapped her in it. "Tell me you love me," he whispered in her sensitive ear.

Lizzie hid her face in his chest. Silent in his arms.

"Speak Lizzie or suffer the consequences." His hands stroked her breasts through all her clothes.

She cupped his bottom and stayed silent. Her hips tilted towards him of their own accord. Her breasts raised for his mouth. Her body spoke for her.

A squeak escaped her when he lifted her to sit on the solid kitchen table while he undressed her. "Speak, Lizzie. This is the last time I ask you. Tell me you love me."

She pulled his shirt off and hooked her legs around him to draw him closer. To want him, and to burn for him, and urge him on. She whispered in his ear, "Spode."

He drew back to look at her.

Lizzie whispered, "Spode, Spode, Spode." She giggled at the look of surprise on his face.

"Minx! Yes, I did get stuck on that word. Did it take this long for you to laugh at me for it?"

She shook her head for an answer and kissed him all over his beautiful body. He laughed with her and began to make love to her.

A mewl sounded in her throat. A sob formed at the beauty of him. She raised her face for his kiss, to let him ravish her lips and then her breasts with gentle nips. To let him take her higher and higher until she cried out and clung to him like one demented.

She dared not speak when he turned her on her belly and raised one of her legs to the table top, not even when he held her down to thrust with long strokes. She dared not speak for fear he'd stop.

At last he held her nestled on his lap in front of the hearth, still inside her. The slightest movement made her tremble with ecstasy. She stared at his knees and hers, at her legs and his.

Lizzie held his hand away from her delicate place. "Dace, I saw no legs wrapped around Con, no legs spread for him. Where were her legs? No feet, no ankles, no legs at all."

She gave a gasp. "You were right! He held his own waist! No wonder he did not stop his disgusting thrusting when I burned his bottom with a candle—to do so would have revealed his pretense. The next time I see him, I shall shoot him."

She gave a great sigh. "Don't stop, why have you stopped? You must Spode me forever!" She tipped her head back for his kiss. All Felmonts were completely insane and that included her.

Hours later, as dawn lit the sky, Lizzie watched Dace sleep. She kissed his shoulder and slipped from the narrow bed in the loft.
Chapter 37

Lizzie entered Felmont's Folly through the door on the rustic level beneath the stairs. Her body sang with laughter in a delightful manner, though she didn't make a sound. The few servants she encountered greeted her with surprise. No one dared question her sudden appearance dressed in disreputable clothing.

The house echoed with her footsteps in the great hall under the dome. All the doors in the west wing were open. She went to see, attracted by the smell of wet plaster and paint. As she entered her mother's bedroom, the workmen stopped to stare at her.

"What happened here?" she asked.

"His lordship took a fit at being locked up, my lady. Fair wrecked the place he did."

Lizzie had not locked Dace in her mother's bedroom, she had locked him in his bedroom next to hers. She was glad Dace had locked Con far from their private rooms.

"When did he escape?" she asked.

"Two days after you went away, my lady. He climbed out the window with his bed sheets knotted together. Aye, he took one of thy horses and we haven't seen hide nor hair of him since."

Lizzie didn't wait to hear more. She had to get some clothes and return to the cottage before Dace woke up. She hurried to his bedroom as fast as she could manage, without actually running. The glass rubies bounced upon her breast. Breathless, she reached her room. The adjoining bedroom door stood open.

Consideration Felmont lay on the viscount's bed, dressed in the viscount's white shirt and dark buckskins with knee-high boots.

"You are back at last!" He leaped to his feet. "Did that devil of a highwayman let you go or did you manage to escape?" Con's face showed the mottled colors of fading bruises.

Lizzie grabbed the poker from the hearth. She turned to find Con Felmont in the doorway with a look of ardent interest on his Felmont face as he stared at her legs clad in trousers. She thrust her weapon in the direction of his nose.

He dared to smile at her. "No wonder you fled from him, Lizzie. How dare that bastard dress you like that? I'll help you escape him." He walked slowly towards her.

