The Dangerous Love of a Rogue

JANE LARK

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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2015

Copyright © Jane Lark 2015

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Cover design by Zoe Jackson

Jane Lark asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

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and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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Ebook Edition © January 2015 ISBN: 9780007594665

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Praise for Jane Lark

“Jane Lark has an incredible talent to draw the reader in from the first page onwards.”

Cosmochicklitan Book Reviews

"Any description that I give you would not only spoil the story but could not give this book a tenth of the justice that it deserves. Wonderful!"

Candy Coated Book Blog

"This book held me captive after the first 2 pages. If I could crawl inside and live in there with the characters I would."

A Reading Nurse Blogspot

“The book swings from truly swoon-worthy, tense and heart wrenching, highly erotic and everything else in between.”

BestChickLit.com

“I love Ms. Lark's style—beautifully descriptive, emotional and can I say, just plain delicious reading? This is the kind of mixer upper I've been looking for in romance lately.”

Devastating Reads BlogSpot

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Jane Lark

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Epilogue

Author Note

Also by Jane Lark…

Jane Lark

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Prologue

It was a renowned truth, that any world-worn rogue, without a feather to fly with, must be on the hunt for a wife, or rather her dowry. As the parody of Miss Austen’s verse, from her charming little novel about country life, ran through Drew’s head, a sound of mocking humour rumbled through his chest and he leaned a shoulder against the false pillar in the Earl of Derwent’s ballroom watching town life.

The pillar was wooden, painted to look like marble. Like everyone in this damned room, it was a farce. A shallow image. A performance… Nothing here was what it seemed. Society lived a damned lie and he had lived it for a lifetime.

He was a bastard, sold by his mother to her husband as worth the risk of giving her naturally born son his family’s name to keep up the façade and to save the reputation of the Framlington title.

Damn the title…Damn the bloody name… Drew had no interest in either.

He was bored of this. Bored of pretence. Bored of the games these people and he played. Bored of the face he displayed to the world and bored of the man who suffered all this behind a closed door.

He wished to escape it. He had a plan. Of course plans required money. But his plan covered that. He was seeking a well-dowered young woman to take as his wife, and therefore earn himself an instant fortune. A fortune which he would use to pack up his bags and retire to a quiet life, away from town, away from this… Perhaps he would experience life then just as Miss Austen wrote it. Or was ‘Country Life’ an equal façade? Never mind wherever he went, he would not live behind a façade. He’d had his fill of charades.

“Have you seen Marlow’s daughter?” Mark leaned to Drew’s ear. “She would be a prize.”

Drew looked at his friend and lifted his shoulder away from the pillar, straightening up. “I have.”

“She looks remarkable.”

“She does indeed.” He’d been watching her. She was on his list of potential wives.

“Are you intending to try her?”

“I would be a fool if I did not. Look at her…” Yet the she in question, Miss Mary Marlow, was as far above his reach as the sun. The step-sister of a duke – with a bastard… It was not a match that would be desired by the sweet young miss’s mama and papa.

Yet Miss Marlow was the most appealing to the eye and Drew had been awaiting his moment to explore his opportunity with her. The time had come. He’d not been standing here for his pleasure. He’d been standing here waiting for Miss Marlow to complete her dance.

“Then what are you waiting on.” Mark laughed, spotting the same opportunity.

Not a thing. Drew glanced over his shoulder and gave his friend a wicked smile before turning to walk about the edge of the room.

Miss Marlow was in a set close to him and the dance was drawing to its conclusion. Drew positioned himself so that when it ended her back was turned him. She stood three feet away; he could feel her exuberance even though he could not see her face or her smile. Yet he knew she was smiling, she’d smiled throughout every dance tonight.

Mary Marlow was in her first season, newly launched upon the marriage market, and he was here to trade. But what his friends did not know was that as much as he desired her money, he desired innocence. His heart and mind were jaded and bitter. He longed for the refreshing invigoration of innocence. God knew, he’d never been given the blessing of innocence in his life; he’d been born into the world of sin. Born of sin and raised in sin.

Miss Marlow’s partner lifted her hand to his lips and bowed.

Drew stepped forward. “Miss Marlow.” He said her name as though they’d been introduced and he had a right to use it, speaking before the man had chance to offer to lead her back to her mother.

She looked at him, her expression confused, but then she smiled, and it was as though the sun rose in the room which was already illuminated by several hundred candles in the chandeliers.

Her smile said, “I am not sure I know you, sir.” Yet a young woman like her would never be rude enough to ask.

When her companion let her go, Drew captured her hand, as if he had a right to that too. He felt as though he did. She had become his favourite choice as a bride the minute she’d smiled at him and not turned away. “May I have the next dance?”

He did not push things too far, he did not kiss her hand, yet he let his gloved fingers slide up her wrist a little to touch her skin, as if the gesture was accidental. She lowered into a sweet perfectly correct curtsy and looked up an instant before she rose.

Beautiful.

Her eyes were an unusual blue, an extremely pale rim of colour surrounding the dark pupils that looked at him in question. “Who are you? Do I actually know you, sir?” Too polite to ask those questions she simply continued to pretend they had been introduced. They had not.

If he could have picked a tune it would have been the waltz, but the first waltz was not until later and he had no wish to lose the chance of the distance from her family. They were at the far end of the ballroom, in their usual pack. The Pembrokes. Although Pembroke was not the name the family went by as a whole, the old Duke had had four girls, and they’d all married exceptionally well, apart from Mary’s mother, who had at first married a soldier, who’d died, and then settled on the second son of an earl. But the son from her first marriage had inherited the title and given Miss Marlow a very attractive dowry, and so Mary was simply a Miss and yet a powerful match as a duke’s sister, and innocent.

“I believe you should stand here, and I there…” Drew said to her look of confusion.

There was another quick smile, which was far more fleeting than the first. She was perhaps realising she had made an error. He smiled to ease her concern. “I shall admit we have not been introduced. You must forgive me for taking the liberty of breaking the rules, Miss Marlow.” The music commenced.

He stepped forward and took her hand in the format of the dance, then completed a shoulder to shoulder turn.

“I should walk away immediately.”

“Indeed you should. But is it such a sin for a man to find you so utterly beautiful he cannot wait even another moment, or at worse another dance, to find some party who might introduce him?”

“That is the course of a gentleman.”

“It is indeed.” He leaned to her. “There you have me; perhaps I am not a gentleman…” He said it in a voice to tease her, the voice he knew earned him a little more money from the women who asked for his favour. Her head turned instantly, but then her gaze dropped to the lopsided rogue’s smile he threw at her and she laughed.

“You are a gentleman. You would not be here if you were not.”

So innocent… so blind. Such a novelty.

What he would give for that blindness.

“So are you enjoying your season, Miss Marlow?”

Her answering smile was softened then. “Yes. I have had to wait patiently, because we’ve been in mourning for my grandsire, but I cannot tell you how wonderful it is to finally be out. My cousins, who are older, have been full of stories and made me long for this. Now finally I have my moment.”

Yes, she did. “Tell me how it compares to the things you must have dreamed…” As they talked their steps followed the intricate country dance, but the blessing of it was, he had by chance chosen a country dance that did not separate them.

“It does not compare, I could not have imagined this…”

“You lie, surely you knew you would be in a room full of young men making fools of themselves for young women, and old men being bores, and young women who giggle at the slightest word.” and older women… like his mother… he did not even wish to think of them.

“So you think I giggle like an idiot.” There was a little annoyance in her voice.

As they made another turn he took the opportunity to press his palm against her side, below her breasts. Her body slid across his fingers as she followed the pattern of the dance. He only touched her for an instant, as if it was to stop her stumbling, yet her whole body jolted.

“Forgive me. I thought you’d missed a step.”

“You thought—”

“No I did not.” He leaned to her ear as he stepped forward. Her hair brushed his cheek. “I simply wish this were a waltz and I had the opportunity to hold you.”

He stepped back. There was a sparkle in her dark pupils, and he saw her heartbeat flickering beneath her skin at the base of her neck.

The woman was charming.

“Yet it is not a waltz, and so you should refrain…”

Finally he was challenged, her pause awaited his name. It had taken her long enough. “Lord Framlington.”

As they walked around the back of the couple beside them she looked as though she searched her memory for his name, yet when they came into the middle of a ring of six there was no light of recognition in her eyes. The Duke of Pembroke had not mentioned his name to her then.

“I like you, Miss Marlow. You are pretty and sensible,” he said, as they came back together – and innocent and wealthy.

“I cannot say I like you in return, I do not know you.”

He smiled at her little jab. “Know you or not, I like and admire you.” It was true, the girl was claiming his entire interest the more the dance progressed. She was perfect.

“Indeed.” She laughed, a light, jolly sound, not a forced jubilant creation developed to draw attention.

The girl was doing something to his soul, he felt as though he was bathing in her innocence, baptised in it, his sins washed away. “It is no jest, and no falsity, you are charming. A man would be a fool if he did not see it.”

“So you are telling me you are no fool.”

“I have never been a fool, Miss Marlow.” Another step forward brought them together. “I am interested in you.” He whispered it into her ear.

Her head pulled back. “Interested…”

He let his lips tilt into a smile. “Yes. Very. Immensely. As I said I like you.”

“My Lord, you may speak as though you know me, but you do not.”

“Such a sensible head, you only interest me more…”

Damn it, there was probably only a dozen steps left and beyond those dancing Drew saw her father in a discussion with her brother, Pembroke. The Duke must have recently arrived. They both glanced across the room.

Drew looked at Miss Marlow, his time with the beauty was at an end. “I am the son of a Marquis…” In theory, and yet if he was to sell himself he must sell his best side. “You may hear bad things of me, but disregard them. Judge me by the man you see. Admittedly I am not like the young men I see you dancing with—”

“You have been watching me.”

“Did I not already say that I admire you? Why would I not watch you to learn more about you and be sure what I think is true?”

“What do you think?”

“That I shall be a very lucky” and wealthy, “man, if I were to win you… You are a beauty.” He would guess if she looked about this room she would only see the light, the flowers, the beautiful dresses and people’s smiles. Like looking at that damned wooden pillar, unless you touched it, or tapped it, unless you knew, you would not know the lie beneath the paint.

Damn it, if he chose to marry her he would lock her up to protect her innocence.

The music ceased; her fingers were in his as the dance was completed. She would have pulled them free but he refused to let go.

She lowered in a curtsy.

Half the room would be laughing behind their smiles as they watched his game play, thinking the poor woman the fool he’d just told her he never was. He did not wish her thought a fool either, though.

As she rose, she smiled.

Her eyes said she liked him, even if she had not said it with her lips.

She’d taken him at his word, and she was judging him by what she saw, not by the history that had woven around him like a web for years… Rogue… Rake… Bastard… Unwanted son… Unwanted entirely…

“My father,” she breathed as her hand slipped from his. He felt the loss like something had been taken from him.

“Remember me as I am.”

She gave him another tentative smile and then her fingers gripped her dress to lift it away from her feet and she turned towards her father.

Drew watched her cross the floor then join her family. Her father leant to her ear and spoke hurriedly. She glanced back. Drew smiled. She smiled in return but it quivered with uncertainty. She knew now. Her father had just told her.

Do not dance with that rogue…

Damn the man, and damn these people. Drew turned away, to return to his friends, to return to his life, but he had ambitions, and now his ambitions leaned heavily towards Miss Mary Marlow, though winning the girl would be a challenge, there was no denying that.

“Drew, come to my room tonight…” for God’s sake, he had just bathed in innocence and now he was dirty again. He’d lied when he’d said he was unwanted entirely, one element of society welcomed him willingly. Women of his mother’s ilk.

Her removed Lady Worton’s hand from the front of his trousers, pressing his thumb into her palm so she would yield her grip on his crotch. “I am afraid I am not inclined, Bets. Find another toy tonight.”

He did not wait to hear the woman’s reply. He was so damned bored of his life. He’d fallen into it, never chosen it. Been damned well born into, like a whore into a brothel, and for years he’d enjoyed the sex, and the money and gifts the women gave him, but there had come a point he wished to be able to do as he chose – be free to live as he chose – and the only way to achieve it was to marry money.

“Drew!” Another of his friends, Peter, lifted a hand. Drew did have some people he appreciated.

“Peter. You are late. Where have you been?”

“I have been…” As Drew listened to his friend, he turned to face the room.

Miss Marlow was not dancing the next, she stood with her father receiving a scalding by all appearances, while her brother was with a woman in a knot of the family who crowded around them.

Drew looked at Peter. “Who is that with Pembroke?” The Pembroke women, including Miss Marlow, were all dark haired, it was one of the strongest characteristics of their beauty; jet black hair and pale skin and then pale blue eyes about onyx pupils, but this woman was blonde.

“Pembroke’s bride. I came in just before them. He’s taken a wife.”

Good Lord. That was a lark. No one would have expected the man to marry for years. He was not like his sister, his heart was made from stone, and he was no more innocent than Drew. They had travelled in the same circles on the grand tour. Pembroke had been one of the women’s toys too. But he’d walked away from it years ago. Yet he’d been tarnished by it even then.

“Why?” Peter gripped Drew’s shoulder.

“Oh for no reason, I simply wondered.”

“I thought you were interested in the sister, you will hardly have a chance there if you pitch for the man’s wife.”

Drew laughed and looked back over, Mary’s father had ceased talking to her but now her mother was speaking to her. Miss Marlow glanced across the room, her eyes seeking Drew out.

An odd sensation leapt in his chest. He would have said it was his heart, but like Pembroke, he did not really have one. That had been kicked far too many times in his life. Her mother said something else and Miss Marlow looked away.

Drew looked at Pembroke again. Drew liked Miss Marlow. She fulfilled all that he was seeking. Yet Pembroke would never let Drew near his little sister. That thought was a punch in the gut. Another rejection, and a rejection from a man who could have no moral standing over Drew.

It was bloody tempting to pitch for Pembroke’s wife, solely to kick the man back.

If Pembroke had earned himself a wife and a second chance, than why could he not offer Drew the same?

“Stop drooling over the fair Miss Marlow, come and play cards.”

“I ought not, I ought to dance with every woman with a dowry if I am to find one fool enough to take me.”

“There is no hurry for you to choose a woman. If you need funds I’ll pay. Come and play. I am need of your company; Mark and Harry are already playing so I need another man I trust for my pair.”

“Very well.”

Drew played a few hands of cards at the tables with his friends for an hour; they did not normally attend such affairs, but Derwent’s wife was in Drew’s mother’s set, and so any young man with ill-morals had been encouraged to attend. It would end in an orgy later, but by then he and his friends would be gone. He had never been into those sorts of games.

“I am out.” He’d played for long enough.

If he wished to escape his current life, he must return to the task of looking for a new one.

“Then you must settle what you owe.”

Fortune had played against him. Drew looked at Peter who nodded as a hand moved to his pocket. Drew rose. “Good evening, gentleman.” he said to the others about the table, but then he shared a look with Peter that said I shall see you in a while. His friend smiled.

It was all well and good to have a generous wealthy friend, but how could a man respect himself when he lived off his friend like a leach, or from services rendered to the older women of society. They saw society’s untitled sons as a pack of male whores. The devil take this life. He no longer wished for it.

Of course there were lucky untitled sons, those who had fathers who paid for a commission in the army, or the clergy. Framlington would never have deemed to give Drew that. He had given Drew nothing bar his name, his food, and limited clothing, from Drew’s birth until his fifteenth birthday. Then Drew had learned a way to earn freedom from his false father’s house. Only to tie himself up in a new hell.

He should have saved the money the women gave him and paid for his commission into the army, but he’d been young, and greedy, and he’d celebrated his new wealth playing hard at the tables and buying whatever he wished. Of course then the debt had begun, and the debt had sucked him deeper into the power of his mother’s set of friends; though friends was an ambiguous word. Yet they had paid his duns for years, but never enough to fully clear his debt.

He returned to the ballroom to look for his prize – a young woman with a dowry of reasonable size, one that would clear his debt fully, and finally, and enable him to set up his life as he wished.

His eyes were immediately drawn to Miss Marlow’s dark curls, which bounced against her shoulders as she skipped through the steps of another country dance. He truly liked the girl. She’d become his preference tonight.

But he should not put all his eggs in one basket, as people said. He looked across the room at another debutante, a lady with auburn hair whom he’d danced with thrice. She was not as pleasing on the eye as Miss Marlow and yet her dowry was equally substantial.

As he passed a set, a woman was spun out of the last turn of a dance breathing hard. Her gaze met his.

Pembroke’s newly acquired wife.

She had blue eyes, but they were not as pale a blue as her sister-in-law’s.

Damn it, but he was tempted to play a game. He knew if he settled on Miss Marlow, then Pembroke would fight him all the way. Pembroke had turned his back on the life Drew led, and now treated all those who’d no choice but to live it, as if they were scum. Drew could teach Pembroke a lesson with this.

As Pembroke’s wife’s partner bowed over her hand elegantly Drew saw Pembroke speaking with Lady Elizabeth Ponsonby, Drew’s sister. She was older than Drew, older than Pembroke, and of Framlington’s blood, and she’d adopted and thoroughly enjoyed their mother’s way of life.

She was the one who had pulled Pembroke into their set on the grand tour. Pembroke had been as innocent and stupid as his little sister then. Like a baby, newly born, presented to the women in a linen cloth. Here is another young male for you to mislead.

Drew never spoke to Elizabeth. They did not acknowledge their connection.

