Even for a widow with her impeccable reputation, Lady Beth Allerton’s wager with Marcus, Earl of Trevithick was outrageous behavior. If she won, her prize would be Fairhaven, an island her grandfather had forfeited to the previous earl. But if she lost, the penalty was to become his mistress! And most shocking of all was that a small part of Lady Allerton secretly hoped she might lose….

“One throw of the dice. The winner takes all.”

Marcus hesitated. It was clear from Elizabeth’s words that she would be his prize if he won, and it was very sporting of her to offer her services free. The reckoning would come later, of course, if they suited each other: the villa, the carriage, the jewels. But if she won the wager…

“I like your terms, but what do you want from me if I lose?” he drawled. He waited for her to name her price. A necklace of diamonds, perhaps.

She moved closer until he could smell her perfume. It was a subtle mix of jasmine and rose petals, warm as the sun on her skin, and it sent his senses into even more of a spin. Damn it, whatever the price, it had to be worth it.

“I don’t want a fortune, she said sweetly. “I want Fairhaven Island.”

Lady Allerton’s Wager

Harlequin Historical

Praise for Nicola Cornick’s previous titles

The Virtuous Cyprian

“…this delightful tale of a masquerade gone awry will delight ardent Regency readers.”

—Romantic Times

“A witty, hilarious romp through the Regency period.”

—Rendezvous

The Larkswood Legacy

“…a suspenseful yet tenderhearted tale of love…”

—Romantic Times

DON’T MISS THESE OTHER
TITLES AVAILABLE NOW:

#652 MCKINNON’S BRIDE

Sharon Harlow

#653 ADAM’S PROMISE

Julianne MacLean

#654 HIGHLAND SWORD

Ruth Langan

LADY ALLERTON’S WAGER
Nicola Cornick

To the girls.

Thank you.

This one is for you.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter One

The Cyprians’ Ball was scarcely an event that featured on the social calendar of any of the debutantes of the ton, although more than one bitter chaperon had observed that it was the only place outside the clubs where all the eligible bachelors could be found. The most unobtainable of gentlemen, who would scorn to step inside the doors of Almack’s Assembly Rooms for fear of ambush, showed far greater alacrity in striking up an intimate acquaintance of quite another sort, and a masquerade was ripe with all sorts of possibilities.

It was late in the evening when Marcus, sixth Earl of Trevithick, joined the crowds of revellers milling in the Argyle Rooms. Being neither a callow youth nor particularly requiring an inamorata, he had seen no need to hurry to be first through the door.

The room, with its elegant pillars and lavish decoration, seemed as gaudy as the birds of paradise that flocked there. Marcus knew that he was already drawing their attention. With his height, stature and wicked dark good looks it was inevitable, but he felt little pride in the fact. Once his name was whispered amongst the Cyprians he knew that some would lose interest and hunt for bigger game, for they were motivated by cupidity rather than lust. He had the looks and the title but he had little money, for he had inherited estates that had gone to rack and ruin.

‘Been rusticating, Marcus? I had heard you were still in northern parts!’

It was his cousin, Justin Trevithick, who had clapped Marcus on the shoulder. Justin, the only child of a scandalous second marriage between Marcus’s Uncle Freddie Trevithick and his housekeeper, was a couple of years younger than his cousin. The two had never met as children, for Marcus’s father, Viscount Trevithick, had disapproved of his brother’s morals and had steadfastly refused to acknowledge his nephew. When Marcus was twenty-two he had bumped into Justin at White’s and they had hit it off at once, to the amusement of the ton and the despair of the strait-laced Viscount and his wife. Now, eleven years later, they were still firm friends.

Marcus and Justin shared the distinctive lean Trevithick features, but whilst Marcus’s eyes and hair were the sloe-black of his pirate forebears, Justin’s face was lightened by the fair hair and green eyes that in his mother had captured the attention of Lord Freddie. He turned and took two glasses of wine from a passing flunkey, handing one to his cousin. Marcus grinned, inclining his dark head.

‘I have just returned from Cherwell,’ he said, in answer to Justin’s enquiry. ‘I was there longer than I had intended. The tenant there has been fleecing the estate for some time, but—’ he gave a sardonic smile ‘—it won’t be happening again!’

Justin raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t believe our grandfather ever visited that house. Towards the end he never even left Trevithick. It led the unscrupulous to take advantage.’

Marcus nodded. He had inherited from his grandfather a bare fifteen months before and had swiftly discovered that people had indeed taken advantage of the late Earl’s infirmity in his last years. It seemed ironic that his grandfather, whose soubriquet had been the Evil Earl, had himself been cheated in his old age. The Trevithick estates were huge and the subsequent confusion had taken until now to sort out. There were still places that Marcus had not had the time to visit, business that remained unfinished.

‘Do you intend to stay in London for the little Season?’ Justin asked.

Marcus pulled a face. ‘I should do, as it’s Nell’s debut. I would like to, but—’

‘Lady Trevithick?’ Justin enquired.

Marcus took a mouthful of his wine. ‘It is damnably difficult to share a house with one’s mother after an absence of fifteen years!’ He grimaced. ‘I have already asked Gower to find me a set of rooms—preferably on the other side of town!’