"Stop!" Lizzie suddenly doubted her ability to kill Bertram Felmont's son. The old man would be heartbroken. She swung the poker low to hit hip or ankle or something in between.

She closed her eyes to hear the thud of the iron poker on some part of his anatomy.

"Ouch! Damn it, Lizzie. I'm not going to touch you. The kiss was an accident. Hell! Glad you don't have your dogs with you!"

"How dare you fornicate in my bed at Quorr House!" she shouted at him. "How dare you pretend to be my husband! You are nothing but a louse!"

Con had not the grace, nor the conscience, to look ashamed. "Your husband fornicated," he sneered. "Why blame it on me? Why should you care anyway? You never wanted to marry him and he doesn't love you. He'll meet some female he does love and you'll be left to rot here. I adore you, Lizzie. I swear–"

"Don't swear anything," Lizzie interrupted, "and don't speak to me of rotting!" She kept a firm grip on the poker and managed to back him up towards the door. "I want a confession from you. Confess this instant or I shall hit you again."

"You were forced to marry Dace," Con spat out. "You always hated him."

"I never knew him." Lizzie tried to push him through the doorway with her poker but he resisted her efforts to be rid of him.

He tried to grab her hand. "I saw the way he smiled at other women when he was with you at Quorr House. How they courted him. He'd have gone to them as soon as he tired of you. I always suspected he wanted Molly as his mate."

She twisted the poker away. "How very gallant you are, Con. I'll have you know Molly is like a sister to my husband. What you did was awful. It hurt me. You weren't thinking of me, you wanted to make me leave Dace so you could have me. Well, let me tell you, I'll kill you and break your father's heart if you touch me or play such tricks again."

"Lizzie, I've never seen you so fierce. What happened to you?" He looked over her shoulder, as the sound of her dogs was heard on the distance. From the echo, they were in the hall under the dome.

"Confess your part!" she shouted. "You are nothing but a low wretch who cares nothing for honor and truth."

"You think Dace knows of those things?" jeered Con. "Do you think he learned honor and truth at his father's knee? Dace is just like his father, with his low-born whores."

"He is not at all like his father. How can you suggest such a thing? Admit it was you. Admit it now!" Lizzie stopped shouting to listen to her dogs barking and the sound of their paws scrabbling on the Folly's stone floors. "Tell the truth or I shall never forgive you."

"Forgive me? You little wretch, I have devoted myself to you. What has Dace ever done for you?"

"He kept his word after we were married."

"Deuce! I wanted to marry you! You can still get an annulment, Lizzie. You don't have to live with him or let him use you for his whore."

Lizzie gave a guilty start. "Don't speak to me of whores! You are a liar and a cheat. Confess it!"

Before he could answer, her dogs bounded into the room. Lizzie gave a crow of delight and bent to stroke their silken heads. Czarina wore a leash attached to her collar.

"Where have you been?" she asked. Their tongues hung from their mouths. They whined a reply, then, to her astonishment, they went to greet Consideration Felmont.

He patted them, taking care to caress Czarina by pulling her ears and whispering in them. "I don't think your mistress can make you go for me now, can she my sweet?"

Lizzie raised her hand to slap his face, forgetting she held the poker in her hand. The handle poked out of her fist. It met his chin with a resounding thud. Con rocked back on his heels to fall backwards over the end of her bed.

For a moment, she thought she had killed him. His moan and the dogs frolicking about as they barked at what they thought was a game brought her a measure of relief. She caught Czarina by stepping on the leash.

Lizzie decided to see the truth for herself.

To see the burn she'd given him, to prove him wrong, to prove him to be the liar he was. She'd make him confess if it was the last thing she did.

She unfastened Czarina's leash but before she could make use of it, Con awoke with a groan and grabbed for her.