Yet on this occasion Drew was grateful to her.

Pembroke would be occupied for a while; if Elizabeth was interested in him again she would not let him escape easily.

“Your Grace.” Drew grasped the fingers of the Duke of Pembroke’s hapless young bride as soon as her former companion walked away. The woman looked a little lost… a lost sheep… “Would you dance with me?”

She had large blue eyes, which looked her confusion.

“Oh, of course…” Just like her sister-in-law she was too polite, too innocent and naïve, to deny him.

Of all the dances, it was a waltz.

Perfect.

He took her hand and brought her close, so her breasts pressed to his chest. She stepped back.

This was going to be amusing at least, and perhaps if she was so newly innocent, if she could be persuaded, sharing a bed with her might actually be enjoyable.

He span her several times, gripping her firmly as her hold was so light it felt as though she tried not to touch him at all. “So where did you meet Pembroke?”

“I… Near Pembroke Place, Lord Framlington.”

She did know who he was then.

“Is your marriage as blissful as you hoped…” he was being sarcastic.

Her mouth opened, but she did not answer, as though she didn’t know what to say. Well there it was then. Another cold loveless society marriage that would end in shame, and sin. He did not wish it for himself. He wished for more in the marriage he sought, underneath all else, he sought loyalty too. He may have cuckolded dozens, but he did not wish for that from his wife.

Drew saw Pembroke over her shoulder, whispering with Elizabeth, already perhaps agreeing to play his poor wife false. Drew had an urge to play the same game, why should Pembroke have what Drew wished for and then treat it ill.

Besides Drew had been brought up to be wicked. He leaned to the Duchess’s ear speaking as he spun her again, toning his voice to the pitch of seduction. “Pembroke is dull. Perhaps when you tire of him you might think of me. I would be willing to warm your bed if it is cold.”

The woman snapped her head back, as though he’d slapped her, and the look on her face implied horror. “I will never tire of my husband, my Lord…”

Her rejection was an insult, another kick. He wished to be good enough for a woman like this. “But there is much to be said for variety, my dear, and your husband knows it, look, see, he’s speaking with my sister, an old flame he probably wishes to rekindle.”

She looked as he turned her, her head turning as he turned, so she could keep looking at Pembroke. When she looked back at Drew pain shone in her eyes, pain and something else… She cared for Pembroke. Truly cared. Her eyes were shimmering with tears, and she had bitten her lip to stop them falling. Her fingers clawed on his shoulder and gripped his hand a little harder as though she was saving herself from falling as much as trying to prevent her tears.

His hand, which had been seductively spread across her back to feel the movement of her body beneath her gown, now slid a little downwards, to hold her up if needs be, as they took the last few turns.

He did not know what to say.

When he looked beyond her, unable to look at her eyes filled with sparkling tears, he saw Pembroke coming. The man had disposed of Elizabeth and was crossing the room with a look of thunderclouds in his eyes, walking through the dancers for God sake.

Pembroke did not in general show his emotion. Drew had truly believed him no more movable than stone. He had thought this woman had been selected to be a future Duchess and was on the verge of a life of hell. But the look in Pembroke’s eyes, the anger, implied the man felt as much for his wife as his wife clearly felt for him. Drew had made an error in this.

Fortunately before Pembroke collided with a couple the dance came to its natural end, and when he reached them, as the last notes played, he gripped his wife’s arm, with a force that said, she is mine and no one else will touch her. Then he hissed at Drew. “I’d already made a note this evening to warn you off – I do not want you dancing with my sister – and now I see I must also warn you off my wife. Just so that you know, Framlington, hunting my sister is pointless, I would not agree the match and never pay you her dowry, and if you touch my wife again, I’ll kill you.”

Drew smiled as he stepped away from the Duchess. He wished to laugh. Well who would have known that Pembroke had a heart? And who would have known that Pembroke could make a woman fall for him so deeply.

As Drew walked away he saw Miss Marlow, Pembroke’s sister, being returned to her parents, by her latest partner. Her gaze turned to Drew, as it had earlier. He smiled and nodded slightly in recognition.

She had not heeded her brother’s and her father’s warnings.

He returned to the fake marble pillar and watched Miss Marlow. She spoke with her family as her dance partner walked away.

Several of the men in the Pembroke group had hands resting at their wives’ waists, and the couples stood close, barely inches between them. Some of them had been married for years…

The Earl of Barrington turned and said something to his wife, then kissed her lips. Barrington was Mary’s uncle on her father’s side, and Drew had heard he’d been a rake, as wicked as they came, until he’d married. Now he was never in town unless he was with his wife.

Wiltshire, another Duke, The Duke or Arundel, who was as hard-nosed as Pembroke, laughed about something, then mid-conversation he turned and looked at his wife, lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them, then merely turned and continued the conversation.

Drew saw Marlow lean and say something in his wife’s ear and she looked up at him and smiled then shook her head laughing, her answer from him was a kiss on the cheek and another whisper as he gripped her fingers and then kept a hold of her hand.

They were all affectionate. Every pair. Mothers with their husbands, and the elder daughters with theirs. He was looking at a utopia. Of course it could be as false as the damned pillar he leaned against. But if it were true…

If it were true then there was no doubt about his choice. If Miss Marlow was as capable of constancy as the other woman in her family, why would he choose another?

Yet it would not be easy to win her. They would wrap her up and keep her away from him now. But he wished to be sure of this. He wanted to be confident in the fidelity of his wife, and he now wished for something new, after tonight… How could he expect a loyal wife if he did not ask the same of himself? He wished to know that he could be faithful to the wife he chose too. He knew exactly what he wanted now. He wanted what the Pembrokes had. Commitment… Exclusivity… Constancy… Even affection… perhaps…

He had made his choice, for a wife. He wished for Miss Marlow, but he would wait and not rush – to be certain. He had a little more credit he could call on, his need for her dowry was not desperate.

“Are you ready to retire?” Peter’s hand settled on Drew’s shoulder.

Drew also had a friend with generous pockets.

“Aye.” Drew straightened, looking back at his friends, Peter, Harry and Mark, his brothers… His family. “Did you fair better than I?”

“Richest of us did.” Mark quipped. “The man who does not need it.”

“I won back your losses and more.” Peter clarified. “So I say that earns us a drink and a pretty bird of paradise each.”

“I’ll take the drink, but I shall pass on the whore…”

Spending the money he’d earned from the women he now hated, on younger, prettier women of his choice, had been the way he’d balanced his soul for years, a little silent kick in the teeth of his mother’s friends. But now he was done with women until he took a wife. The thought of sleeping with a woman other than the one he’d chosen for marriage was now abhorrent.

“Then I shall have yours as well as mine.” Harry laughed.

Drew smiled at his friends, but as they walked from the ball, he glanced at Peter. The only one of them who usually attended these sorts of events with Drew. “What do you know of the Pembrokes? The sisters, and their daughters…”

* * *

Mary was sitting on her bed, with her knees bent up and gripped in her arms. Her bare toes peeped from beneath her nightgown. She watched her mother put her garments away; she’d dismissed the maid.

“Mama, why did you favour, Papa?”

She was placing Mary’s earbobs into their box. She hesitated and did not speak for a moment as though the question shocked her. Perhaps she’d guessed why Mary asked. Mary had asked because one particular gentleman’s light brown eyes had hovered in her mind all evening, along with the particular lilt of his smile.

“There you have me. Perhaps I am not a gentleman…”

No. So her brother John had told her father, and her father had told her. “Framlington is a fortune hunter. A rake. A man to avoid…”

“Remember me as I am…”

“When I met your father…” her mother sat on the bed, “our eyes met across a table and I just knew he was right for me.” She was blushing a little.

“Do you think I will know?”

“I hope you will. I hope you find a man who shall sweep you off your feet and love you with all his soul.”

“That is what I hope for too.” Lord Framlington’s eyes, his face, returned to her mind. There had been something fascinating about him. He was different to any other man who’d spoken to her.

“Did you truly enjoy the evening? You have been quiet tonight.”

Mary smiled. “I did.”

“Come along then, let me tuck you in—”

“I am too old to be tucked into bed, Mama.”

“You will never be too old. Come along.” Her mother rose.

Mary slipped off the bed, then lifted the sheet and slid beneath it. She plumped the pillow with a thump before she lay down her head.

Her mother leaned down and kissed her cheek, then tucked the sheet in beneath the mattress so the sheet was tight about Mary. “Sleep well…”

“Would you give Papa a kiss from me?”

Her mother smiled. “I love you, Mary.” She bent and pressed another kiss on Mary’s cheek, then her cold fingertips touched Mary’s cheek too.

“I love you too, Mama.”

Mary’s mother walked across the room and extinguished the candles in the candelabrum before turning to collect a single candlestick. Then she walked to the door. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Her mother turned once more as she opened it. “Sleep well.”

Mary smiled, and then her mother left and closed the door. The light disappeared with her.

Mary saw Lord Framlington in the darkness, as he stood against a marble pillar, watching her across the room. She ought to feel nothing for him. She ought to never think of him again. He had been courting her dowry, nothing more.

Yet there had been something about him.

I like and admire you, Miss Marlow… She had felt the same. There had been something calling her towards him.

She’d looked for him thrice after they’d danced, on one occasion he’d not been in the room but the other times, he’d looked at her too, and smiled.

But John was adamant he was unsuitable and if Lord Framlington were seeking her dowry he would smile.

Then why did she feel pulled towards him? Her thoughts drifted into dreams. Dreams that included Lord Framlington.

Chapter 1

The following year…

Miss Mary Rose Marlow’s whole body jolted with surprise, “Oh!” and she nearly fell down the short flight of garden steps she’d just climbed. A masculine chest faced her.

Lord Framlington caught hold of her elbow, saving her, only to pull her towards the chest which had caused her exclamation.

He’d appeared from behind the hedge to block her path.

Her fingers pressed against the solid muscle beneath his day coat. Unladylike longings besieged her. She had never forgotten him.

Irked by the desire she should not feel, Mary pushed him away, anger flaring and overriding the unwanted attraction that constantly pulled at her, urging her to look for him, to listen for his voice.

She looked up and met his gaze, ire burning a flame she hoped he saw in her eyes.

If he did, the deep, dark amber brown of his absorbed it with cool, quelling disengagement.

Her stomach wobbled like aspic with an unwilling hunger for the reprobate.

“Miss Marlow.” He let go of her arm, then raised his hat a little.

Mary stepped back, careful to avoid the shallow steps.

“It is my good fortune to collide with you.”

Bobbing a hardly recognisable curtsy Mary’s gaze reached beyond him seeking a way past. But the garden path, lined by tall yew hedges, was barely wide enough for one. She could not pass him without further contact unless he moved aside.

“Lord Framlington.” Her voice rang sharp with irritation. “If you will excuse me, I really ought to be getting back.” She moved to sweep past, but he blocked her with his broad chest.

“No haste, Miss Marlow, the party was still in full swing when I left, no one will notice our absence, they are busy playing Lady Jersey’s outdoor games. Have you tried the archery butts? You could aim an arrow at my heart if you wish, I would not complain, and perhaps you might snare me if it came from Cupid’s bow.”

Her gaze lifted to his. “Do not be absurd?” The snapping words leapt from her mouth. His comment was far too close to her secret wish. “You know my brother advises against you.”

“The Duke of Pembroke?” Condescension sharpened his words, while a roguish smile played with his lips. Oh she remembered that smile, it had hovered in her dreams for a year… “What do I care for his opinion, and what do you care. I have often thought the man did me a favour, warning you off. You have been enamoured ever since.”

“I have not.” Mary’s hands balled to fists. The man was infuriating. Why on earth did she find him so interesting? Because on one evening, nearly a year ago, he had danced with her, and talked and flirted, and smiled and laughed as no other man had.

He grinned. “Careful, or I shall think you protest too much. Besides I know because I have seen you watching me. Whenever I turn, there is Miss Mary Marlow staring across the room.”

He leant forward, his face inches from hers. “Your looks call to me, Mary. You whisper to me, come, come, Framlington, closer.” His husky pitch made her skin tingle with awareness and possibilities course through her blood.

He straightened, his gloved fingers gently bracing her chin. “Well here I am, Mary. Come to you. What will you do with me?”

Run away.

She backed away a step, lifting her chin from his grip. “Nothing.” She forced the denial from her lips, when internally she longed to know how his kiss would feel. “Let me pass. I should not be speaking with you.”

“But you are.” He stepped forward.

When she’d danced with him last season his glittering light brown eyes had melted her bones. He’d held her gently, while making her laugh, like he was a jester, and as they’d parted he’d asked her to remember him.

She’d fallen in love during that dance. Irrevocably in love. She had not forgotten.

But afterward her eldest brother, John, the Duke of Pembroke, had advised that Lord Framlington – her beauty – was a beast. A fortune hunter, chasing dowries.

Worse, he was a rake, a philanderer, a seducer, not to be trusted in the least.

It is folly talking to him.

“Then let me rectify that.” She tried to pass him. But he caught her upper arm, stopping her and turning with her. She stood facing him in the narrow gap between the tall yew hedges.

“Stop running and stop pretending you do not like me. I am not blind. Besides, run, and my predatory instincts say, chase.” On the last word he leaned forward, pulling her closer and then his lips pressed down on hers and his other hand came to her nape urging her to stay, to allow, to give, as his lips brushed across hers.

Mary’s instinct screamed, run. But his lips urged so beautifully her body cried, take, longing to devour, to the point that she was no longer sure who was the predator, him or her. This was her first kiss.

Gripping his shoulders, she clung to him, opening her mouth at his urging, and when his tongue invaded her lips a rush of desire slid through her stomach reaching to the central point of femininity between her legs.

This was what she’d imagined and longed for – this enchantment and desire.

He moved her back a step, against the yew hedge, as his kiss increased in intensity, the movement of his lips and the caress of his tongue growing in determination, intriguing and intoxicating.

His grip left her arm and closed over her breast, squeezing it through the thin muslin of her gown.

A sharp, sweet pain travelled from her nipple, catching her breath. It was delicious, but still it was pain and it was enough to rip her focus from his kiss to rational thought.

What am I doing? What am I letting him do?

Breaking the kiss suddenly, she caught him off guard and it gave her the chance to escape.

Slipping from his grip, she fled, not daring to look back for fear he’d follow.

“Miss Marlow!” he called after her, a note of humour in his voice. “I know you feel the same for me as I feel for you! Stop running and come back to me!”

She did not even look back.

“Well then, if not now, whenever you wish, simply give me a sign and I shall find a way we can meet! Or look for my signal!”

Her fingers gripped her dress, holding it from the ground, as she ran along the path, her breathing heavy and her lips burning, while her breast ached from the pressure of his hand.

When she reached the end of the path, she slowed to a walk letting her dress fall and stepped out on to the open lawn where a crowd of elite society had gathered for the garden party.

Her fingers pressed against her breastbone.

“Mary, there you are.” She turned as her brother’s voice cut the air. “We were coming to find you. Katherine was concerned.”

Mary looked to the lady who held her brother’s arm. Her sister-in-law was kindness incarnate, but Kate was Mary’s chaperone today. A blush burned beneath Mary’s skin. She had let him kiss her. A man her father and brother had explicitly warned against.

“I walked down to the Jerseys’ grotto. I wished to see it and I did not like to bother you, you were talking.”

John’s and Kate’s eyebrows rose. They did not need to say, Mary you should not have gone alone, she knew it was an error now.

But his kiss had been beautiful. She had not known that a combination of lips and tongues could cause her body to ache… and ache in unspeakable places.

Lord Framlington appeared from behind the hedge. Mary looked back, the heat in her skin increasing.

The rogue smiled at her, then walked on across the lawn, implying, without a word, that something had happened between them. Heat swept over her.

“What were you doing?” John whispered, in a harsh condemning tone. Mary met his pale blue gaze; it was chilling, like ice.

What indeed? “I did not plan it,” she whispered back, tipping up her chin to stand against her domineering brother. “I bumped into him.” Literally. “I did not intend to.”

One of John’s eyebrows quirked. “Well I assure you, he did. Do not to speak to him, Mary, and certainly, never in private. If you are compromised, you will be tied to him. That is what he wishes. If you do not want to be forced into marriage with a grasping rake, then have more care; no wandering pathways alone. You’re lucky he did not ravish you and wait on someone to happen along and see the two of you together. His situation is even more desperate than last year. The man cannot curb his spending, his debt is spiralling. There is not a prudent bone in his body. He’s fortune-hunting, hard.”

Mary’s gaze fell to John’s diamond cravat pin. She did not argue. Lord Framlington had proved John right – and her wrong. Very wrong.

Every word John spoke was true, she knew that, but something within her burned for Lord Framlington. He’d lit a flame in her a year ago, and it refused to be snuffed and if her heart had longed for Lord Framlington for a year, now it screamed… He had kissed her and fulfilled every expectation fostered in her dreams.

She shut her eyes to escape a giddy sensation. Simply thinking about his kiss caused her to ache for him.

She opened her eyes, denying her inner clamour. “I know, John, it was a mistake. I will not do it again.”

“Do not fret, Mary, no one saw.” Kate linked her arm with Mary’s. “Did Lord Framlington do or say something to frighten you? Has he upset you?”

“No.” Mary looked at Kate. There was no need for her family to know he’d kissed her. She did not wish John, her father, or her uncles, calling Lord Framlington out. It was only a kiss after all, no harm, not really. Except, if she’d stayed, she did not think it would have ended there. John was right: Lord Framlington was trouble. He had intended ravishment.