Justin smothered a grin. ‘I saw Eleanor at Almack’s earlier this evening,’ he said, tactfully changing the subject. ‘Pershore and Harriman were dancing attendance, to name but two! She seems to have taken well, which is no surprise since she has all the Trevithick good looks!’

Marcus laughed. ‘I do believe that Mama is uncertain which of us to make a push to marry off first, though I believe she will have more success with my sister! I don’t look to take a wife just yet!’

‘Well, you certainly won’t find one here,’ Justin said, turning back to scan the crowds. ‘Women of another sort, perhaps…’

‘Perhaps.’ Marcus allowed his gaze to skim over the ranks of painted faces. ‘It is a complication I could do well without, however.’

Justin grinned. ‘There’s one that would be worth it!’

Marcus turned to follow his cousin’s gaze. The ballroom was packed and the dancers were executing a waltz, which was the excuse for much intimate and provocative behaviour. Yet in the middle of the swirling crowds, one couple stood out, for they danced beautifully but with total decorum. The gentleman was tall and fair, but he did not have much of Marcus’s attention. The lady in his arms was another matter, however.

She was taller than most of the women present and only a few inches short of his own six foot. She wore a silver mask and her silver domino swung wide as she danced, revealing beneath it a dress in matching silk that clung to a figure that Marcus could only describe as slender but voluptuous. Her face was pale with a hint of rose on the cheekbones and her ebony black hair was piled up on top of her head in a complicated mass of curls that was just asking to be released from its captivity. Marcus grinned. Her hair was not the only thing that looked as though it would benefit from being given its freedom—the silk dress hinted at all sorts of delightful possibilities and he was already entertaining the idea of peeling it off her like the skin of a ripe fruit. Glancing around, he realised that at least half the men in his vicinity were thinking along the same lines and his grin broadened. Perhaps they had tasted the fruit already, for the very fact that she was at the Cyprians’ Ball marked her as no lady. Marcus shrugged. It mattered little to him who had been before him, but he had every intention of being next in succession.

‘Setting your sights, Marcus?’ Justin Trevithick enquired, a smile in his voice. Like the Earl, he was watching the dancing couple. ‘From what I’ve just overheard, you are at least tenth in the queue!’

‘I don’t like waiting in line,’ Marcus murmured, not taking his gaze from the girl’s face.

‘Who is she, Justin?’

‘Damned if I know!’ Justin said cheerfully. ‘No one does! The guesses are inventive and range wide, but no one can put a name to the face!’

‘What about the lady’s escort?’

Justin was laughing at his cousin’s persistence. ‘Now, there I can help you! The fortunate gentleman is Kit Mostyn! A shame we are not on terms with the Mostyns and cannot beg an introduction!’

Marcus gave his cousin an incredulous look, then laughed in his turn. ‘Mostyn! How piquant! Then it will be doubly enjoyable to take the lady away from him…’

Justin raised his eyebrows. ‘Is this love or war, Marcus?’

‘Both!’ his cousin replied promptly. ‘They say all is fair, do they not? Well, then…’

The dancers were circling closer to them now. Marcus thought that the lady looked very comfortable in Lord Mostyn’s arms, for she was talking eagerly and smiling up at him. Marcus’s eyes narrowed. He had nothing against Kit Mostyn personally, but there had been a feud between the Mostyn and Trevithick families for centuries. Marcus knew little of the detail of it, and just at the moment he had no interest in healing the breach. He waited until the couple were directly beside him, then made a slight movement that attracted the lady’s attention. She looked up and their eyes met for a long moment before she deliberately broke the contact. Marcus had the impression of a wide, smoky gaze, a slightly deeper silver colour than her dress. A moment later, she looked back at him over her shoulder, with what he could only interpret as a gesture of invitation.

Justin laughed. ‘A result, I think, Marcus!’

Marcus thought so too. He watched as the music ended and the lady and her partner strolled to the edge of the dance floor, then, without haste, he made his way towards them through the crowd.

‘Your servant, Mostyn.’ There was a mocking edge to Marcus’s drawl and he saw the younger man stiffen slightly before he returned his bow with the very slightest one of his own. Marcus’s attention had already moved to the lady, which was where his real interest lay. At close quarters she looked younger than he had imagined, but then he realised that it was not so much a youthful quality but an impression of innocence. Her eyes lacked the knowing look that characterised so many of her profession. Marcus reflected cynically that that air of innocence must be worth a great deal of money to this particular lady. Gentlemen would pay over the odds to possess so apparently unspoilt a beauty. It amused him, for in his youth he had become entangled with a Cyprian who had pretended to a naïveté she simply did not possess and had tried to sue him for breach of promise. Such can-dour was appealing but ultimately an illusion.

He held out his hand to her and after a moment she took it in her own.

‘Marcus Trevithick, at your service, ma’am. Would you do me the honour of granting me a dance?’

Marcus felt rather than saw Kit Mostyn flash the girl a look of unmistakable warning. She ignored him, smiling at Marcus with charm but absolutely no hint of coquetry. Grudgingly, Marcus had to admit that she might have been at a Dowager’s ball rather than a Cyprian’s masquerade. She had an inherent dignity. As she smiled, a small, unexpected dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth.