She swung her poker in a low sweep to keep him away. Con moved to stay her arm. She gave a shriek and struck him on the chin with her fist, just as she had hit Edward Anston to make him stop biting her. A most satisfying sound came from Con as he fell to his knees with a dazed look on his face.

Lizzie struggled to get the leash out from under his leg. She was going to tie him up and look for herself.

The dogs jumped around them barking, until Spring pushed her into him. Con crashed to the floor, dragging Lizzie down with him.

The Thwaite twins ran into the room. Arthur and Charles skidded to a halt at the sight of her under Consideration Felmont's arm."

"Gawd!" cried Charles. "Don't look, our Arthur!" Both young men turned their backs.

"Help me," commanded Lizzie. She was in no mood for any more foolishness. "He fell on top of me. Get him off me this instant."

The young men hastened to do her bidding. "Lady Felmont, what have you done to Lord Felmont? Is he still breathing?"

Lizzie helped them push Con off her. She accepted a hand up from Arthur. "That is Consideration Felmont. Look at his nose, it looks just like his father's."

"His nose isn't that bad. It's not long enough by half, my lady, if you don't mind me saying so." At her glare, Charles hurried on, "Aye, it is Mr. Con, he's all bruised still. Lord Felmont did that to him, twas a right mill."

Arthur gave a sly kick to the prone body on the floor. "Is Mr. Consideration dead?"

A timely moan convinced the young man otherwise.

Lizzie prodded the prone man with her poker. "Charles, you must do something for me. I want you to look at his bottom and tell me if he has a wound there."

"By Gawd! This is what comes of living with Felmonts, Arthur. Ma warned us about 'em." Both young men looked at her with disapproval. Charles said, "We'll not help you. Don't ask it of us, my lady. It's not right and it's not proper."

Lizzie said sternly, "If you won't look, then I must. Tie him up for me. Use Czarina's leash to bind his hands behind his back. If you don't bind him, he won't let me prove he is a lying cheat. He might even try to force himself on me, and what would Ma say to that?"

Charles helped his brother bring Con to his feet.

There was a short struggle from the man, who groaned and tried to rub his chin.

Arthur jerked the leash tight. "Tying up Mr. Con is fine with me. He's been sneaking around the Folly for days. But I can't help you by looking at his arse, my lady, begging your pardon, but it's just not right."

"Aye, my lady," said Charles. "It just ain't right."

Lizzie advanced towards Con. "Then I'll look myself. Hold him still."

All three men retreated from her. Consideration shared the same look of stunned horror as the twins did.

"No, my lady," Charles said. "If you want to see that, you should ask our Dace for permission. You can't just go around looking down there just because you want to."

Lizzie walked forward with intent writ in every step. "Tell me the truth, Con, or I shall see for myself." She grasped his belt.

Con gave rueful sigh. "There is no need to look, Lizzie. I confess, it was me. You gave me a good burn there, it still festers a little."

She gave a crow of delight and let go. The twins heaved a sigh of relief.

"Now you are going to confess your sins to Dace and beg his forgiveness." Lizzie poked him with the poker when Con muttered something under his breath. "I didn't hear you."

"You love him, don't you?" Con shrugged. "Even my father loves him. Dace has stolen your heart and he doesn't deserve you."

Lizzie ignored his rubbish. "Charles, Arthur, take this poker and make that reprobate follow me. We are going back up the fell to Ma's cottage."

"Then you aren't going to look at his arse?" asked Arthur.

"Not unless he refuses to confess, then he can show it to Dace and see how he admires what I have done." Lizzie smirked in triumph at Con's disgruntled expression.

Lizzie set off with the twins following along, leading Con to his fate. She heard Charles whisper to his brother, "What has she done to his arse? And why does she want to show it to our Dace?"

Arthur laughed. "The nobs are an odd lot, but you have to admit, they are entertaining."
Chapter 38

"Highway robbery? Here?" Dace stood in Ma's garden, while he scanned the tracks leading over the fell and down to the Folly. He glanced with an innocent air at the magistrate, who had stopped him from setting off on foot to go to the Folly. "Has anyone been robbed?"