Why did her silly heart have to make her stomach flutter at the thought?

“He did not touch you?” John’s fingers rested on her shoulder, his voice filled with concern, but there was an edge of anger to.

Her eyes turned to his. “No.” Guilt thrust its knife into her breast. “Honestly, John, Lord Framlington merely frightened me. I know I made a mistake.”

Lord Framlington had made her lie.

John’s fingers fell away from her shoulder. “Well, if he’s scared you, you will hopefully never make such an error again.”

“Yes.” She would not, she had learned her lesson. This could have ended with awful consequences. She felt torn in two, he heart pulled one way, towards danger, while her head and her family pulled another. She must listen to her head and heed common-sense.

If I’d been seen with him?

The blood drained from Mary’s head. “May we go home?”

“If you wish.” John looked at her, his gaze deep with concern, as though he only half believed her assurance. “I’ll send for the carriage.” He turned away.

“We shall say our goodbyes, John.” Kate drew Mary closer and began walking across the lawn to where Lady Jersey stood among a knot of friends.

“He did disturb you,” Kate whispered, “and I’m sure it was over more than nothing. You do not have to tell me, but just mind what John says and do not allow yourself to be drawn in by Lord Framlington’s charm.”

Mary looked at the woman she thought of as a full sister. “It was nothing, really, just nonsense.” She was lucky, her family may caution, but they would always support her. Mary smiled. Kate smiled too, but her eyebrows lifted again.

“Nonsense to a woman, Mary, is manoeuvring to a man. Beware, males are predatory and determined when they choose to be, and Lord Framlington is of that ilk. Avoid him.”

“I was… I am… I just… I never thought he would follow.”

“Well, doing the things we never expect, is what they do,” Kate advised conspiratorially. “But I will convince John not to tell your father and mother of this. No need for you to listen to this lecture twice.”

Mary’s smile lifted a little. “Thank you.”

“Now let us get our goodbyes over with, and then, shall we stop at Gunter’s for an ice; the day is so hot, I am positively melting.” With that Kate flicked open her fan and began to waft the warm early summer air over them both, looking towards Lady Jersey.

Mary’s gaze spun away scanning the lawn full of people for a gentleman with dark brown hair, a head above the rest. She spotted him in seconds she was so used to searching him out.

Lord Framlington stood among a group of men, laughing.

His head turned and his gaze reached across the open space finding her. He knew she’d been watching. He smiled, a self-indulgent smile and nodded before looking away.

Her heart raced, against her better judgement, her imagination whirling with images she should not see.

Chapter 2

“The game is on with Pembroke’s little sister. I have settled on her. She is my choice.” Lord Andrew Framlington, fourth son of the Marquis of Framlington, in name only, leaned back in his spindle chair, self-confidence flooding him. He hooked one arm across the chair’s back and raised an ankle to settle on the opposite knee, modelling the pose of a dissipated rake. That was what he had been for most of his life.

“Marlow’s ice maiden? Are you serious, Drew? The girl who freezes out all of dubious character? She has not allowed you near her since last year.” His friend, Harry Webster’s speech slurred a little.

“The same,” Drew’s gaze passed around his small group of loyal friends.

Harry sat forward in his chair. “Have you spoken to her?”

“Yes, and as you know I have been improving my character.” He smiled at Harry. They knew he had kept himself away from whores for nearly a year – the kind to be paid. Yet he’d also kept away from the kind who paid. His friends did not know the latter fact. “You’ll see. She’ll be mine in a month, three at the most. She’s taken my bait, a kiss, and I shall charm her into submission. She will be begging me to wed her at the end.”

“She’ll be yours within a week, knowing how women fall for you.” Mark Harper commented, his concentration still on their game of cards. He tossed a four of spades onto the table.

Drew looked at his hand of cards. No spades. He would trump them all with a heart.

“But didn’t Pembroke warn his little sister off you?” Harry persisted.

“He has warned her off every man with a speck of dust in his closet. A man must have a spotless reputation to be considered.” Peter Brooke, Drew’s closest friend smiled.

“As if Pembroke can judge,” Harry pressed. “That man is no saint, he is not spotless himself.”

“But reformed,” Drew answered. He un-looped his arm from the chair, leaned forward and set his card on the table, then looked at his friends, a wry smile twisting his lips. “Maybe the woman has a little contrary in her soul, though. Ever since he warned her off she’s been watching me. Or perhaps she just has a taste for risk or badness hidden beneath her cold denials, or likes being naughty – any of which appeal, they are all to my advantage.”

The group laughed.

Peter leaned forward to lay his card. “Well, I would not cross Pembroke or any of her family for that matter, they are far too influential. She calls a quarter of the House of Lords Uncle, even if her father is only a second son.”

Drew did not need reminding.

Yet he intended winning her. He had waited a year, given her, and himself, the time to be sure. He was sure. She had come back to town this season and her eyes had still searched for him across the ballrooms, and the first time he’d seen her again he’d felt slain. The girl was beautiful, rich, innocent and his best hope of constancy – and ever since the night he had danced with her, he’d felt pulled into choosing her. It was a physical feeling, not simply a mental choice.

She had lived with him for a year, in his dreams, both in the day and at night.

Yet as certain as he was of his choice he was equally certain her family would not allow it. They would say no if he asked for her.

His contrary streak itched. He did not like being told no. No, was temptation. Like the girl running, it only made him want to chase. But he did not think she would run, not now – unless it was towards him. He smiled at his silent humour.

“You are going to wed her then?” Mark clarified.

“I’ve no choice. The duns are on my tail. I need to marry money. She’s interested, available, and she has it. Plus she is remarkably kind to the eye.”

“Kind to the eye.” A sarcastic smile twisted Harry’s lips. “That is lacklustre. The girl’s the darling of society. They all fawn over her. She’s stunning. I would have a go at her if I thought I stood a chance, but she’ll not look twice at me. You however…”

“You have the looks and the knack, Drew,” Peter expounded, “while we are all left to petty jealousy.”

Drew laughed. “I have not won her yet, and you are just as capable.”

“No. But we all know you will win her. I would not even waste a wager on it,” Mark enthused.

“The question is, what will you do with her when you have her?” Harry laughed. “Now that is what I would like to see, however, after that, what on earth will you do with a wife?”

Drew looked past his friends at his small living quarters.

His rooms in the Albany were a decent enough bachelor’s residence, but he would need something more once he’d wed. He longed for a property of his own. Somewhere outside of London and he would need space to lose a woman in. He did not wish to be crowded. In the last year, when he’d thought of marrying Miss Marlow, he had never considered the detail beyond the wedding night and receiving the cheque.

Still once he’d wed, he’d have her dowry and he could buy a bigger property, perhaps something with land, to make a profit from. She would understand that life and fill her time without his assistance.

His hands itched to be out of town and free of his reliance on Peter. His debts had swelled in the last year, barely anyone allowed him credit now and so more and more he’d become reliant on Peter’s kindness. It unmanned him, but he refused to return to earning his living through sex.

But how the hell would he fit in a life with a wife…He had not one daisy petal of an idea how to manage land, let alone how to manage with a wife.

All the wives he knew spent their time cuckolding their inattentive husbands.

But that was why he’d settled on Mary, chosen Mary – he thought her different to those women. He’d watched her family for a year. They were all in what society deemed love matches.

Love – that word was false, in his experience. A non-entity. People did not love. They used the word to wound and hurt.

His mother declared she loved the Marquis, but cuckolded him constantly. While on the occasions the Marquis came to town he spent his hours with chorus girls. His mother’s favoured companions were the sons of society and she was regularly in town.

Their behaviour was typical; he knew that because his mother’s friends had begun his initiation into their world of fornication when he’d been fifteen. Ten years on and society had not changed.

But he had changed.

“Drew, I’m sure you’re thinking of what the woman will be like in your bed, but you will not be saying goodbye to her come morning. I said, what will you do with her once you’re wed?”

He had no idea. What the hell will I do with a wife?

Lock her away somewhere so she will not lay with other men. Or could he truly trust her.

She was not like them. Miss Marlow was his best hope of fidelity and yet she would not be in love with him… and he would not be in love with her. Theirs would not be a love match… He did not know how to love, he did not even really believe in it.

Perhaps if all failed he would follow his false-father’s path and leave her to get on with it, find a country sanctuary for himself and rooms in town for her.

But quiet words whispered in his head, she would not be false.

Deep down, he hoped so hard.

That desire was another secret he was keeping from his friends. They thought him a pleasure loving rogue. He was still, in a way, but…

God, how they’d laugh if they knew a man with his reputation hated the women he was meant to seduce. He could not stand female promiscuity anymore. Not since he’d discovered a group of women who abhorred such things.

The Pembroke women had become like idols to him.

He met Harry’s gaze, his friend waited on his answer with an inquisitive grin, as the others carried on playing cards.

A self-deprecating smile twisted Drew’s lips. “The devil knows.”

“Pass her on to me!” Mark laughed. I’ll entertain her when you’re bored.

Drew’s jaw stiffened, his hand itching to form a fist.

He threw down another heart, the knave, and claimed the trick.

Then he forced his shoulders to relax and leant forward, to pull all the cards towards him. But while he did so, he shook his head. It was an adamant, no.

“Why not share, you’re hardly the monogamous type.” Harry laughed.

Drew tidied the cards into a pile at his elbow. Then looked at Harry, and Mark. “Perhaps not. However, I require that quality in a wife. She shall be monogamous, and if any of you touch her…” His gaze passed to Peter too, “I shall call you out.”

They all laughed.

Drew did not. It was not a jest.

“My God, Drew, have you fallen for her?” Peter charged. He knew Drew too well. They’d known each other since they were six.

Drew made a face at Peter, calling him ridiculous. “No, why would I? That is hardly my style. I just do not fancy being done to—”

“As you have done to others… Chickens coming home to roost, Fram?” Harry threw Drew a broad smile.

“Exactly, I’ll not be made a fool of.” He’d willingly admit that much.

Let them know he would insist on a faithful wife, he just did not wish them to know how important it was, or that he planned to be faithful to. They would think him a fool.

* * *

A week had passed since the Jerseys’ garden party, a week to contemplate her foolishness. Yet no matter how stupid Mary knew it was she had not ceased looking for Lord Framlington at every event. Her traitorous body refused to heed the frequent warnings of her conscience and her common-sense.

She had not seen him, but tonight, as she walked into the crush of another ballroom, on her father’s arm, her eyes immediately identified her heart’s quarry.

He stood in the far corner, with his elbow on a marble bust, leaning forward and speaking with a woman, the Marquis of Kilbride’s wife. A beautiful blonde woman. Mary’s heart sank and she looked away before Lord Framlington felt her observation as he always did.

John is right. She’d told herself so a thousand times in the last few days, and yet even as she said it her mischievous mind recalled the press of his lips and the feel of his hand cradling her breast.

Heat rose across her skin and awareness leaked into her senses, prickling along her nerves.

Why am I so attracted to him? This emotion never clawed at her when she looked at other men, and she had danced with dozens. It was just Lord Framlington her heart and body craved.

Ninny! her common-sense screamed. But her senses still whispered Lord Framlington’s nearness.

He walked past, barely feet away as if he knew his proximity made her senses sing.

Yet he did not look at her.

Mary gripped her father’s arm more firmly. I will overcome this attraction.

There must be some man she could feel as much for. A man who did not have a wicked reputation. Who she could trust not to treat her ill.

“Miss Marlow, I would be extremely honoured if you will allow me this dance.”

Mary turned and faced Mr Gerard Heathcote, one of her staunch admirers. He bowed deeply. He was a wealthy merchant’s son who’d courted her last season. Her family liked him. He was charming, in a genteel way.

He’d made her an offer last season. She’d refused, saying it was too soon to settle on a husband. But that had been kindness. He was good natured, blonde-haired and blue-eyed. But her heart craved dark brown locks and laughing brown eyes with a wicked glint.

However Gerard was a good dancer and he’d become a friend, as were many of her beaux. But none of them were anything more. She felt nothing beyond like.

Mary swallowed back her growing impatience, letting go of her father’s arm. She offered her hand and Gerard drew her away. Usually she enjoyed dancing, but tonight it was one endless boring whirl.

Since when did I become so jaded?

Since the rogue kissed me.

From this moment on, unless Lord Framlington repeated his kiss, her life would be dull.

* * *

Arms folded across his chest, with one hand loose, the stem of his wine glass dangling between his fingers, Drew watched the dance floor.

She was dancing again. Her hand held that of the young heir to the Earl of Warminster as she skipped along an avenue made by their set. It was a boisterous country dance. The boy was smiling as was Miss Marlow, brightly, giving her beau all her attention, and Drew had none of it.

He was beginning to wonder if instead of increasing her interest he’d jumped his fences with that kiss and made his horse bolt. He’d not once caught her looking at him tonight. She was instead doing everything she could to avoid looking at him.

She’d spent the entire night amidst a gaggle of youths – a mix of her female friends and their beaux.

The child she danced with laughed at every word she said. Drew suspected the boy would laugh no matter what she said, and undoubtedly Miss Marlow was bored. But even so her eyes focused intently on her idiotic companion while her female friends fluttered their fans, along with their eyelashes and cast their gazes about the room seeking to hook some unsuspecting male.

Irritation burned in Drew’s veins.

He’d expected Miss Marlow to at least come closer. He’d even given her a clue earlier, by walking past her, suggesting a silent game they could play, passing close without touching, in secret acknowledgement. She had not picked up his gauntlet. She’d left it where it lay, kiss and all, and instead blatantly ignored him.

He leaned his shoulder against the wall silently seething. He’d thought this the victory leg but despite her youth and innocence Miss Mary Marlow was not going to be easily caught.

A challenge. He sighed, suddenly, letting the tension in his muscles ease with his outward breath. A challenge was like a chase, it whispered to his male instincts. He liked to be challenged. What fun would there be in life, if everything came easily?

Raising his glass of wine to his lips he watched her let go of young Warminster’s hand.

Then she turned to take her place in the line of the set. Her eyes lifted, and her gaze reached across the room. It was literally a glance, only an instant, but in that instant their gazes collided. She had looked for him. She had known he was watching her all along and exactly where he stood.

A smile curved his lips as she looked away and began to clap, watching another couple skip along the middle.

You will be my wife, Mary Marlow. You will. And you will beg me to offer for you, when I do.

He was going to change his tactics, though, perhaps she needed a little less subtlety and a little more urging.

* * *

Lord Framlington’s gaze made Mary’s skin prickle on the back of her neck as she looked along the line of dancers. He’d stared at her for an hour. What he expected her to do she did not know. Perhaps he thought she would seek an assignation with him. She could even hear his words in her head, “Come and meet me, Mary, outside where it’s cooler, where it’s quiet”.

It was nonsense of course, she was not psychic. It was her urge. Yet he’d applaud her weak conscience if he heard it and say, “Listen to it, do what you want to do, not what you should”. It was his voice she heard.

“I know you feel the same for me as I feel for you! Stop running and come back to me!” he’d called when she’d run away from him, along the pathway.

How could he know, and how had Lord Framlington managed to invade her thoughts so utterly after one kiss? But it had not just been since his kiss, ever since she’d danced with him she’d heard his voice and seen him in daydreams, and when she slept.

His gaze left her, like a physical touch slipping away.

Mary looked to see him set his half empty glass on the tray of a passing footman before he strolled away, leaving the ballroom, and she presumed the ball.

A sense of desertion tugged somewhere in her stomach and an odd ache settled like a cloak about her heart.

Was that it then? Was it over? Had she spurned him successfully? That had been her intention, to cut him dead and she’d succeeded until that final moment when she’d dropped her guard and glanced his way.

Perhaps he’d taken the hint regardless and tired of playing with her. There were a dozen other heiresses on the market, she was not his only choice.

But you are his choice. Her traitorous, wicked heart thought it a compliment that a man of Framlington’s looks and reputation wanted her as his wife.

“Idiot,” Mary said aloud, to her heart. Unfortunately as the dance drew to a close, Derek heard it too when he took her arm to walk her to her parents.

“What have I done to deserve that charge? Did I step on your toes?”

Patting his arm she shook her head, forming the false smile she’d relied on tonight. “I was speaking to myself, sorry. I agreed to dance with two partners for the supper set, I will have to apologise to someone.”

He accepted the excuse, without hesitation. Why would he not? Mary had not been in the habit of lying, until the day of the Jerseys’ garden party. Now she had lied twice.

When she reached her parents Lord Derek gave her knuckles a chaste kiss and bowed. The kiss did nothing to her innards. Unlike the kiss on her lips that had twisted in her stomach like someone hurriedly coiling embroidery threads.

Physical memories clawing at her soul, the room spun and Mary longed for home. The burden of pretence was too tiring.

“Mary, is something wrong?” Her gaze lifted to meet her father’s.

“I have the headache.” If sulking made her pathetic she did not care. “May we go home?”

“Already, we have not even eaten supper?”

“I know, Papa, but my head hurts.” Her fingers pressed to her temple. It throbbed with the pain of bottled up tears. She wished to cry over her insanity.

His brow furrowed and his fingers stroked her upper arm gently. “We will get you home.”

“I must use the retiring room first though, Papa.”

“Very well, you go up. I shall have the carriage called for, and tell your mother. We shall await you in the hall.”

Mary turned away, her head pounding. She felt a little sick as she climbed the stairs. The retiring room was quiet. Her mother’s maid was not there; she must have already been told they were leaving.