"No one," Mr. Whittaker answered with a sorry shake of his head. "That is why I think it a Felmont prank. When you appear, or rather when you disappear, stories abound of a highwayman searching carriages."

"Surely you don't suspect me?" Dace said. He wished for the thousandth time he hadn't robbed Lizzie's mother of the family jewels all those years ago. As it was, he'd let Lizzie throw them into the river. It was that or hide them again.

"There are strange goings on at the Folly, if one listens to gossip. A highwayman stole Lady Felmont, some say, but Mr. Bertram says she is traveling with you. Miss Dyson backs him up or I'd not believe a word of it. Yet here you are with no sign of your wife. Where is she?" Mr. Whittaker raised his eyebrows in a polite query.

Dace muttered a curse. He'd ravished Lizzie again and again until she'd fled. Driven hard by love and lust, he'd taken her silence for consent. Damn! What madness not to have waited until he had enough control over himself to stop after once.

Mr. Whittaker opined, "I suspect Consideration Felmont is behind it all. If he places the blame on you, Felmont, and if you are convicted of highway robbery and executed, then Bertram Felmont inherits the Folly and Consideration lays claim to your lovely bride."

"That is going too far even for a Felmont. Then why hasn't he stolen anything yet?" Dace had difficulty believing Con would dare, not after the beating he'd given him. "It seems odd to me, if he's trying to lay blame on me, why not steal something and get it over with?"

"Too many witnesses can testify you were somewhere else. Now you are here, beware." Mr. Whittaker stared across the fell. "Who on earth is that?" He pointed wildly behind Dace. "Look there! We have our highwayman, make no mistake."

A figure dressed in black, mounted on a familiar black horse, approached on the track to the Folly.

When he got close enough, Dace waved and shouted his invitation. "Angel! Get in here! What the devil are you doing riding that sorry excuse for a nag?" He opened the gate for the pair to enter.

Lucifer let himself be led into the garden by Dace's hand on his bridle. Sweat poured from Angel's face, though Lucifer seemed to have walked the journey.

"Help me down, Dace. I've had to ride through the night. Couldn't get off." Angel moaned as he pulled his feet from the stirrups. "Watch out for his teeth. Lucifer is mad as hell." He wiped the sweat from his chin with the back of his large black gloves. "Had to piss from his back. Couldn't dismount by myself."

"Glad you are here! I need to borrow Lucifer. Let me help you get off." Dace led Lucifer over to a garden bench. He stood on it to carefully drag Angel from the saddle.

"God help me!" Angel sobbed as he lay on the bench. After he'd recovered and examined his belly for fresh blood and found none, he sat up and looked around, still pale from his long internment indoors. He ignored Whittaker to ask, "Where is Lady Felmont?"

Dace closed the gate and gave a half shrug. "My wife," he put a warning emphasis on the words, "has run away. I need to borrow Lucifer before she gets far."

"No." Angel rose to his feet and said in that soft voice Dace knew so well, "Chasing her _once_ is understandable. Kidnapping a woman _once_ to explain and apologize, I condone, but going after her twice is unforgivable. Let her go, Dace, she doesn't want to be with you. Set her free."

"You are mistaken. Lizzie loves me."

"Did your lady say so?" Angel asked.

"No, but first ... after ... afterwards, she was silent, that's how I knew. It's difficult to explain." Dace let Lucifer amble over to crop Ma's vegetable garden as they argued.

"Chase her once, not twice," said Angel. "Never twice. I'll go after her myself to make sure she is safe."

"Like hell you will! She's my wife, she is my love. I must find her."

"She fled because you made love to her, didn't you? When you follow my instructions, all goes well. Fornicate like a Felmont and away she runs. How many times do you need to be hit over the head with the truth? Females are delicate creatures and must not suffer male lust."