As Mary left the room, her fingers shook and she walked along the silent hall, with her thoughts screaming.

“Miss Marlow.” Her arm was gripped, firmly and she was pulled aside, into an alcove, and then pressed back against the wall as Lord Framlington’s mouth came down on hers.

She lifted her arms about his neck instinctively kissing him back with a longing that raged through her and took away the pain in her head, but then common-sense prevailed and she let him go, gripped his shoulders and pushed him away, whispering. “What do you think you are doing?”

“You have been playing a good game of ignoring me, but we both know you cannot. As I cannot ignore you.” His breath brushed over her lips his voice low and quiet. She would have turned and walked away but he gripped her wrist and held her still.

“Miss Marlow. Mary. Darling. Do not deny this. I know what you feel, because I feel it too.”

“I feel nothing.”

“And that is why you kissed me a moment ago, and at that garden party. You feel. You want. But I cannot come to you in a place like this, so if you want what I can give you, you will have to come to me…”

“What you give—”

“Kisses, darling. Happiness. A life filled with moments like this. You know I am looking for a wife, I know your brother has told you—”

“Most men do not look for a wife in the shadows of a hallway, or a narrow garden path—”

“I am not seeking any wife, I am seeking you, and if you wish to explore that, you will have to come to me, Mary.”

“No.” She pulled her wrist free, and turned away, her heart pounding as she began to run.

She heard his deep voice echo down the hall. “You may run but I know you do not wish to… You will come back when you have had chance to reflect and understand what you will miss… I will give you time, Mary, and then we’ll see.”

* * *

Drew watched her hurry away. She was scared but interested despite her better judgement. She had kissed him back. Her denial was pretence. He’d felt her attraction in her body, her breasts had pressed to his chest, as her slender arms had clung about his neck.

He sighed.

The power of emotion in him had caught him off-guard. At the garden party she had answered his kiss hesitantly, but tonight, it was as if she had longed to kiss him again. In the first instant when the shock had silenced her fears, she had thrust herself at him, and thrown herself into the kiss.

He smiled.

She had kissed him with innocence on both occasions.

His hand gripped the back of his neck for a moment, then fell. What if he had been the first man to kiss her? God that thought pierced through his chest, like a spear surging through him.

The first to press his tongue into her mouth.

Lord. The idea floored him with a sudden punch. But then he smiled, as the novelty of it bloomed, uncurling in him like a shoot from a seed, it rose up. Hope.

He walked along the hall; she had already reached the stairs and disappeared.

She was becoming more and more essential to his future. No other woman would do. She was his choice, and he was not going to be deterred.

She simply needed time.

Hell she had kissed him back with hunger tonight, albeit a little clumsily, but who cared. Who cared when he had been the first man to claim her lips – like a pioneer, and he intended to claim much more.

There was only one way he knew how to woo women, and that was with his body, he could teach the woman things she could never have imagined.

Innocent. He could not even remember how that had felt. But he knew how to make her feel good. He would give her the gift of sensual discovery and then she would never be able to refuse him. He would have her then.

But if she was running from kisses, she was not ready for that yet.

He needed another approach for the present and he had one; if the girl wanted to play hard to get, let her. If she wished to fain disinterest, then so could he.

He laughed.

He would give his little fish more line. Let her have some time to contemplate her choices. He doubted any of her young beaux made her heart race, or her bones melt. He doubted she had thrown her arms about their necks, and he had a very strong feeling she had never kissed any of them.

He would reel her in in a week or two when she’d had chance to realize his kisses were better than a hundred dances with the children she had danced with here.

What he had said to her was true, he felt the same… He knew she desired him, as much as he desired her.

* * *

Mary sat in her family’s coach bowling towards her brother’s town mansion.

The coach swayed on the uneven cobble. Its motion made Mary feel sick.

“It is unlike you to suffer with headaches, Mary, is something wrong?” her mother whispered.

Mary shook her head, then stopped as pain hammered in her skull.

“You look pale,” her father stated. “Has something happened?”

“I just need to sleep,” she whispered. She’d done very little of that in recent nights, and she feared she would not sleep tonight. The strength of Lord Framlington’s kiss still trembled through her nerves. “I will be well tomorrow.”

Leaning forward her mother pressed Mary’s knee. “We will be home soon. Would you like me to sit with you a while when you retire?”

“No, thank you, Mama.” Their kindness was cloying when Mary knew she was living a lie. She was not who they thought she was, she was not good, she was bad, or rather, she wanted to be bad. Everything Lord Framlington had said was true, she wanted to meet him, and kiss him again. He tempted her.

Now she felt as though he had poured himself into her blood, her body throbbed from the memory of their sudden encounter in the dark, and she could still feel his gentle grip on her wrist.

When they reached home, Mr Finch, her brother’s butler, opened the door. John and Kate were at a private dinner. Her younger brothers and sisters were all in bed. Her mother came upstairs with Mary, helped her undress and then tucked her in to bed, even though Mary had not wished her to.

“May I fetch you anything? Something for the headache?”

“No, Mama, thank you, I just need to sleep.”

Her mother smothered the candle then pressed a kiss to Mary’s forehead.

“I am not a child, Mama,” Mary whispered into the dark, although she longed to be held and for the turmoil inside her to ease.

Her mother sighed. “I know you are now nineteen. But you are still my daughter and you always will be, no matter your age.”

Her mother’s fingers touched Mary’s hair. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Mary rolled to her other side, feeling guiltier than ever, and wept.

She’d done nothing wrong, not really, not yet, it had only been kisses that she had allowed, but she had a dreadful feeling she would. She could not quell this longing for a man she should not want.

* * *

For the third night after she had kissed Lord Framlington for a second time, Mary looked for him with no success. Her heart ached. She longed to see him. She missed the rogue, with his little knowing nods in her direction, and his charming smiles.

He had asked her to meet him but then disappeared and made that an impossibility. While his kisses continued haunting her…

She wished for wickedness. She wished for kisses and embraces.

“Miss Marlow. Damn it, you stood on my foot.” Mr Makepeace was a wealthy landowner, but he was double her age and as dull as working on embroidery. He was boring, and he was rude. She may have missed a step, because she had been daydreaming, about Lord Framlington, but it was ungentlemanly to curse at her for it.

“Forgive me.” The heat of a blush touched her cheeks as people along the line of dancers looked over at them. Oh, she longed for a dance she had shared with a man a year ago, she had barely heard the notes of it; her thoughts had been too absorbed by the colour of his eyes.

They were hazel; a light shade of cluttered brown, but when the light caught his eyes it turned the colour to honey, a soft amber or gold. It had literally gilded his eyes.

The men she danced with were young and weak in nature, and silly compared to him, or too old for her, like Mr Makepeace, and dull, or in between but so busy seeking to portray a fashionable ennui that they had no personality at all.

The dance came to its conclusion, thank the Lord.

Breathing hard Mr Makepeace walked her back to her parents. She smiled at her mother. Then turned to Mr Makepeace. “Thank you.” He nodded in return then walked away.

Good riddance…

She looked about the room for Lord Framlington, he still was not here. She was becoming angry with him now. Why? Where was he?

She huffed out an unladylike breath. “Mama, I wish to go to the retiring room.”

“I will come with you.”

“That is not necessary, the hall is busy; I will not be alone.”

“Very well.”

Mary turned away and then pressed a path through the crush of people out into the hall and then across to the withdrawing room. She had foolishly hoped to discover Lord Framlington hiding somewhere. He had not been hiding anywhere.

The rogue had known how she would feel, how she felt… You feel. You want, but you know I cannot come to you in a place like this, so if you want what I can give you, you will have to come to me… But how could she come to him if he was nowhere to be found!

She hated him.

He was playing with her.

She loved him too, though. No one she spoke to or danced with compared to him, they were all a mile beneath him.

He was beautiful, witty, charming… and poor… A fortune-hunter, and a rake.

Her heart thumped as she hurried back to the ballroom still looking for him. He was not there. She did not return to her mother, she sought her friends. Someone to talk to. Though she had not spoken to them of Lord Framlington, they would think her mad. Everyone would think her mad. She could not even explain to herself why she liked him so much. But she did.

Her heart pounded harder even at the thought of him.

“Mary!”

“Emily,” Miss Smithfield was one of Mary’s more recent, less confident, friends. She had looked lost one evening, sitting out a dance against the wall, and so Mary had befriended her.

“Mary. You poor soul, I saw you had to dance with Mr Makepeace.” Lady Bethany Pope kissed the air beside Mary’s cheek.

Mary made a face. Bethany and Emily laughed.

“Hasn’t he asked you to dance every night this week?”

“Good heavens, yes, but hopefully never again, I stood on his foot.”

“Deliberately…”

“Perhaps.” They all laughed but Mary heard the hollowness in hers. Her life no longer interested her. She was bored. She missed the sense of danger hovering across the ballroom when Lord Framlington watched her. He made her feel different from everyone else, special. Every other man she danced with, danced with a dozen other women, she was no exception to any of them, and yet she had never seen Lord Framlington dance with anyone since he’d danced with her. Nor did he stare at anyone but her…

Although he had talked to that blonde woman the other day…

She sighed.

Had she lost him, by not conceding? Had he given up on her?

“Miss Marlow.” Mr Gerard Heathcote bowed before her. “May I have the honour of this dance?”

She wished to scream. No! She had danced with him ten dozen times, he was nice, polite… Boring.

Oh, her father had never spanked her, but he would wish he had done if he knew how wrong-headed she had become.

She dropped a shallow curtsy and then gave Gerard her hand. “Of course.” In reality she wished to run from the ballroom and out into the dark garden. It was raining outside, she quite fancied a thorough soaking. Perhaps it would bring her to her senses.

On the twelfth night after her second kiss with Lord Framlington, when she returned home with her parents, she stopped at her bedchamber door, and refused to let her mother in. “Please, Mama, I can retire alone. You cannot treat me as a child forever.”

“Yet—“

“I know it is only out of love, but I wish to retire alone, Mama.”

As soon as she shut the door, the tears came. They had been hovering all night as she had looked for Lord Framlington almost constantly. When she’d waltzed her gaze had spun about the room searching every corner. Her dance partners must have thought her mad.

But she had come to the conclusion that it was over. He’d given up on her, and so she ought to listen to common-sense if the man was so fickle.

But her bitterness was washed away by tears. The maid in her room unbuttoned the back of Mary’s bodice, and then unlaced her stays. Mary looked at her, the stains of silent tears still damp pathways whispering their presence on her cheeks. “Pray tell no one that I have been upset. You may retire.”

“Are you certain, Ma’am.”

“Yes absolutely certain.”

When the maid left, Mary did not even bother to strip off her clothes or blow out the candles, but tumbled on to the bed and cried. Not only because she had not seen him, and may not see him ever again… but because she was a complete ninny for wanting to see him.

“Fool.” she breathed into the sheets.

Chapter 3

Pride in his self-discipline burned in Drew’s chest as he strolled into the Wiltshires’ ballroom. He’d avoided Miss Mary Marlow for two weeks and now the moment to return was ripe.

Lord Wiltshire, The Duke of Arundel was her uncle. The girl would be feeling relaxed among her family and find it harder to be false and he hoped easier to establish a moment to escape as she’d done at the Jerseys’.

Looking down from the top of the entrance stairs, at the end of the Wiltshires’ ornate ballroom, he briefly scanned the crowd of heaving humanity, the ton, England’s elite, in all their shining glory.

If her uncle knew Drew’s intent he would never have received an invitation, but he ‘d kept away from Miss Marlow in public since last year and so, to her family, he was simply another name on a list to fill the room and enable every society hostess’s wish for a crush.

He saw Miss Marlow; she was not far from the foot of the stairs and when his name was called she looked up. He rarely entered a room without drawing the attention of women, he ignored the others and smiled at her, holding her gaze.

She had been looking for him, for two weeks, and she had missed him, he could see it in her eyes; they were sparkling bright with relief.

He smiled at her, and for the first time in nearly a year she gave him a little self-conscious, confused smile back.

Her eyes asked him questions as she kept looking. “Where have you been? Should I seek you out and ask?”

Yes, you should, Mary.

He let her gaze go and smiled at the room in general to avoid her family noticing the exchange. If they whisked her away to the country to avoid him, his game would be off entirely for this year.

Drew wasted his first hour in the card room. This early in the evening she would be too much in demand to risk slipping away.

The supper bell rang and the music died, then guests surged into the room set aside for refreshments. Drew sauntered in a little late, at the rear; a gentleman acquaintance with whom he’d been playing cards at his side, a friend he’d picked out for the sole purpose of gaining entry into Miss Marlow’s family group.

If he was going to tempt her he needed to throw her at least a little more bait. His companion was an old mutual friend of Drew’s and Pembroke’s, from their days in Paris, during their dissipated grand tour. Days the Duke of Pembroke preferred to forget. Like Pembroke, Roger Harris had turned prude, and therefore Harris was the perfect camouflage, he would be welcome even if Drew was not.

On cue Roger called, “Pembroke!”

The family group were sittting about several tables. Drew ought to be daunted, but daunted was not within him, what he felt was a swell of anticipation, exhilaration. This was a bold move. He was walking a line, willing Miss Marlow to notice him while he wished her relatives to spot nothing out of the ordinary.

His quarry sat amidst her uncles and aunts on her brother’s table.

“Roger! I did not know you were in town.” Pembroke rose and strode the few steps towards them. “Is your wife with you?”

With Pembroke’s attention focused on their mutual friend, Drew let his gaze deliberately meet Miss Marlow’s. He caught it just for an instant, a moment in which his heart forgot to beat as her pale blue gaze struck his – summer skies and azure Italian seas. She was still deliberating. “Should I seek you out?”

Yes!

Her beauty literally kicked him at times. He forgot to breathe.

“No, I’m afraid Miriam is in her last month and not fairing too well…” Harris babbled on about his family.

Drew nodded marginally to Miss Marlow. A blush stained her pale skin red. Drew let a hint of a smile form at one corner of his lips then looked away, nodded to Harris, lifted his hand in parting and walked on. He wanted her to watch him; it was his signal.

Satisfied the bait had been set. Drew helped himself to items from the buffet, but did not bother with a plate, he did not wish to spend the supper hour eating. He stopped to acknowledge a few acquaintances, and then extricated himself from several ex-lovers, before turning to walk from the room.

He glanced at Miss Marlow as he passed.

She was watching. Would she follow?

He gave her an encouraging echo of a smile.

“Should I?” The thought shone in her eyes.

His absence had done its job, all her pretence had gone.

Striding on across the empty dance floor he looked back. Her gaze followed him still. He smiled again and nodded. This is your chance, Mary, darling…

Deliberately picking his path to keep within her view he walked to a set of open French doors and stepped into the tepid night air, looking back one last time, throwing her a calling card.

He was too far away now to be sure she still watched, but something in the turn of her head told him she did.

Come on little beauty, follow.

Outside he walked to the end of the Wiltshires’ stone terrace, he could not go too far, she would not find him.

The terrace, like the ballroom, was deserted.

He leant his buttocks against the stone rim of the balustrade.

The dark house walls framed the empty ballroom and the view into the dining room, like a picture, with huge chandeliers illuminating the scene within.

It made the terrace darker.

He withdraw a slim cigar and a match from the pocket of his evening coat, lifted the cigar to his lips and struck the match on the stone beside his hip, then held the flame to the tip of the cigar and sucked until it caught.

At least he had an excuse to be out here if he smoked.

Taking the cigar from his lips he let the smoke slid out of his mouth.

Miss Marlow smiled at her sister-in-law, the Duchess of Pembroke, nodding at something the other woman said. Then her face turned to someone else across the table, a gentleman, one of her uncles, and she laughed. Pembroke spoke to her. Drew could see the Duke smiling at her, at something she must have said, before he laughed with her too.

Her father approached behind her, stopped and pressed a hand on Miss Marlow’s shoulder. He leaned and kissed her temple.

Drew took another long draw on the cigar he held between his fingers.

It was as unreal as watching a play at the theatre. Drew did not understand a family like that. They moved in a pack, a pride, like lions, closing to defend and protect one another whenever the need arose, all the men prowling about their lionesses.

I really ought to be daunted. He was not, very little dented either his ennui or his ego.

But Miss Marlow dented his ennui.

That was good. He hardly wished for a wife who’d bore him.

He sucked on the cigar again, relishing the flavour of tobacco in his mouth. He knew how to enjoy things. He’d learned to make the most of every little gift life gave him when he was young. He would enjoy making Miss Marlow his.

Rising, smiling at her brother and her father, and then passing the sunshine of her beauty about the others at her table, Miss Marlow then bobbed a slight curtsy.

Drew smiled, sensations dancing a bloody jig in his chest; his little fish had taken the bait.

Strolling away from the table she weaved a path through the other guests, stopping occasionally.

Drew’s heart beat a steady elated rhythm. He felt as though he’d been dealt the most superb hand of cards, but there was still a risk that if he laid them wrong he’d waste their benefit. There was still a requirement for skill and caution. He had to be careful now.

When she reached the ballroom instead of turning towards the open French doors, though, she disappeared through a door at the side of the room near the entrance stairs.

Shutting his eyes Drew urged her with all the will power he had, to… Come to me!

But damn it, if she did not, he was not giving up; he would simply have to find a new tack.

Drew opened his eyes lifted the cigar back to his lips and sucked in the smoke, then looking up to the stars he blew out a circle.

The night was clear, a blanket of very dark blue with thousands of sparkling pin pricks of light. He loved night, like he loved storms. His soul had always turned to the dark and wild.

As a lad he’d lain outside for hours, looking up at the endless pitch black and he’d loved swimming in the dark, clothed only in moonlight. That had always been his purest escape. It had been a whole other world.

A small dark shadow flew like a dart in the air over his head. Bats. He smiled, watching them swoop and turn. Now he’d spotted one, he saw more, they were after the moths which had been drawn to the light spilling from the windows.

“What are you doing? Where have you been?”

His own little moth came to the flame. Her wings would be burned. But, God, he could not believe how much his heart thumped, and exhilaration coursed through his blood.

Her voice had come from the foot of the steps which descended from the terrace to his right.

Lifting his weight from the balustrade, his eyes searched her out in the darkness.

He caught the movement of her pale lemon dress about two feet away from the bottom step.

“I am waiting for you,” Drew answered her first question as he descended the steps, feeling the tug of her presence pull at him.

She was young, six years his junior, but he’d never seen her behave as a girl. She did not fluster or giggle. No, Mary Marlow had a serene womanly grace, she was kind, sensible, confident and extremely beautiful.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness.

“Tell me where you have been. I have not seen you for days.”

A few teasing curls of her ebony hair had fallen to lick her jaw and throat where he’d like to place his lips; and her eyes sparkled diamond bright as they caught a shaft of moonlight and challenged him.

His game of patience had been a brilliant hand.

“I have been giving you time to make your choice. Does this mean you have made it?”

“This…”

He’d confused her. Hell he was confused himself.

The movement of her fingers clasping together before her waist pulled his gaze lower.

She was anxious. She should be. But he was too. The emotions inside him were eclectic. Hope. Desire. Need. Desperation. But there was respect and pride too… When had he ever felt respect for a woman? Never before.

“You being here – is this your answer? If it is you took your time.” He stepped from the bottom step to stand in front of her, aware of the hardness in his voice and a stiffness in his body, but both were due to the bewildering mix of emotions causing turmoil inside him. He did not know this ground; did not know how to speak with a young innocent woman.

“I could hardly get up the minute you walked out. I do not even know why I am here.”

Ah damn it, he needed to forget his anxiety, forget his own fears. He did know how to woo women. She was a woman.

“Because you want to be here.” He moved closer. “With me.” He dropped his cigar on the dew damp grass.

“Do I? I barely know. All I know is that I missed you watching me.”

When he lifted a hand, she stepped back.

He smiled, his fingertips brushing her cheek. “You want more kisses, Mary. You can hardly have them if you do not let me near.” Damn it, he needed to persuade her to stay and not run again, to persuade her to be his wife – and the only way he knew how to do that was through sex. He needed her to let him close.

* * *

Is that why I am here, to let him kiss me again? She had not been able to define the pull which led her here.

She had seen him enter earlier, and her heart had leapt at the sight of his splendid figure as he stood at the top of the stairs. But she’d wanted to know where he’d been. Why he’d stopped following her?

To give her choice…

But choice had left her with a desperate, quivery feeling inside. Choice, separation from him, had been painful – and yes, she longed to be kissed.

He had a magnetic quality. When he’d walked out his gaze had called follow, and an invisible thread had pulled her here.

Lord Framlington pulled that invisible thread again and it drew her nearer still.

His fingers trailed across her jaw, then his thumb brushed over her lips.

She met his gaze, though she could barely see him in the darkness beyond a silhouette. The smell of tobacco carried on his breath.

This is madness. Why did I come to him? Why am I doing this?

“Not here,” she breathed as his lips neared hers. “Anyone may see us.”

She could not see his lips curve and yet she sensed they did. His fingers opened, spreading to cradle the line of her jaw while his other hand gripped her waist. He pressed her backward.

In a trance she let him back her into the darkness, into the corner where the wall of the house turned at the side of the steps, and met the high yew hedge bordering the garden beyond the terrace.

They were deep in the shadows, she could not see him at all, but she could feel his tall frame against her and his strong hand half holding, half caressing at her waist, while the hand cradling her jaw slid to her nape and pulled her mouth to his.

Oh heavens.

His lips were firm then soft against hers, coaxing her to kiss him back.

A sensual ache spiralled through her stomach, sliding down between her legs. Her arms lifted and her fingers settled on his broad shoulders as she leaned into him, clung to him, and gave herself up to kissing him back.

It was delicious and wicked, and utterly stupid. But she didn’t care, she didn’t want to think, she just wanted to feel. Her body fitted to his perfectly, her back curving, her hip bone pressing to his, her breasts crushed against his chest.

A groan rumbled deep in his chest. She felt it in her mouth and her breasts.

His tongue slid between her parted lips, tentatively at first, then deep, then tentative again, tempting her, encouraging her to seek more.

She wanted more with a bone-deep longing; his kiss dissolved her senses.

Her fingers clasped his hair as he pressed her further back, the wall grazing one shoulder while the sharp clipped bows of the yew hedge pierced her other.

The sound of the orchestra spun into the night air. The supper hour was over.

He did not stop, his tongue danced about hers as his fingers cupped her bottom and pulled her hips more snugly to his.

A ridge of hard flesh in his trousers pressed against her abdomen, it ought to have scared her. It did not.

His grip stayed tender and gentle while the play of his tongue enchanted.

“God, Mary, you’re beautiful,” he whispered into her mouth. “Better than I imagined.”

His fingers slid up over her hips and her waist, then settled at her ribs and his thumbs brushed the first curve of her bosom.

“Mary,” he said her name again with a dizzying awe. Then he kissed her jaw and her neck, while his palms settled over her breasts, kneading her flesh through her gown.

Voices spilled from the open French doors onto the terrace. People would be dancing again soon, crowding into the ballroom and walking out on to the terrace. Her heart pounded hard, fear, excitement and bewilderment mingling.

He didn’t stop, his teeth nipped her neck while one hand left her breast and slid downwards.

Oh.

He touched between her legs, stroking inward over the material of her gown pressing it to the warm wet flesh at the juncture of her thighs.

She knew men and women joined there. That was where she craved him.

His strokes were tender, careful, like his teeth and lips on her skin, and the grasp of his hand on her breast.

Anticipation and desire climbed, as if her body sought a peek.

Her breath quickened and a sob broke from her lips as delicious sensations wove a spell in her blood.

The hum of conversation seeped from the ballroom along with a melody the orchestra played.

She should tell him to stop, but wrapped in the darkness, hidden from view, the danger had become exhilarating.

His hand clutched her breast harder and his thumb swept back and forth across her hardened nipple, while his fingers stroked forward and back in the cleft between her legs caressing her aching flesh.

Her hands clawed on his shoulder and his neck, clinging, as a whimpering sound left her lips.

He silenced her with a kiss.

She could not kiss him back, she could not think as whatever peak she raced towards approached as if she flew on a firecracker.

Goodness. Oh heavens.

She exploded, and fell from the sky, then the sensation inside her was carried on a flood of water swirling beneath her skin, reaching out to her toes and fingertips as she gripped hard at his neck and shoulder, afraid she would truly fall.

A sound of amusement, half laugh, came from his lungs, slipping into her mouth as he drew away.

He looked down at her, but she could not see his face, or his eyes. His fingers touched her face and his thumb ran back and forth across her cheekbone.

“I could make a sound and have someone find us like this.” he whispered.

“Is that what you want?” His thumb touched her lips as she breathed heavily, still a little disorientated. He was breathing heavily too and through her grip on the back of his neck, even through his neckcloth, she could feel his heart racing hard.

She was not afraid, nothing about him spoke of danger, but I do not know him at all.

“I want you,” he answered, in a hushed voice. “I want you as my wife.”

“You want my dowry.”

“I want you, and your dowry. I know your brother hates the idea of a man in need of a fortune, but he has one. It’s hardly a crime to need to marry wealth, just circumstance. But any of three dozen heiresses could bring me money. I want you, Mary.”

She smiled, knowing the darkness hid it. “You could choose a military career and work for your living.”

His thumb swept across her cheek. “I have not even enough to buy a commission. Besides would you wish to follow the drum?”

“The clergy then…”

“Me, a vicar? Are you mad? That would never work.” A scoffing rumble of amusement growled in his throat.

“I must be, I am here with you.”

His thumb and forefinger gripped her chin, then tilted it up. “Do I have your interest?”

“To be your wife?” Mary fought a desire to kiss the lips lingering over hers. “I barely know you. All I know is you are a rogue.”

This time his amusement erupted as a proper laugh which someone might hear. “Guilty as charged, I’ll not deny it, but now I’m looking for more than amusement. I did not do this with you for that. I wish to marry you. I am trying to persuade you.”

“For money….”

He shook his head. “Money, yes. I need it. I’ll not lie to you. But I want you, too, not only your fortune.” His lips brushed hers, weaving enchantment, fogging her mind.

She forced herself to cling to common-sense. “And if I had no fortune…”

He did not answer. He’d said he would not lie.

He would not choose her if she was penniless. But that was the way of life. There were three dozen men in her uncle’s ballroom without expectation of inheritance, or the desire to be shot at on a battlefield, or the inclination to preach… All of those men were in need of a fortune.

She pushed him away.

As he moved back, his hands slipped to her waist.

“I have to go. I will be missed.”

“When can I meet you again? Where? Do you ride in the morning, in Hyde Park? What if I were there at nine, would you come?”

Male voices drifted on the night air, rising in volume, they came from the terrace.

“I don’t know. I have to go.” She slipped from his hold, both physically and mentally, and hurried back across the grass to the courtyard entrance she’d come from, then returned to the ballroom via the servants’ entrance.

He was not in there. He’d gone.

Mary found her father, who commented on the length of time the maid had taken to fix her hair. It was only teasing.

She’d lied to him, deceived him and disobeyed. She had never done any of those things until the Jerseys’ garden party.

Insanity had claimed her.

What had she done?

Her heart raced, her blood running thick with the memory of their intimate caress.

“Miss Marlow, will you dance?”

She turned to face Lloyd Montague, another of her usual set.

She liked him, she liked them all, but they did not intrigue or enchant her. The only man who did that liked to make her dance with danger.

She accepted Lloyd’s arm and let him lead her into a waltz. But she longed to be outside with Lord Framlington again.

Would she go tomorrow? She could, if she took a groom.

But would it be wise?

Of course it would not. It would be anything but wise. But she wanted to go.

Where would this lead if she went? Not to marriage. Her family would never permit it. It could only lead to disgrace.

She would not.

Chapter 4

Drew sat astride his horse, waiting by the gates of Hyde Park. Miss Marlow was thirty minutes late. She was making a fool of him.

Impatience bit hard. His hands on the pommel of his saddle he shifted his weight, and as he did so, he thought of her in his hands last night. Something gripped within his stomach, something which was not lust. She had melted him. Entirely. He had been ice and now he was water… She flowed in his veins, he’d never had an encounter with a woman which was so… beautiful… so real

God his heart had thundered as hard as hers at the end, and he’d wanted to yell out with jubilation. She would have thought him insane, and of course, it would have meant they may have been caught.

His friends would think him insane too if they knew how he felt.

He’d smiled for the rest of the night, like a damned green youth who’d just discovered the sport, and he’d still been smiling this morning.

She had been all that he’d hoped of in an innocent woman.

He, Drew Framlington, had been the first to show the beautiful Miss Marlow what true pleasure could be!

Yet she had not come this morning. He was not smiling anymore.

Damn it. Waiting on a woman was not Drew’s forte. He’d rather walk away than wait. But he craved her now, he could never choose another woman now. Not after her beautiful response last night… and he needed to marry someone, he needed a bloody fortune too. He refused to go back to his former life and give pleasure to his mother’s friends for money, yet if he did not come into money soon the dun’s would have him in jail.

Devil take it, she’d shattered in his arms last night…

He’d not thought she would allow him so near so soon, but she’d been willing him on, kissing him back with an un-virginal fire.

He wished this courtship over and Miss Marlow in his bed, just as much as he wished for her damned money.

But it seemed he’d lost his touch.

After the climax he’d given her last night, and it had undoubtedly been her first, she had been shocked by it, he would have thought she’d be here begging him to marry her.

He lifted his watch from the pocket of his morning coat. Five minutes more had passed.

She’d stood him up.

Bloody hell. He would never live it down after he’d bragged to his friends that they could begin their celebrations.

Women, damn them, they were all fickle.

He saw her.

Lord. Something bit into his chest. Relief. Desperation. Then came the flood of hope on a wave of a storm of sensations even deeper than he’d experienced before.

She rode along the street outside the park, a peacock feather bouncing above her head, to match her vivid blue habit. The colour a sharp contrast to her pale skin. She sat the horse extremely well, her spine rigid and her grip on the reins firm. She looked magnificent riding the glossy jet black stallion.

A groom rode beside her, keeping guard over the Marlows’ precious package.

Drew smiled and tugged on his reins, turning his mare away from the gate and setting it to walk across the lawn.

He could not let their meeting appear planned. It must look accidental. His heart raced as though he was galloping, not walking the horse.

A clear blue sky stretched from one horizon to the other.

Drew kicked his heals and stirred his horse into a canter, giving her time to enter the park and his heartbeat a chance to recover from the sight of her.

It was not busy but there were others about.

Once he’d ridden a few hundred yards he swung back, turning on to the outer path. She was a couple of hundred yards into the park, rising and falling in a trot.

She’d seen him, he could tell. She was not looking his direction, but he somehow knew from her stance.

Riding nearer he slowed from a canter to a trot and lifted his hand as though he’d just noticed her. “Miss Marlow! Well met!”

With his raised hand he lifted his hat and bowed his head in greeting, ignoring the groom who gave him a hard glare.

“Lord Framlington!” Her voice rang with a bright false pitch as she turned her horse towards him.

She was worried. A surge of something he was not used to feeling for anyone other than his younger sister, Caro, surged through his blood – a need to reassure and protect her

He slowed to a walk as she did, then stopped, his horse facing hers.

“You are out riding early, Miss Marlow?”

“I thought to come out while it’s cooler.”

“May I ride a little way beside you?”

“If you must.”

Drew smiled, as she turned her horse. He turned his, walking the animal close beside hers.

She looked over her shoulder and signalled for the groom to stay back.

The man’s glare bored into Drew’s back.

“You are late.”

“Well, that is a woman’s right.”

“Is it?” He glanced sideward.

Her habit hugged the curve beneath her breasts, the arch of her lower back and her slender delicate arms. He was falling into the enchantment of her innocence, fast and hard. His hunger was intense. He no longer even cared that she’d kept him waiting. She had an aura which pulled him close, winding around him like a charm. She gave him life, he felt different in her company.

It was probably just her beauty affecting him…All men must be dazzled by her. She was exceptional.

“Let us race?” she said, flicking her whip and setting her animal off, not waiting for agreement.

He kicked his heels, following her into a gallop as her horse tossed divots of grass at him.

The sharp rhythm of horse’s hooves pounded on the earth, and her laughter played on the air between them.

He gained ground and pulled ahead. She did not concede but tore on towards the lake, laughing still.

When they neared the lake, he pulled up, a full half leg in front. She stopped too and her horse turned a full circle.

“What was that?” he called to her.

“Fun!” she breathed, laughter dancing in her pale eyes as he rode closer. “I was not going to come you know.”

Her groom had been left a quarter mile back, but he could see them.

“So that was why you were late then, a change of heart?”

“Not exactly. I always behave. I always do as I should. Perhaps I just wished to kick up my heels.”

“Then this is not to be taken as any indication you agree to my offer.”

“Definitely not.” She shook her head. “If my family knew I was here with you, they would—”

“Slaughter me. I know.”

“Then, you cannot, for one moment, imagine they would agree to a match. They would think I had run mad.”

“You would be mad not to.” He held her light blue gaze. “I gave you a glimpse last night of how good it could be.”

She smiled, her eyes catching the sunshine. “In your bed you mean. That says nothing of how we would get along. Marriage is more than that, my Lord. Much more. And my family would never agree. They neither like nor trust you.”

“No… Then why did you come?” Drew did not intend to seek consent. He knew he would never be approved, the only one he sought to convince was her.

She stopped her horse from prancing and her gaze locked with his.

Those eyes. Who was seducing who?

His gaze fell to her lips.

“I have no idea. I think I am insane.” Her words kicked him firmly in the chest, and a soft ache hovered in his middle, as his gaze lifted back to her eyes.

The girl was a breath of fresh air, a light summer breeze. Sunshine.

“Could you not sleep, Miss Marlow, for thinking of me?” He laughed, feeling hope swelling inside him.

She blushed slightly. She had spent the night awake then. He hoped he’d hovered in her dreams as she had in his.

“So where do we go from here?” He encouraged her to take another step towards commitment.

“Where…?” A frown marred her beautiful brow. She had genuinely not thought about his offer then, merely their embrace.

“What next?” Drew clarified.

She shrugged, a dainty little gesture on her slim shoulders. “It should be nothing.”

“But it will not be nothing, because you want more, don’t you?” She needed more persuasion. Drew leaned forward and gripped her hand as it held her reins, holding both her and the animal steady. “Where will you be tonight?”

Her gaze clung to his. Maybe her common-sense told her there should be nothing more but other parts of her, that he had sway over, bid her answer. “I am attending Lady Frobisher’s musical evening.”

Musical evenings were a rogue’s curse, he could do nothing untoward when seated in a row of chairs. The game was off then, for tonight.