"I've got to find her and talk to her. Just talk, if that is all she'll allow." Dace gave a Felmont glare. "I have to do this, Angel. I'm warning you, don't interfere with something you know nothing about."

"I know more about the base nature of man than you will ever know." Angel staggered towards Dace.

"Yes, no one is arguing about that. When you've been married six months come back and we'll talk about it. Your notions about women are wrongheaded."

"They are delicate flowers for man to protect and adore from a distance," Angel said. "Except the ones in the army, masquerading as men. It's best to leave those well alone. Almost killed one by accident. Glad you stopped me."

A gig stopped at the gate. Molly handed the reins to Ma and jumped down to lead the pair in through the gate. She took one look at Angel Anston, then pointed at him with an angry finger. "What do you think you are doing? Sit down at once! There was no need to run off because the Rackham ladies came to enquire after you."

Angel shivered. He sat on the bench. "They were holding a lottery to decide which one was going to marry me."

Dace called to Molly, "Have you seen my wife?"

"No." Molly shook her head. "Ma did you see Lady Felmont?"

Ma kept a nervous eye on the two steady plodders standing placidly in front of her. "Don't say she's gone and run off, our Dace, because I'll not believe it. Totally besotted with you, she is. I said there goes history repeating itself."

Molly led the team further into the garden. Lucifer gave a snort of welcome. "Nay, Dace, we haven't seen her at all, not since she was stolen away in the night by that damned highwayman." She laughed at him. "Don't say she's gone missing, has she?"

Dace ignored Molly's laughter. He went to help Ma down. "What are you doing back here, Ma?"

"I can't stand it down there, our Dace. The house is grand and all, though it is a bit drafty, and full of servants wandering about. I want to do for myself, make a cup of tea when I feel like it, scrub a floor when I want, have an ale without them looking at me like I was queer in the attic. Lud! I would have been, if I'd stayed there much longer."

Ma went over to Angel. He lurched to his feet. She reached up to pat his cheek. "Our Molly has told me all about you. I reckon you're a good lad. You can call me Ma, everyone does."

Dace called out, "Don't be nice to him, Ma. He's going to try to kill me."

"Never! Reckon he has not much chance of doing it, he looks right pale and sickly to me." Ma peered at Angel. "How about a nice cup of tea?"

Dace laughed and called out, "Ma, he intends to skewer me. Don't offer him tea."

Molly surged over. "Fighting? There'll be no fighting. You aren't killing anyone. Do you want to tear yourself open and die?" she asked Angel while she felt his forehead.

Dace gave a snort of disgust worthy of Rax. "Thanks for your vote of confidence, Molly. Don't you think I have a chance of winning?" There was no use arguing that Angel was a suicidal maniac, who would gladly die to save a woman. "You can help Ma make tea for him after he kills me."

Molly thought it all a joke. "What are you fighting Mr. Anston for, our Dace?"

"I want to borrow Lucifer and he won't let me."

Angel spoke with a quiet threat in his voice. "You shan't ride him or any other mount to go after a woman who has run away from you twice." He brushed Molly off and limped towards Lucifer, who tried to bite him when he grabbed the reins.

"Run off?" said Ma, "She's never run off. Maybe Lizzie strolled down to the Folly to kiss her dogs. I'm warning you, our Dace, that Consideration Felmont will snap his jaws and have her. I think he's kidnapped her. I ken it's him going around committing highway robbery. He's looking for your lady wife, when he searches coaches and steals nothing."

"Hellfire!" swore Dace. "Angel! Get away from Lucifer."

"Fight you for him," Angel said, though he swayed on his feet with fatigue. "It's the only way you'll have him."

Molly and Ma converged on Angel to make him sit down on the bench. Lucifer munched on contentedly, sampling flowers among the vegetables.

"Who is this?" Mr. Whittaker asked, much amused by the scene, as a carriage with the Duke of Saint Sirin's arms on the door rolled to a stop by the gate.

Five females squealed, "Help! We've been robbed!"

Dace saw the Duke of Saint Sirin wince at the sound as he helped them down.