Nor could he meet her again in the park, once could be deemed accidental, but twice would draw attention. Without doubt the groom would mention this encounter to someone in the house.

“Miss Marlow!” A timely call came from their rear.

Drew glanced back. Her groom had come to retrieve his damsel from the beast.

Drew let her hand go and straightened. “Tomorrow then, where?”

“I shall be at the Phillips’ supper party.” Her gaze passed over Drew’s shoulder to the groom.

“There then. They have a large glass house in the grounds, to the right of the house. I’ll meet you there at midnight.” Drew’s eldest brother had been at school with the Phillips’ son, he could obtain an invitation.

Mary nodded. She had begun an intrigue. She had definitely become foolish.

“I shall look forward to it, immensely. Until tomorrow then, Miss Marlow.” His fingers reached for hers. Instinctively she released the reins, letting him take her hand. He lifted it to his lips, turned her hand, his thumb pressing into her palm, and kissed her wrist, above her glove.

Her heart skittered, its rhythm racing violently.

When he let go a smile lifted his lips and glinted in his eyes but the gleam turned wicked as his gaze shifted to her groom before he turned his horse and rode away.

Mary ached for him. She’d wanted this for a year… to give in to longing. But she should not have agreed to an assignation; it could mean nothing more than kisses.

“Forgive me, Miss,” Evans spoke when he drew near, “you should not speak with gentlemen.”

“I shall speak with whom I wish, Evans.” She sounded like John, and she was not normally harsh with servants.

“Miss Marlow.” The man lifted his fingers to his cap and tipped it forward, “Forgive me, but it is my duty to inform your father.”

“That I met a casual acquaintance in the park by chance and spoke with him? There is hardly anything to tell, Evans.” She ought to feel guilty. She did not, not yet, perhaps later.

It was as though she no longer knew herself.

She had lied to her family, and a friend, and now she was widening the net of deceits to the servants. It would trap her in the end if she was not careful.

She turned her stallion in the direction of the park gates. I cannot continue this. Tomorrow must be the last time she spoke with him and allowed his kisses. Unless she chose ruin.

Her heartbeat flickered and her stomach somersaulted. Was she fool enough to do that?

But John had increased her dowry as a gift to broaden her choice of husbands. Why did it matter if she chose a man who needed it?

Because John thought him heartless.

She rode out of the park gates beside Evans. Lord Framlington seemed sincere. He had not hidden his need for her fortune, just said he’d chosen her over other wealthy women.

Mary knew he’d chosen her, he’d chosen her a year ago; she had not needed to hear him say it, because her heart had chosen him too, and since then they’d watched each other through the crowds.

Whether she believed him or not, though, it did not matter. John did not like him and therefore nor did her father, and therefore Lord Framlington could never be hers.

You are a fool Mary. End it tomorrow. It can go no further.

When she drew her horse up before her brother’s front door, Evans swung down from his saddle and offered his hand.

She took it, lifting her knee from the pommel of her side saddle. Then he made a step with his hands so she could descend.

Before leaving him, she said, “You need not trouble yourself to tell tales, Evans, I shall inform my father.”

Bowing he tilted his cap again. “Miss Marlow.”

Lifting the hem of her riding habit from the ground, Mary ran up the steps to the front door which a footman held open.

Her family would be in the breakfast room. She headed there, stripping off her hat and gloves and passing them to a footman on the way.

Her youngest brothers and sisters ate in the nursery, but those who could sit sensibly shared the adults table and so the breakfast room was full and noisy. She smiled at her father and mother when she entered, and then at John and Kate.

Mary loved her family. She’d never lacked a thing. She’d always felt secure. So why did the danger Lord Framlington dangled draw her away?

“Mr Finch said you were riding, Mary,” her mother said with a gentle smile, “that is unusual for you.” It was a subtle question.

“I slept poorly and the morning was so sunny I could not resist.” Mary bent and kissed her mother’s cheek, then moved to take a seat among her younger brothers and sisters.

“Had you asked I would have ridden with you,” her father stated.

“It was a momentary decision, Papa.” Her eyes focused on the spout of the coffee pot, as a footman filled her cup, a blush warming her cheeks.

“Was Hyde Park busy?” John asked from the head of the table.

Her gaze lifted and met his.

John was older than her by a decade. He behaved more like a second father than a brother. Looking away she helped herself to bread from a plate a footman held. “Not very, I saw Lord Framlington, though. He stopped and spoke.” She let the words fall as though the incident meant nothing.

“Then you must not go again without a chaperon.”

“John,” Kate spoke from the other end of the table. “Mary took a groom and I’m sure she is able to cope with Lord Framlington. She was in the open, and she is sensible.”

Mary smiled at her sister-in-law.

The footman dished up some scrambled eggs and smoked fish.

“I have no concern over Mary’s behaviour,” John answered. “It is his I worry over.”

Mary looked back at John. “Why do you dislike him?”

The question made her father look at her too. “He’s a fortune hunter.”

John’s eyebrows lifted. “And a man of his ilk, is not for you.”

“His ilk?” Mary could not help pressing. She wanted to understand. She wanted to convince her heart it was wrong.

“This is why, she needs a chaperon.” John looked at Kate. “He speaks to her, and now she is asking foolish questions.” He looked back at Mary. “What did he say to you?”

Heat burned under her skin. “Nothing beyond courtesy.”

“So he put on the charm. Do not believe any of it. It is feigned.”

Mary set down her knife and fork. “I cannot see—”

“Mary!” Her gaze passed to her father. “This is an inappropriate conversation.” He glanced at her younger sisters. “I trust you to be sensible. But I agree with your brother, no more unaccompanied rides.”

She held her father’s gaze for a moment, before looking back at John.

He nodded.

What had Lord Framlington done to be deemed such a villain? Many men needed to marry for money, Lord Framlington was right, that in itself was not a crime. He was a rogue too, but many men were that also, they lived recklessly then grew up – as John had done.

But surely if he intended marrying her his rakishness did not matter, he was not planning to seduce and desert her. Her father’s and brother’s arguments were groundless.

Mary focused on her breakfast. Perhaps John had some vendetta against Lord Framlington; he had not spoken against any other man so adamantly.

Perhaps she would ask Lord Framlington why her brother disliked him tomorrow.

The thought of meeting him made her appetite slip away and a dozen butterflies take flight in her stomach.

Chapter 5

Drew strolled into White’s, his gentleman’s club, seeking masculine company, a game of cards and conversation.

He found his friends in their usual place. Harry Webster, Mark Harper and Peter Brooke sat in the first salon.

“Fram!” Harry called. “I thought you were hunting Miss Marlow…”

Drew smiled. “She is attending a musical soiree, a place where it is impossible to pursue the chase.”

His friends laughed. Drew signalled to a footman to bring him a glass of brandy.

“How goes the seduction?” Mark asked when Drew sat beside him.

“If it were simply seduction it would be done, but as I am seeking a wife the game is more complex. Despite allowing me certain favours, Miss Marlow has given not a single indication she will agree to become my wife.”

“Favours?” Peter laughed.

“Tell,” Harry added.

Leaning back into the winged leather chair and letting his hands fall onto the arms Drew grinned at them all. “I am hardly likely to share. If all goes according to plan she will be my wife.”

“I cannot see why that prevents you,” Harry pressed, his gaze darting across the room then back. “Your brother never keeps his triumphs in the dark.”

Drew looked over his shoulder, sure enough his eldest brother sat a distance behind him, accompanied by their brother-in-law, Lord Ponsonby. Ponsonby had married Drew’s eldest sister. Neither man was an example Drew wished to emulate. A sneer touched his lips. Drew’s sister, Ponsonby’s wife, was no better.

The only member of his family who had not broken their marriage vows was his younger sister, Caro, Lady Kilbride. However, her husband, the Earl, had. That man had a violent nature too which poor Caro constantly lived in fear of.

Caro was the only member of his family Drew felt close to.

Drew looked back at Harry, glowering.

“I take it you will not then,” Peter quipped.

Drew’s gaze spun to his best friend. “Definitely not!”

The others laughed.

A footman appeared with a tray bearing Drew’s brandy. Drew took his drink, then looked over his shoulder at his eldest brother, who was now looking at Drew.

Drew lifted his glass, in mock salute, then turned back to his friends.

* * *

Raising the dress of her ivory satin gown, Mary hurried along the garden path.

She’d left at the commencement of a set, hoping her family would not notice her absence. They were all busy dancing or talking.

There were no lanterns to light the way, deterring couples from strolling into the garden but the night sky was clear and moonlight shone through the leaves of shrubs in places so she could see the route.

Etched in the moonlight Lord Framlington’s figure formed a vivid silhouette in the darkness when she reached the glass house.

“Miss Marlow,” he called, stepping forward when she drew near.

Her heart skipped and her stomach spun like a top. She’d barely been able to eat since she’d last seen him, and she’d not slept last night; as her thoughts danced a reel.

She had to end this. It was beyond foolish.

But she wanted to be alone with him one last time.

He looked dangerous in the darkness, she ought to be afraid of him. She only knew him by reputation and that was bad. Yet she’d never been so pulled towards anyone – surely her heart could not be wrong?

His lips lifted in a half smile when she reached him and his fingers touched her face. He’d removed his gloves. “I was not sure you’d come. You’ve barely given me a glance this evening.”

Her fingers captured his and drew them away from her face, as she smiled too. “I did not wish to make my family suspicious. I’m already in the mire for speaking to you in the park.”

His other hand lifted suddenly, then gripped her nape and pulled her mouth to his.

He kissed her long and hard while he braced her nape with one hand and his fingers also weaved between hers and twisted her arm behind her back.

When he released her she was short of breath and her heart thumped.

But he was short of breath too.

His dark eyes held her gaze for a moment. “We should go inside in case someone walks this way.”

She’d forgotten the risk. “Yes.” They should not be kissing on the garden path where anyone might find them. But then she should not be alone with him.

Her hand clasped in his, he pulled her into the conservatory and closed the door.

Orange, lemon, olive and fig trees, in terracotta pots, lined the pathways in the huge glasshouse and the scent of warm earth merged with the floral aroma of the delicate flowers dangling from vines above them.

The grip on her hand claimed her. It said he treasured her. She was not anyone to him.

She felt special.

Was it an illusion? If she believed John, Lord Framlington thought nothing of her; he only cared for money.

He turned to face her, illuminated by moonlight through the glass above them, his starkly handsome face painted silver. He smiled, a smile that shone in his eyes too. He stepped backward one pace, then another, pulling her with him, leading her deeper into the glasshouse. “The exemplarily Miss Marlow has fallen from her pedestal.” His tone teased.

“Or perhaps a certain Lord has pulled her from it.”

His smile lifted again, this time it had a wicked lilt. “I accept the charge. I am sure it was deadly dull upon it anyway.”

Yes, yes it was, and lonely at times.

Perhaps that was why he tempted her. She should not feel lonely in such a large loving family but she had no space to be an individual. She wished to be loved singularly, to be the most special person to someone, to him. Like her father was to her mother, and her mother to her father.

She looked beyond him, closing her lips on her disloyal thoughts.

A small wrought iron table stood on a paved area among the plants, with a few chairs gathered about it. Beyond it she saw the river Thames through the glass. She’d forgotten the garden bordered it.

Ripples ran with the current of the river, shimmering in the moonlight. While dots of light sparkled from windows and lanterns on the far bank. It was a scene from fairytales.

Lord Framlington lifted their joined hands, pulling her awareness back to him as he brought her fingers to his lips, then kissed them. His dark eyes gleamed staring at her glove, then he freed the button at her wrist, and then began to pull each fingertip free.

Once the glove was loose he stripped it off and tossed it on the table where his gloves laid. Then he removed the other too.

She should not allow him to touch her skin, but beautiful sensations skipped up her arm as his lips pressed on her bare knuckles.

Was everything which felt good wicked?

“What are you thinking?” He pressed a kiss on each of her fingertips.

Her heartbeat stuttered, she could not find words to reply while his breath warmed her skin.

Pain circled low in her stomach.

His gaze lifted to hers, “What, Mary?” then lowered. He slipped the tip of her little finger into his mouth and sucked it gently.

She pulled her hand from his grip, a blush burning. “I should not allow you to do this.”

“You should not be here, come to that.” His voice was deep and low.

“No…”

“But you are.” His hands braced her waist.

The danger she faced reared. They were a long way from the house. No one would hear her cry out if he forced himself on her.

Her heart raced harder as her fingers gripped the muscle of his arms through his evening coat and her breath caught in her lungs as she looked up at him.

“You do not trust me.” It was a statement, not a question.

She did not. How could she? “I barely know you…”

“Apart from your brother’s tales.”

His face had moved into shadow. What had seemed an enchanted place, suddenly felt like a gothic novel.

“I’ll not hurt you,” he whispered. “Don’t heed him, I am no monster, Mary, darling. I do not wish you harm. I want you to be my wife, why would I hurt you?”

“I… I…” She struggled to find words as his gaze dropped to her lips.

She turned her head, so he would not kiss her. He merely kissed her cheek instead.

A tremor raked her muscles as his lips touched her earlobe too, then her neck.

Her fingers clasped his arm. “Why does John dislike you so much?”

His head lifted, moonlight catching as a glimmer in his eyes, which were dark here. “Pembroke sees himself in me. He was not always a saint. He had an affair with my eldest sister.”

“With your sister…”

He smiled. “I suppose he did not mention it. Yes, he cuckolded my brother-in-law, Lord Ponsonby, not that I think Ponsonby cared. It was when we were in Paris.”

“You were in Paris with him…” His palms felt heavy on her waist.

“Yes.” The deep masculine burr tingled over her skin.

John had spent seven years abroad. She’d written to him, but he’d rarely replied and she’d been too young to hear much of how he’d lived. He’d married Kate soon after his return.

“If you do not believe me, ask him. I doubt he’d lie. A young man’s recklessness is part of life – a part your brother now claims to be above. But he has no cause to judge me ill beyond my lack of wealth.”

“But you have a reputation.”

“Yes. Ignore it, it is irrelevant to us; your brother had a reputation. Now he has a wife. This is about the two of us, no one else. You and I shall be all that counts.”

Her heart ached. But her common-sense whispered. “Only because you need my money.”

“What I need right now, Mary, darling, is not your money. I need you.”

A muddle of turbulent emotion writhed inside her but longing overrode them all, as his lips pressed down on hers.

She forgot doubt and responded as his tongue slipped past her parted lips. Her fingers gripped his shoulders and when she slid her tongue into his mouth, he caught it lightly in his teeth, for an instant, before sucking it deeper.

It was so intimate.

Her fingers slid up into his soft, thick hair.

I love you, the words whispered through her thoughts unbidden. She did, she loved him, no matter what John said, no matter the risk. She loved him.

His hands held her, resting against her back.

She remembered everything he’d done the other night. His lips left hers and began travelling a path of kisses along her jaw then down her neck.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, against her skin.

She shivered. “And rich,” she whispered to the air above her, forcing her mind to return to reality.

His head lifted and a soft laugh left his lips as his finger tapped beneath her chin. “Yes you are rich but there is far more to you than money.”

His fingers fell to either shoulder and slipped beneath the short sleeves of her gown then slid them down. They hung loose on her arms and her bodice sagged

His gaze dropped to her breasts, and his heated palms cupped them.

Mary’s mouth dried and she looked up at the glass roof above. It reflected her image, against the jet black wash of night.

She saw his dark hair against her pale skin as his lips touched the hollow at the base of her neck where her pulse flickered.

When his fingers slid into the fabric and gripped her breasts, she shivered again.

Oh dear Lord. A sweeping sensation plunged down to the place between her legs. She ached for him there.

He eased one breast free, then his lips brushed her nipple before covering it and then sucking it; cradling her nipple on his tongue.

Her bones dissolved and her fingers clasped in his hair, as she watched the mirror image above them.

This was wicked, but delicious; the sensations intoxicating.

Her breath came in pants. He made her body ignite.

Still sucking her breast, his hands slid to her hips, and began lifting her dress.

Cold realisation drenched her, he was not going to stop. He did not simply expect kisses. “No.”

Her fingers, slid from his hair, gripped his shoulders and pushed him away. “No.” She had not completely lost all sanity.

His gaze cut through the darkness, meeting hers, his heavy breaths echoing against the glass. “Mary.” His fingers unclenched, letting her dress fall.

But when she would have stepped back his hands slipped to cup her buttocks, and pulled her closer still.

A column within his trousers pressed against her stomach through their layers of clothing. “See what you do to me.”

Her grip on his shoulders urged him away. “Let me go.”

“You have no need to be afraid of me.” His hands slid back to her waist then fell as he stepped back.

Her fingers shaking, Mary righted her bodice and lifted her short sleeves, unable to look at him.

“I would not hurt you.” His voice hit a hard tone.

Fear and wariness slashing at her foolish soul she met his gaze. What if her instinct had been wrong? She had good cause not to trust him. It was not only John who thought ill of him, he was an outcast, ignored by most.

“For God sake, Mary.” His pitch lifted to anger.

Her chin titled defiantly. She had to stop this before it became too late to turn back. “I will not meet you again.”

“I did not hurt you.” Irritation brimmed in his voice.

“I know you did not.” She stepped back – away. This was the end. “I did not say you did, but I cannot… I will not meet you again. I won’t hurt my family. I cannot keep betraying their trust.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I came to tell you… I would not—”

“You took your time saying no. If that was your intent. You came to be made love to…” he growled.