"Dace!" cried Miss Rackham. "Oh look, Mr. Anston is here." She straightened her bonnet. "The duke rescued us. He found us beside the road. We were trying to walk to Felmont's Folly after a highwayman stole our carriage and our brother."

"Are you hurt?" Dace rushed over to them.

"No, but the robber took Rax away with a pistol at his back."

"What!" Mr. Whittaker eyed the Rackham ladies in disbelief. "Stole your brother, you say? Did he steal anything else?"

The youngest girl wailed, "No, he took Raxie away to kill him."

Sirrie patted her shoulder. "Don't cry. We shall find Rackham, never fear."

"Hellfire!" swore Dace. "Did he touch any of you?"

Miss Rackham shook her head. "When he saw we were only females, he declined to rob us. I think the highwayman is insane. He gurgled in an awful way when he discovered Raxie was with us. Nothing could prevent him from taking our brother away from us at gunpoint."

"You don't think it was my wife, do you? Why would she kidnap Rax?" asked Dace. "She said she wanted to rob someone yesterday."

An embarrassed silence reigned. The sudden babble of words made him wish he had not asked. They were females, they could not keep their suspicions to themselves. There were numerous theories espoused, none of which pleased Dace.

Mr. Whittaker approached him. "I fear I must arrest you, Felmont. Your only hope is for the fellow to strike again while I hold you prisoner. That way, no one can believe he is you."

The duke bestirred himself to speak. "No one has been kidnapped, my dear sir. We rehearse a comic opera," purred Saint Sirin. "Ladies, you must learn to sing your parts."

The Rackham girls stared at the duke, stunned into silence.

"I am your highwayman." Angel Anston waved a black-gloved hand from his place on the bench. "Are we using the Mozart tune in this part?" He lay down on the bench to hum scales to himself.

Rax's voice spoke from the stile between the rose bushes. "Would someone kindly inform my kidnapper that I have no intention of being forced to marry her, admirable though her taste may be."

He climbed over the stile with difficulty, his hands were tied behind his back. He was followed by a masked individual holding a pistol. "I mean, who can blame her for choosing me? There lies the crux of the matter. Never again shall I fall in love with a pretty face. To be admired for mine is not as great a compliment as I thought it might be." Rax sighed mournfully. "Approach with caution, the lady is armed and dangerous."

He turned to answer his captor's whisper. "Forgive me, dearest Clarissa, I hesitated to use your name in case you wished to remain unknown."

The lady hissed in his ear.

Rax flinched. "Yes, I suppose witnesses to our wedding may need to know your name."

Dace joined in the laughter. Mr. Whittaker guffawed and went quite red in the face until Molly fanned him with a rhubarb leaf. Ma almost sat on Angel by mistake when her legs went weak.

"Heaven help me!" Rax exclaimed. "Do stop laughing, Dace. I saw your wife crossing the Folly's garden on my way up here. Was she desperate to wear some clothes? I noticed you were not with her. She looked happy, fairly skipped into the place."

Angel raised his head. "Lady Felmont had no clothes? You'll meet me for this, Dace."

"Heavens! Sorry, didn't see Anston lying on the bench." Rax hastened into his explanation. "Lady Felmont had clothes, odd clothes, but she was not naked by any means." He sighed. "God help you, Dace, has your wife forgiven you for what you had painted on the dome? How he talks me into arranging these things for him is—ouch! Really must insist you don't poke me with that pistol, Clarissa. I shall be black and blue on our wedding night at this rate."

Aunt Clarissa breathed heavily behind her mask. Her hoarse whisper reached Dace's ear. "Marry me now." The pistol poked again.

Bertram Felmont's voice came from the track beside the wall. "That is my pistol, I believe. It cannot be loaded as it is not in working order. Dear Clarissa, Harry has been worried about you. Leave Rackham alone, he is far too wet behind the ears for so sophisticated a lady as you."