Mary held up a hand, to ward him off. “Love is not involved in this. I may be innocent, but I am no fool either, Lord Framlington. You may convince me you are attracted to me but you will not persuade me this has anything to do with love.” At least not on your part.

That was her downfall. She’d let him take liberties because she did love him.

* * *

Silver moonlight caught in Mary’s eyes.

Pain shone there.

He’d said he would not hurt her, but he had. That cut at him. He thought of Caro… and himself as a child…The only time when perhaps he could compare his feelings to understand Mary’s. He never wished to hurt Mary.

Damn, he was unused to women with a heart – a woman who knew love. A woman who’d been surrounded by it her entire life.

His error glared him in the face. He should not have wooed her with passion. It was not her body he had to persuade – it was her heart. She wanted to be loved. Of course she did.

“Andrew,” he stated bluntly.

Why had he given her his full name?

Her chin tilted higher, reminding him of her brother’s stubborn countenance.

How the hell do I make her love me?

“What?” Her tone rang sharp and challenging.

She did not even know his name. He’d wooed her physically and not even let her in so far as to tell her his name.

His voice dipped to a calmer conciliatory pitch. “My name is Andrew, although most people call me Drew.”

“Oh.” She looked confused. Perhaps she also realised how many favours she’d allowed him without even knowing his name.

“Say it.” His voice held the undercurrent of the desperation humming in his blood. He could not let her walk away. Everything hung on him winning her. The idea had fermented in his head for so long, he could not choose to change his path, not now. He could not bear to be with anyone but her.

She took a breath. “Andrew.”

A fist gripped hard and firm in his gut.

“Or Drew… That suits you more, it is more dangerous.”

“You deem me dangerous… I’m not the devil, Mary, just a man. A man looking for a wife, you, and once we are wed, every morning when you wake, you will say my name; and when we retire, I’ll make love to you, slowly and thoroughly so you know it is not a marriage solely for money.”

Uncertainty flickered in her eyes. But he knew he could not progress. He needed to regroup, and think of a new strategy. To make her love him?

Damn. He knew nothing about love.

But an odd sensation seared in his chest.

If she came to love him, he’d rejoice. It was what he wanted – a faithful, committed wife. He had no idea how Mary would fare once they were wed, but surely if she loved him it could not go awry. “I want you, Mary. If you need to be loved, I will love you, I swear it. I’m half in love with you already.” It was surely true, the emotions inside him were a turmoil of desperation, need and hope.

Her eyes turned cold. “Or half in love with my dowry…”

Her stubborn insistence that he desired her money made him angry. “You were right earlier, you don’t know me. Money is not all to me.” He picked up her gloves and thrust them at her.

She took them, then turned.

But he caught her elbow before she could leave

“I have to go. I am promised for the next dance.”

“Next time—”

“There will be no next time!” Her elbow slipped from his grip, and then she was gone, her ivory clad figure disappearing into darkness.

Bloody hell, he’d lost more ground than he’d gained tonight. If she would no longer come to him then how the hell was he to progress? He could not approach her, that would make her family suspicious. They would remove her from town.

Striding from the garden he didn’t bother heading back to the ball, instead he headed to his club. He needed to drink, and think.

Chapter 6

After breaking her fast, Mary retired to the drawing room with her mother, her sister-in-law Kate and her sisters, while the boys were at lessons upstairs. She chose to sit on a sofa in the sunshine, beside her younger sisters, Helen and Jennifer, who were busy working on embroidery samplers. Mary guided them.

“Excuse me, Your Grace.”

Mary looked up. Mr Finch stood just inside the door, a small silver tray balanced on his fingers.

Kate held her son on her lap, and had been amusing him with a wooden rattle while Mary’s mother sat on the same sofa, with Mary’s youngest sister, Jemima. They’d been studying a picture book.

They all looked up.

“What is it Finch?” Kate asked.

“A letter for Miss Marlow,” Mr Finch intoned.

“Mary?” Her mother looked in Mary’s direction, a question bright in her eyes. Who?

Mary stood, heat flaring in her cheeks. She received letters regularly from a variety of friends, and her cousins, but they came with her father’s and John’s post.

She took the letter from the tray, her skin glowing.

Mr Finch turned to leave.

The writing was unfamiliar. But… Surely not…. It was large, bold strokes. She broke the blank seal and looked at the bottom of the page.

D. F.

Drew Framlington.

Her heart pounded against her ribs.

Her family had noticed her absence last night. She’d told them she had gone to the retiring room. Even so her father had admonished her for not telling her mother. They had warned her of rousing unnecessary gossip.

Kate had interjected then, saying she’d experienced such things and would not wish them on Mary.

By the time they’d come home, Mary had been thoroughly chastened, and been made to feel painfully guilty. She’d cried herself to sleep, then woken barely an hour later, thinking of the things she’d let him do, and what he’d said.

Holding the letter she crossed to the window.

“Who is it from?” her mother asked.

Mary glanced back. “Lord Farquhar.” Daniel, one of her friends, she’d known him since her come out, her mother knew him too.

Her mother smiled with a fond look, before turning her attention back to Jemima and the picture book.

Mary longed to take the letter up to her room but that would look odd. Instead she sought seclusion on the window seat, slipping her feet from her shoes and then lifting them on to the cushion before her.

My dear Miss Marlow,

Has any man told you what a treasure you truly are?

The rogue, he actually referred to her fortune in a pun. She smiled, more amused than angry.

What I would give to make you mine, you cannot imagine. I am yours, a hundred times over. I adore you. Your ebony hair and your alabaster skin. Your eyes, as blue as a summer sky, or an azure sea, so pale they are like ice. They make me shiver when you turn your gaze upon me, turn it my way often and forever, Mary dear. Make me yours, make me love you. If love is what you want, bring me to your heel. I will come. I will beg for you if that is what you wish, only never turn your smile away from me, that is what I live for, to see your perfect smile.

And your lips, I have not yet spoken of those…

It was nonsense of course, all nonsense, and it went on and on, profoundly expressing her beauty and his adoration, while not once claiming to love, but pleading for her to give him the opportunity to fall in love. It begged her to tame him. It asked her to show him how. Then he finished it all with a silly poem.

When she folded it and lifted her gaze, a smile curved her lips.

He’d not been deterred by her dismissal yesterday. That gave him credit. He was more serious about choosing her than she’d thought. He could have simply transferred his attention to another wealthy woman.

“What did he say, Mary?” her mother asked.

Mary looked across the room. “He is gushing, Mama.” It was becoming far too easy to lie. She rose from the window seat, and slipped her shoes back on.

Her mother smiled. Her sister-in-law Kate looked up and smiled too.

“Are you interested in Lord Farquhar?” her mother asked, with a curious look.

Mary laughed. “Heavens no, but it is flattering.”

“Let me see!” “Let me read it!” Her sisters cried.

“No!” Mary clutched the letter to her breast as they rose and rushed over.

“It’s personal,” her mother admonished. “Helen, Jenny, sit back down and leave your sister alone.”

Fortunately her parents were not in the habit of reading her post. They trusted her.

A sharp pain cut deep into Mary’s chest.

She did not deserve their trust anymore.

She’d been beyond foolish last night. She would have lost her family’s respect forever if she’d been caught with Lord Framlington. She would have been utterly ruined. She would have had to marry him.

But, then, surely, his discretion was another point in his favour. Even his letter did not contain anything which would force her hand.

Last night he could have had what he wished, her hand in marriage, her money, if he’d arranged for someone to discover them.

Surely that he had not arranged it – that he would not act without her consent – meant he was honourable despite his reputation. Then he must also – to some degree – care for her.

“May I take this letter up to my room, Mama, so I can put it in my travelling desk?”

“Of course, sweetheart.” Her mother gave her another fond look.

Mary fled the room with sinful, wrong notions, spinning in her head. If only she knew his address she might write back.

No! No! I have finished with this foolishness.

* * *

Fate played an odd game on Mary at the Fosters’ ball; as Mary stood talking with Miss Emily Smithfield, Lord Farquhar asked Mary to dance the first set.

She accepted with a shallow curtsy, smiling at him, then glanced back to give Emily, who invariably ended up the wallflower once more, an apologetic smile. Emily was the shy type, too quiet, but as she had only come out this season, she was still finding her place in society.

Mary looked back to see if Emily had found another companion to speak with, and caught her mother watching. The look in her eyes resembled the one in the drawing room that morning. Her father’s eyes glistened in the candlelight when she looked at him.

They thought she carried a torch for Lord Farquhar and he for her.

Mary turned away.

Lord Farquhar carried his torch for her good friend Lady Bethany Pope.

Oh heavens, lying never brought any good. It was always found out. The only time she’d lied in her childhood was when she’d accidently broken her mother’s perfume bottle. She’d hidden the broken bottle and claimed no knowledge of it. They’d known because she was the only one who smelt of the perfume.

She’d been in more trouble for lying than for breaking the bottle.

She’d never lied again – until the day of the Jerseys’ garden party.

Lord Farquhar’s eyes twinkled with good humour as he led her on to the floor. She liked her friends. She’d formed a good set last season. She glanced back at poor Emily. She was sure Emily would become settled, her friends were loyal, happy people, and generous in nature, all of them – yet none of her male friends carried an air of mystery, as Lord Framlington did. She selfishly wished for a life that was more exciting than this.

Her heart ached with a bitter sweet sadness. Lord Framlington made her long to unravel all the things he kept hidden. He was exciting…

Yet she had not even known his given name until she’d been about to leave him in the glasshouse.

The image of his eyes as he’d asked her to say his name aloud caught in her memory.

He was… vital… consuming heat… danger – and mystery. All other men were bland compared to him. How could she carry a torch for a bland man when there was Lord Framlington to compare to?

She would probably never marry, and then if she never married her whole life would be dull.

“You do not look quite the thing this evening, Mary. You look distracted. Is anything wrong?”

Lord Farquhar’s fingers gripped hers as they passed each other in the format of the country dance.

She had not even spoken to him since they’d walked on to the floor. “Nothing is wrong. But thank you for asking. I am merely tired, I have attended too many entertainments…”

“You can never attend too many…Are your shoes pinching? You may have too much dancing if your shoes are pinching…”

Mary laughed at his attempt to cheer her but stupidly it sent her tumbling into the doldrums.

If she never spoke to Lord Framlington again she would have to endure an entire life of dullness?

“I should be honest. It was not I who noticed. Bethany did. She sent me to cheer you up.”

“Ah.” Mary glanced at Bethany, who now stood beside Emily, then she looked back and smiled at Lord Farquhar.

She must cease longing for Lord Framlington. This was enough to make her happy. It had to be, and happiness was enough. Even if inside she spent her life screaming for excitement.

When the dance drew to an end Lord Framlington entered the ballroom, as her group swapped partners then formed the next set.

He walked with a group of men. They stopped and looked about the ballroom.

One gentleman’s gaze passed over her, then jolted back, stopping on her for a moment before he turned to the man next to him, his lips tilting in a smirk. Then they all looked at her.

She turned away.

Lord Framlington had spoken of her to his friends, then. What had he said? She hoped he’d not told them anything.

“Mary?” Philip Smyth took her hand and pulled her into motion as the music began. She was one step behind everyone, her heart racing as nausea tumbled in her stomach and light-headedness made her feel as if she might collapse.

But she did not give in to her weakness for the dark-haired, vibrant brown-eyed Lord Framlington, she lifted up her chin, caught up the step and continued, focusing on Philip and smiling as hard as she could.

When the music drew to its crescendo and ended in a brisk flurry, relief and a desire to reach the safety of her mother swamped Mary. But before she had chance to ask Philip to take her back, a shadow fell over her. She turned. John’s cousin, from John’s father’s side, stood beside her, Lord Oliver Harding, with another man.

“Miss Marlow.”

She had met Lord Harding at several events but he’d never paid her any particular attention. He was older than John and not interested in John’s young half-siblings.

Mary curtsied. “Lord Harding.”

He smiled, bowing only slightly then he turned to the gentleman beside him.

Heat burned beneath Mary’s skin. He was one of the men who’d entered with Drew.

“May I introduce Mr Harper to you Miss Marlow, he begged an introduction. Mr Harper, Miss Marlow, is my cousin’s sister.”

Mary searched for a memory of the man’s name but could recall nothing. She’d never seen nor heard of him before.

He gripped her hand, then kissed the back of her glove. Goosebumps ran up her arm, like a cold breeze had swept in to the room.

Bowing her head, to avoid his gaze, she curtsied a little.

When she rose and looked at him, she met piercing, assessing, blue eyes.

His blonde hair gave him a look of innocence, but his eyes denied it entirely. He was a rogue, of the worst sort, the sort who did not even bother to court wealth. That was why she’d not seen him before, because he was not the type of man to attend sedate functions. Even the card room here, she was sure, would not play deep enough.

He was a man who danced only with sin – and Lord Framlington’s chosen companion…

“May I have this dance, Miss Marlow?” If she refused it would be obvious to everyone around them as the sets had already formed and she would have to leave the floor alone. Philip had turned away.

Her mouth was too dry to answer. She nodded, anxiety spinning in her gut. Why would he single her out? What had Lord Framlington said?

“You’re very beautiful, Miss Marlow. More so than I’d thought, I admit. Now I can see why he is so smitten.”

“He?” Her cheeks heated with a deeper blush as they took the first steps of the dance moving forward then back. Then they turned to make a ring of four with the couple to their left.

Mary faced Lord Framlington.

Ah. So this was the game?

They completed a full circle, hands joined as a four and then she turned, looking at Lord Framlington and walking towards him as the dance required.

“Miss Marlow,” he acknowledged her with perfect formality.

Her fixed smile faded.

The next move was a closer turn, shoulder to shoulder, he pressed close. Heat scorched down her arm, and burned inside her, her heart thumping hard. She opened her mouth to breath, but there was no air.

“Mary,” he leant a little to whisper to her ear. “Did you receive my letter?”

“Yes.”

“Will you write to me?”

There was no time to answer. They were parted by the figures of the dance.

She faced his friend again, her heart pounding as she sought to watch Drew through the corner of her eye. There were no other moments to speak with him, and the rest of the dance seemed endless as the complicated patterns moved Drew further and further away.

* * *

During supper, Drew stood apart from everyone, hands in pockets, as he watched those eating. Miss Marlow was in the bosom of her family, again, surrounded, laughing and happy. Happy? Now there was a word, a word like, love. Had he ever known what it was to be happy? How the hell did he know who was happy?

He’d laughed last night, though, laughed and got very drunk. He’d called at White’s after he’d left her, searching for his friends.

They’d not been at White’s, but he’d tracked them down in a gambling den not far from St James.

He’d dragged them all from their game, and Peter and Harry from the whores draped about them, and taken them back to his bachelor residence for a more intimate night of masculine companionship.

On the way there he’d explained his plight.

How was he to convince the girl to love him? How did a man use romance and not sex to woo a girl?

Harry, particularly, had laughed heartily.

Drew could see the humour in the situation, the renowned seducer smote by a lack of love.

What the hell did he know of love?

His friends had spent the next three hours in drunken hilarity, advising him on the subtleties of love, and its difference from desire.

The letter had been Peter’s idea.

He’d leaned back in his chair, lifting his glass of brandy and grinning. “What you need my friend, is a bloody good poet. Prose is your key. All women fall for it. They like to be told their eyes are like this, their lips like that, they love to have their beauty praised.”

Between them then, through much laughter, they’d constructed the basics of the letter. The prose, had in fact, been mostly Peter’s. This morning Drew had re-written it with a sober hand and sent if off.

Yet, having played a part in the game of catching Mary Marlow, his friends had declared their interest in attending the next ball. They were eager to see the outcome of this new, more tactical, game. They’d considered it brilliant luck that Mark knew the Harding twins, Pembroke’s cousins, and then another plot had begun to spin, one to gain Drew access to Mary at the ball.

The Hardings were not as high in the instep as the Pembrokes. Lord Oliver had not even lifted an eyebrow at Mark’s request.

The plan was, once Mark had the introduction he would introduce the others and then they’d all dance with her, and if Drew merely passed her during moving sets, her family would not suspect any particular intent.

But the reality proved frustrating. He could only speak to her for an instant here and there.

He’d asked if she had the letter, if she’d write, if she’d missed him, she’d had no chance to answer anything to any real degree. Then he’d resorted to brushing her shoulder with his fingertips once.

It was hardly enough to win him a wife. He was not going to be able to convince her to take him like this.

Turning on his heel he walked from the supper room, he needed to think, he needed to settle his mind. He’d go for a smoke. Then he realised, suddenly, in a blinding thought, he’d asked her to write, but she didn’t know his address. He could hardly put it in a letter, her parents might see it.

Changing direction then, he searched out a footman in the hall, and asked for a quill, ink and paper to be brought to the gentlemen’s smoking room.

He let her dance with her friends, for the first and second dances after supper, but then he asked Peter to lead her out.

The dance was a pattern of four. Drew picked a quiet little wall-flower of a woman to partner him.

Two movements into the dance he and Peter swapped partners. It was not a requirement of the dance. He’d agreed the move with Peter to gain longer access to Mary.

Of course Mary realised instantly what they’d done and her jaw dropped on the verge of exclamation, but he caught her fingers in his as part of a turn and squeezed them hard. It effectively silenced her. The little wall-flower seemed to think they’d made a mistake. She was smiling at Peter as though she thought him foolish, but then knowing Peter, he was probably charming the girl and making her think he was the one who’d planned the swap.

“Lord Framlington,” Mary whispered in a harsh tone. “Why are you playing this game?”

He bent his head and although he felt like being harsh in return because she had returned to distancing him with the use of his surname, he softened his voice to honey. Some elements of seductive skills could still apply when making a girl fall in love… by convincing her you suffered the same condition… “My dear, it is no game. I told you, I want you for my wife. I am not backing down. Steadfastness is surely an element of love.”

Lord Framlington bore arrogance tonight. He obviously did not like losing. She had enough brothers and male relations to know how stubborn they could be.

“It is no statement of love to want to win at any cost.” She did not like being used like a puppet.

“You are on your guard, Mary, darling. I told you, I will not hurt you.”

“Anything between us will hurt me, when it will hurt my family…”

“But what if it hurts you and I more to be held apart. Does my steadfastness not express my heart’s devotion?”

“You are determined, Lord Framlington, I give you that. But devoted, I question, I do not think you devoted to anything beyond my dowry.”

“Call me, Drew–”

“Lord Framlington.”

His eyes shone with condescending humour. “Must I be set back so far?”

“You have not been set back at all. There is simply no going forward. Is there? Our—”

“Affair…” He leaned forward and whispered the word. It vibrated through her nerves.

She took a breath. “Hardly that, but whatever it is; it is over – and was always folly. I cannot hurt my family.”

“Folly,” he whispered. “I have heard it said, Miss Marlow, that each of us has a soul mate, and if I am yours, if we are each-others, would you throw that away because your family did not like the man of your heart, and hurt that man, who ought to be higher in your heart – your future husband. Families rear us; then they are meant to become second in our lives.”

His words struck her like a slap – and if I am yours, if we are each-others, would you throw that away because your family did not like the man of your heart, and hurt that man…

That was bloody prophetic. Where the hell had it come from? Drew would be spouting this drivel as second nature soon. But he would do anything to win her, including prattling, idiotic, poetic words.

The dance separated them for several movements. But his gaze clung to her face.

She was intoxicatingly beautiful. Whenever he looked at her a jolt sparked in his chest as well as his groin. His thoughts were forever transfixed by the woman while he was in her close proximity and even when he was not.

He had to win her.

He did not want to choose another woman. He’d chosen her last season, nearly a whole year had already passed, he would not wait another year and he’d no intention of letting her slip through his fingers.

He refused to accept no from her.

He needed her and not simply for her money.

Did she not understand that?

Aware his gaze had hardened to glaring, he whispered, harshly, “Am I not good enough for you? Did you not like my verse?”

Her lips parted slightly. They drew his gaze. If they’d been alone, he would have kissed her, drawn her into his arms and never let her go. She was his. She just didn’t know it yet, but he knew it. His eyes lifted to hers again. “You are meant for me. Why can you not see it?” Forget the drivel about souls and fate and love, this much was true. He was certain that she was the only woman he would be happy with. Lord, without her, he would never even be able to claim the word, happy!

Her lips pursed.

“I tried to tell you in that letter, what I think, how I feel—”

Her fingertip grazed his lips, to silence him, as she passed him in a turn.

Good God! Did she not know he would give anything to have her?

“I read your letter, I know what it said.”

Drew’s heart missed a beat. The look in her eyes spoke of sympathy.

Did it mean he had hope?

“Write to me,” he urged. “I’ll speak to you when I can, but in the meantime write.” The notes of the dance drew to a close.

“I do not have your address, I—”

He captured her fingers, lifting her hand to kiss it, and as he did so, he slid the small folded piece of paper he’d written his address on into the wrist of her glove.

“You do.” He met her gaze over her bent knuckles as he gripped her fingers. Then he let her hand fall and bowed briefly before turning away.

* * *

Mary watched him return to his friends, her heart racing.

“Miss Marlow.” The man who had led her into the dance, Lord Brooke, was at her side offering his arm.

She lay numb fingers on it.

They’d orchestrated the whole night, he and his friends.

“There are a dozen other heiresses he could court…” she said.

“But none as beautiful.”

“So that is what draws him, wealth and beauty?”

They walked across the floor, towards her parents, slowly, as people formed sets for the next dance.

Lord Brooke leaned closer. “Is it not his looks which draw your eyes to him?” It was not a whisper, his deep baritone made her skin prickle, and the note of condescension stirred anger inside her.

“Miss Marlow.” He straightened, lifting her fingers from his arm, as her parents came into view. “It has been a pleasure.” He bowed.

Then like Drew he walked away.

“Who were you with?” her mother asked, coming forward.

Mary, glanced across the room. Lord Brooke, Lord Framlington, Mr Harper and Mr Webster were leaving the ball.

Mary faced her mother. “Lord Brooke, Mama. Oliver introduced his friend to me and his friend introduced Lord Brooke.”

“And his friend was?”

“Mr Harper.” The slip of paper tucked within Mary’s glove itched. Had the whole endeavour been to slip her his address?

“Mr Harper? I think his father’s money came from sugar plantations.” Her father had moved beside her.

She shrugged. “I have no idea, Papa. We danced, we did not share life histories.”

He smiled. “No, I suppose not, but if it was that Mr Harper, avoid him, he has an appalling reputation, and Lord Brooke too. Avoid them both in the future.”

“Yes, Papa.”

She had been right; Lord Framlington consorted with men whose reputations matched his. His had been earned then, surely.

Her breath slipped out through her lips – and, he’d left his address within her glove. She would be the worst fool to communicate with him.

Her father’s fingers, tapped her beneath the chin. “Cheer up, sweetheart, there are plenty of decent men about, and here is one. I believe Lord Farquhar wishes a second dance.”

Mary turned. Daniel was approaching with a broad smile.

Why could not cupid aim steady arrows at her heart, ones which led to trustworthy men, rather than dangerous predatory rogues?

Chapter 7

Drew crawled into bed, three sheets to the wind. They’d retired to his bachelor apartments for a second evening, and it was now almost five of the clock. The first light of dawn crept about his curtains.

His friends had spent half the night commending him on his choice. The second half they’d spent constructing more verse, only this time Peter had said it should praise Mary’s nature, not her eyes. Apparently Mary did not take kindly to being complimented on her looks. She wished to be appreciated for more than her appearance. It was another credit to be notched in her favour.

A considerable amount of laughter had followed, and an inevitable quantity of wine.

When he woke he was hot and sweaty, his body thrumming with need for Mary Marlow – in his dreams she had not said no the other night.

He looked at his watch on the side. It was only mid-day but there was no way he would be able to sleep again.

He threw the covers aside and got up, then washed and shaved, planning to ride in the park and vent his frustration. Rewriting the latest letter would have to wait until he’d dealt with his painful surge of desire.

He could seek a willing woman to assuage it, but if he wanted constancy with Miss Marlow the idea seemed traitorous; he had abstained for a year, he would not break that now.

He was not interested in other women anyway. Not any more. Mary consumed him, mentally and physically. It was Mary he needed, no-one else.

His mouth dried, filling with a bitter taste, and it was not from last night’s excess of drink, it was from fear he’d fail and lose her.

On his ride he stretched out his mare, hurtling across the open meadow of Green Park, leaning low, hugging his body to the horse, pushing his bodyweight into his heels, and keeping balance with his shins, and his thighs, riding like a mad man.

He felt close to insanity – desperate.

Still, if she was easily caught he’d be bored of her in weeks. No, her determination to withstand him only bore out his belief that she was the woman for him.

She had strength of character, and that was to be admired.

Returning home he rewrote the letter his friends had constructed in their cups last night, and as he reached its end found his own words flowing from the quill, a diatribe falling from his mind onto the paper as the words had last night when they’d danced. He blotted the words briskly then folded the paper before he lost the courage to include his own words and sealed it with wax.

He found a young lad he trusted in the street and sent the boy off to deliver it.

* * *

“Miss Marlow.”

Mary sat alone in the family drawing room. She looked up at the butler who carried a silver tray.

“A letter.”

When the butler bowed to offer it, Mary saw Drew’s handwriting and her wicked heart flooded with joy.

Her mother and father, with John and Kate, had taken all the children on an outing to the park. Mary had declined accompanying them and bidden Mr Finch to say no one was at home if anyone called. She was not in a mood to entertain, or be social.

Images and memories of Lord Framlington kept spinning in her head.

Her heartbeat thumped when she took the letter.

She had a foolish heart.

When Finch had left she opened it, slipping her feet from her shoes and curling her legs sideways on the sofa.

It began with another poem, commending the extreme good nature of her soul, and then enthusing on her charm, her eloquence.

She smiled.

Lord Brooke had been telling tales.

The following paragraphs spoke of commitment, of life long happiness. They were only words. They meant little in reality.

But the last paragraph… The strokes of Drew’s writing seemed somehow sharper, and the words on the page lifted out with feeling.

My Mary, you are you know, mine. You always will be, accept me or not. You and I are meant to be one, half to become whole. Put us together Mary, darling, make us one, a single being. I want you. I cannot say I love you, not yet, I do not even know what on earth love is, but I do know that I cannot sleep for thinking of you, or avoid dreaming of you. I think of you and I lose my breath, I see you and my heart begins to pound, I hear you and my spirit wants to sing. I am yours, Mary. Be mine. I cannot simply walk away. I will not.

Think of the possibilities. If this is love? If this is our only chance? If we are meant to be, would you throw that away? Throw me away?

Do not! Let us be.

Yours truly,

D

The words were spoken as though he stood with her and read them.

She barely knew him and yet she felt as if she’d known him all her life. She had not been drawn to any other man – perhaps it was true, he was meant for her.

A sigh slipped past her lips. If she let him go he’d marry someone else. He needed an heiress. He could not wait forever.

Her gaze drifted to the window. Birdsong permeated the glass. She would not marry unless someone else made her heart race as he did. If no one ever did, she would definitely never marry. She sighed again. She had thought that last night, and yet she had not thought about what he would do… She may never marry but she’d be forced to watch him with his wife.

Oh, why did her heart have to fall for someone forbidden?

He was mystery. Challenge. There was so much to learn about him.

Her heart was caught up with him and she did not know how to break free. I don’t want to be free. I want to be his wife – to understand the complexity in his eyes.

She didn’t see a bad man in his eyes.

Was that a dreadful admission?

John would be furious if she chose Drew. Her father and mother would be disappointed. But they would not disown her. They’d forgive her, because they loved her.

She folded the letter and took it to her room. There, she searched out the paper on which he’d written his address. Then she sat at her writing desk.

Her quill hovered over the paper. She could not make promises yet. She was afraid to do what her heart wished and say yes.

Could she have her family and Lord Framlington?

Could she trust him to look after her and love her?

How could she bear to hurt her family?

Yet how could she bear it if Drew turned to someone else?

Make me believe, if you wish. she began to write. You make us be. Prove that I may trust your words. Prove that you will love me and not hurt me.

She wrote no more. She could not think of anything else to say. His ego was too big to offer him compliments. He’d only bask in them.

Folding the letter she reached for wax, and melted a little to seal it. She smiled when she rose from the desk.

Was she really doing this?

It appeared so.

Her feet carried her downstairs, the letter fluttering in her fingers to dry the wax.

When Mary reached the hall, avoiding Finch, and any unwanted questions, she carried on into the servants’ stairwell, heading for the stables.

There she found one of the boys who fed the horses and cleaned the stalls, gave him a half-penny and sent him to deliver the letter.

Less than an hour later, the boy burst into her private sitting room with a broad grin, waving a reply in his grubby hand. “The gent sent this back, Miss. I brought it up meself ’cause he said it was a secret between you and me. I’ve snuck through the house. No one saw me, Miss.”

Fortunately.

Mary rose and took it. Then found out another half-penny for the boy.

Drew had probably given him one too – the price of deceit.

“Wait here a moment.”

Breaking the seal, she turned and walked into her bedchamber then sat on the edge of her bed.

How may I prove it to you? Tell me, and I will do it. Anything. I will climb the highest mountain for you, swim a lake or run across a continent. Only tell me and I shall prove it, Mary, darling.

Are you alone? How long for? Look from the window.

Oh heavens! He’s outside!

She went to the window.

Carriages passed in the square below and people walked the pavements. She saw him. He stood against the central railing of the square on the far side of the street from John’s house, looking up and smoking a cigar, in a nonchalant, blasé, pose, the rim of his hat tipped forward shadowing his eyes.

She returned to the sitting room where the stable lad waited. “Let the gentleman in, Tom, please. Take him to the summerhouse and tell him to wait there. But remember this is a secret. I will reward you for your silence later. No one must see him, you understand?”

“Yes, Miss.” The lad gave an awkward bow, tugging his forelock, and then he raced out of the room.

Mary hurried back into her bedchamber, checked her hair in the mirror on her dressing table, tucked a loose strand into the comb holding up her hair, then raced downstairs, gripping her blue muslin day-dress to lift her hem from the ground.

A dozen butterflies took flight in her stomach when she saw Finch in the hall. She slowed immediately, half-way down the stairs.

He looked up and bowed, as did the footman he spoke with.

Mary stepped from the bottom stair. “I’m taking a book out to read in the summerhouse, Mr Finch. I may sleep, please don’t let anyone disturb me.”

“Of course, Miss Marlow,” the old bulldog answered. He was her family’s guardian, and now she was deceiving him too. Her parents would send her home to the country if they knew.

She went to the library and picked up a book from a side table, without even looking at its title, then let herself out through the French door into the sunshine.

Heat touched her face as she crossed the lawn. She had not put on her bonnet. But she didn’t hurry in case Finch watched from the house.

The Summerhouse was at the end of the garden, tucked away amongst tall shrubs. No-one could see it from the house and no-one could see anyone approaching it from the stables.

A beautiful Wisteria archway covered the path Drew must have walked through.

When she reached the summerhouse, he stood at the far end of the narrow wooden veranda, with his back to her. He’d removed his hat and he’d ruffled his hair.

“This is very bad of you,” she stated as she climbed the steps of the veranda. Then she leaned back against the post at the opposite end to where he stood, the book she carried tucked behind her.

He turned with a broad smile on his lips. The same smile danced in his eyes. “But exhilarating. What if we are caught? Think of the repercussions!” He was teasing. She saw laughter in his eyes. She had not seen him in daylight since the morning they had ridden together. She had forgotten how sunlight gilded his eyes, and made the hazel shine like gold.

“I would rather not,” she answered, watching him and smiling.

“But you feel the exhilaration. Otherwise you would not have ordered the lad to let me in.” He walked towards her pulling off his gloves. “How long do we have?”

“An hour, perhaps more.”

“A whole hour to ourselves…”

He threw his gloves aside. They landed beside his hat on a low table.

When she looked up, he stood a foot away.

“So tell me…” His fingers touched beneath her chin. “…how may I prove that we are meant for one another?”

She could not find any air in her lungs to answer as she looked into his eyes. But then it didn’t matter; his lips pressed to hers. It was unlike any other kiss they’d shared – it was not urgent or hurried, or persuasive. It was just a kiss, a touching of lips.

A sigh escaped his mouth when he pulled away as if he’d been longing to kiss her.

Mary leaned around him to put the book down beside his hat and gloves.

He caught hold of her hand when she straightened, and gently pinned her back against the post. “I’ve thought about you all night…” His words caressed her ear sending tremors down her spine, then his lips touched her earlobe and the sensitive skin behind her ear.

Her head tipped back, and she said to the air above them, “So we are back to this.”

His head lifted as he laughed and his hand let hers go. But then both his hands braced her waist gently and he shook her a little. “God, I love you, you have convinced me of it. You’re the only woman who can say no to me. I adore you more because you fight me. But you are tempted none the less. You just do not trust me enough…”

“Enough to do what?” She held his gaze, fighting the urge to believe him. His hands made her feel safe not in danger, but the words I love you were easily said and they’d been spoken with a pitch of frustration and laughter not from any depth of feeling, they did not sound as though they had come from his heart – and he had said in his letter he did not even know what love was…

“To become my wife. I was not talking of physical intimacy, sweetheart. I am speaking of marriage.”

“What would it be like to be your wife?” She had never looked into his eyes in the daylight this close, the hazel had now turned to the depth of light shining through amber. She looked beyond the colour trying to see into his soul.

He looked back at her with as many questions as she wished to ask. But she could not see any artifice.

Did he feel for her?

Put us together Mary, darling, make us one, a single being. I want you. I cannot say I love you, not yet, I do not even know what on earth love is, but I do know that I cannot sleep for thinking of you, or avoid dreaming of you.

Were the words true?

“I hope we would be happy. I want to make you happy. We will buy our own estate and make it a home. It needn’t be large. It will take time to become profitable, but I will make it so.”

I think of you and I lose my breath, I see you and my heart begins to pound, I hear you and my spirit wants to sing. I am yours, Mary. Be mine.

“And children?” She longed for her own life and her own family.

His smile dropped, and his gaze turned inward, no longer looking at her but lost in thought.

Didn’t that prove his earlier words true though, if he could not hide when he needed to stop and think to answer?

She touched his cheek. For the first time believing she saw something real in him, a hidden reality. This was not the Lord Framlington of dangerous rakehell fame. This was Drew, the man who had written those impassioned words.

His gaze came back to her. “I have never thought of children.” He spoke in a solemn voice, as if the thought shocked him.

She pressed her palm to his shaven cheek. He was a man, human, as vulnerable as any other, no matter his reputation.

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