The Rackham ladies swarmed their brother with squeals of delighted relief that he could not be shot, forcing Aunt Clarissa to look for another to worship. She eyed Angel with interest and went to stand over him, breathing noisily in her odd way.

Dace glanced over to see Bertram Felmont, dressed in a new set of clothes, sitting next to Gladys in a smart brougham.

"Gladys, what are you doing with him?" asked Dace. He hoped he was wrong about the bouquet of flowers she held and the expression on her face.

"Actually," drawled Bertram Felmont, "Congratulations are in order. May I introduce my wife? Mrs. Felmont consented to wed me today by special license."

"Hellfire! Never be rid of you now," said Dace. "You have my best wishes for your happiness, both of you. Suppose this means you'll be living in the dower house now, Gladys. What is Lizzie going to do without you?"

"We could move into the Folly, if you want the company?" said Bertram Felmont with a ghost of a smile.

Dace climbed up to kiss the bride's cheek, to her great delight.

"Oh, Lord Felmont, I am so happy." Gladys beamed at him. "If this is a dream, I hope I never wake up."

"Is that my son over there, with dear Cousin Elizabeth?" asked the old man with less than his usual composure.

Everyone rushed to line the low wall to see.

Dace ran to meet Lizzie, to embrace her in front of everyone. "Lizzie, you frightened me half to death. What happened? Where have you been?" he asked in between kisses. Damn the audience! He held her close to his heart.

His wife took a deep breath. She said loudly enough for everyone to hear her. "I have killed the viscount so you can take his place, my beloved highwayman. I love you."

Mr. Whittaker snorted in surprise. "It has come to my attention that there are far too many highwaymen here." He turned to the Duke of Saint Sirin. "Have any of these people robbed you?"

Saint Sirin raised an eyebrow. "All of them."

"Now is not the time for frivolous answers," said Mr. Whittaker. "I have been informed that Lady Felmont was abducted by a robber. Yet here she is declaring she has killed the man I see standing before me."

Saint Sirin hummed a tune under his breath. "They are all auditioning for a role in my version of the Beggar's Opera. Do you sing? Bass, if I am not mistaken. You could audition for the part of the magistrate, if you wish?"

Lizzie laughed at the expression on Mr. Whittaker's face. "I came here with my husband to audition with our friends. Who said I'd been kidnapped?"

Charles and Arthur poked Consideration along with great glee, while her dogs ran back and forth in front of them.

Con spoke up, he nodded towards Dace. "That scoundrel stole Lady Felmont away from the Folly. He ravished her while he kept her prisoner. Damned if I don't wish she had murdered her husband."

Lizzie turned on Con. "Charles, Arthur, remove his trousers!" The three of them stared at her, horror written on their faces.

She looked over at the brougham. "Gordon told me you had wed, my dears." She climbed up with Dace's help to kiss Gladys and whisper in Bertram Felmont's ear, "Stop your son before someone else does, permanently!"

Con forced his way to his father's side of the brougham. "She kidnapped me, Father! She said she'd shoot me. I am to marry the duke's sister or I'm doomed."

"A duke's sister?" said Bertram Felmont. "Has she any fortune?"

"How should I know?" Con tried to untie the leash binding his wrists. "I only met her once. Bitter old maid, touched in the head for all I know. Saint Sirin's sister, the old ugly one."

Saint Sirin said coldly, "If you think I'd let you near any of my other sisters, you are very much mistaken." He gave a Gallic shrug of disdain. "You have a good voice, it might do for the highwayman role."

"Good lord, why didn't someone tell me the duke was here." Con looked contrite. "No offense meant, Sirrie, none at all. I thought that was Rax imitating you."

"That's right, Con, blame everything on me," said Rax. "As if I haven't suffered enough humiliation today." He tutted at his sisters. "Would one of you stop your cries of delight long enough to untie me?"

"Lady Estelle is a very scary lady," called Angel from the garden bench. He muttered to himself, "Almost as scary as Rackham's sisters. Of course, Lady Felmont is the scariest of them all—she hit me." With a weary growl, he let Aunt Clarissa hold one of his gloved hands.

Lizzie giggled and linked her arm with Dace's. She spoke to him alone. "Con is always getting his lines wrong. Shall I say mine again? I love you and only you. I've killed the viscount and want you, my beloved highwayman, to take his place."

His heart leaped and bounded in his chest. "Really, Lizzie? Don't you have a pact with your husband that you need to feel safe?"

"No, the Beast is dead and so is the silly pact. Love needs no pact and I need only you, my beloved highwayman, to love with all my heart, forever and ever." Lizzie beamed at him and whispered, "Let's go home, I have some Spode I want to show you."

Everyone cheered as they walked away laughing, hand in hand.

Angel was glad he didn't have to try to kill anyone, especially Dace.

"Are you all still rehearsing?" asked Mr. Whittaker.

Saint Sirin watched Dace and Lizzie stroll down the track toward Felmont's Folly. "They are off to practice their roles in private."

"Ain't love grand!" said Ma. "Shall I make us all a nice cup of tea?"
Epilogue

A year later.

Lizzie held her sleeping baby in her arms under the dappled shade at the edge of the Priory lawn. Flowerbeds strewn over the green grass were alive with humming insects. Saint Sirin sat on the chair beside her, swishing a fern frond with a languid hand to keep the curious bees away.

"Will they ever notice him?" she whispered. It was all she could do not to laugh at Angel standing still, covered with tufts of green paper scales, in the middle of a circular flowerbed. A slight breeze from the river ruffled the flowers and the peacock feathers decorating his helmet.

The duke called out, "You are very, very close."

Two little girls clutched their wooden swords and looked around, holding onto Dace by a leather strap around each of his wrists.

Dace gave a frightened whinny and pranced over the lawn "I smell dragon! Nearby! Oh help, Saint George! Save me from the dragon! He'll eat me! Help!"

Angel stood like a statue amid the flowers, not even blinking.

The little girls shrieked and looked around. They allowed Dace to pull free from his reins and watched him run around the flowerbed. Suddenly, the dragon sprang to life with a roar. He lunged out at Dace and flung him onto his back.

With savage roars of triumph and one scaly foot on Dace's chest, the dragon called, "I have killed Saint George and now I shall eat him!"

Dace raised his head. "Sorry to point this out, Angel, you have only got Saint George's horse. Beware! Saint Georges, both of you, attack him to save me!"

The two little girls raised their swords and ran towards the dragon. Angel took one look and fled, scattering paper scales and most of his tail.

Lizzie laughed as he flew past her. "It wouldn't be half as funny if we didn't know he really is afraid of them."

"He adores them from a distance," said the duke. "He even likes being chased. Angel simply has an aversion to getting caught and dying." Even Sirrie couldn't keep his dignity when the two girls ran after Angel, with panting breath and tin whistle screams of excitement, stopping only for a moment to collect his tail for a trophy.

She laughed with the duke until Dace came over to join them.

Sirrie gave up his chair and strolled off to rescue the dragon from the miniature Saint Georges.

Lizzie raised her face for Dace's kiss. "He's sleeping."

"Not even roaring dragons disturb our son." Dace stroked the soft cheek. "Edward Dominic James Felmont, you are braver than your namesake. You must take after your mother."

"He takes after his father. Handsome and brave." And warm, and loving, and true.

Dace raised an eyebrow and drawled, "Even with the Felmont nose?"

"There is nothing wrong with Edward's nose."

"Not yet," warned Dace.

"Silly man! I adore the family nose." She kissed Dace on the nose to make him laugh. "Edward will grow up to be as handsome as you are!"

The End

Connect with me online http://maggiejaggerauthor.blogspot.ca

Other books by Maggie Jagger

LORD JASPER'S ANGEL

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PERFECT OBEDIENCE A BRIDE'S VOW

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