‘Thank you, my lord. I should be delighted.’

He bowed slightly and led her on to the floor, where a set was forming for a country dance.

She carried herself with a poise that contrasted starkly with the flirting and ogling that was going on all around them and Marcus found it oddly touching—until he thought that this was no doubt all part of the act. Innocence, dignity…It was a clever way to set herself up as out of the ordinary. Nevertheless, her artfulness mattered little to him and he was confident that they could come to an understanding. Sooner rather than later, he hoped. He was beginning to want her very much. He studied her bent head and the way that the ebony curls brushed the nape of her neck. He wanted to touch her. Her mouth was as sultry as her figure, promising sensuous delight. He felt a powerful impulse to kiss her where they stood.

‘Will you give me a name for a name?’ he asked softly. ‘You already know who I am.’

Her smoky grey gaze brushed his face and made him feel suddenly heated. She smiled a little, the dimple flashing. ‘My name is Elizabeth, my lord. In fact, I am known as Beth.’

‘Yes? And…?’

She considered. ‘That is all I wish to tell you. There are no names at a masquerade. You have already broken the rules once by telling me your own identity.’

Marcus laughed. He had no problem with breaking any of society’s rules that he did not agree with.

‘What is Mostyn to you?’ he asked, as the music brought them together again. ‘I would like to know—before I attempt a trespass.’

He felt her fingers tremble in his before she freed herself and stepped away from him. She danced most gracefully.

‘Kit is very dear to me,’ she said, when eventually they came back together.

‘I see.’

‘I doubt it.’ Once again that silver gaze pierced him. ‘He is a friend. Closer than a friend—but that is all.’

An old lover, Marcus thought, with a vicious rush of envy. That would explain why they looked so comfortable together, yet had none of the heat of sensuality between them. Old passions had burned themselves out, leaving only the flame of friendship. It made him jealous to think of their past relationship, yet it also implied that there might be a vacancy…

‘And is there anyone else?’ Foolish question, when she probably had a dozen admirers paying for her favours! Yet her cool gaze searched his face and she answered quietly.

‘I do not care to discuss such matters here, my lord.’

Marcus allowed his gaze to hold hers for several long seconds. ‘Then may we discuss it in private? I confess that would suit me very well…’

He felt that he might reasonably have expected some encouragement at this point, even if it was only a smile, but Beth gave his suggestion thoughtful consideration, and then inclined her head.

‘Very well. There is a study off the hallway—’

‘I know it.’

She nodded again. The dance was finishing anyway, but no one paid any attention as she slipped from the line of dancers and went out into the entrance hall. Marcus waited a few moments before following her, pausing to see if he was observed. It seemed that everyone was too preoccupied with their own amours to be concerned about his.

He picked his way through the entwined couples and crossed the checkerboard black and white tiles of the hall. He vaguely remembered that the study was the third door on the left and he was just in time to catch the faintest swish of material as Beth whisked through the door, leaving it ajar for him.

Marcus smiled to himself. The situation was most promising and, despite his cynicism, he had to admit that there was something intriguing about the lady’s air of aloof mystery. Perhaps it was all assumed simply to whet jaded appetites, but it was working on him and he was more world-weary than most. He quickened his step, went into the study and closed the door behind him.

It was a small room with a mahogany card table and chairs in the middle and matching mahogany bookcases about the walls. Long amber curtains shut out the night and the only light came from one lamp, standing on a side table.

Beth was standing beside the window. She had taken the dice from their box on the table and was tossing them lightly in one hand. She did not look up when Marcus came in and for a moment he thought he sensed something tense and wary in her stance, though the impression was fleeting.

He took a step forward. ‘Would you care to indulge in a game of chance, sweetheart?’ he asked.

She looked at him then, a stare as straight and protracted as the one she had first given him in the ballroom. Marcus was amused. He knew of few men and even fewer women who were so direct. Her eyes were a shadowed silver behind the mask, her gaze as deliberate and fearless as a cat.

‘If you are sure that you wish to play, my lord.’

They were talking in double entendres now and Marcus appreciated her quick wit. It made the pursuit even more enjoyable. He wondered if she knew who he was, even though he had given only his name and not his title. It was entirely possible. She had focused on him from the first and he did not flatter himself that it was simply because she was attracted to him. She might well consider that his status and physical attributes outweighed a lack of fortune. And fortune was relative anyway. He could pay her well enough.

He kept his eyes on her face and smiled slowly. ‘I’m sure. Which game do you prefer?’

The lady smiled too, the dimple quivering again at the corner of her deliciously curved mouth. Marcus suddenly wished he could cut to the chase and simply kiss her. It was a high-risk strategy and might backfire, but it was very tempting. He took a step closer. She took one back.

‘Hazard might be appropriate,’ she said coolly, tossing the dice from one hand to the other. ‘One throw of the dice. The winner takes all.’

Marcus hesitated. It was clear from her words that she would be his prize if he won and he considered it very sporting of her to offer her services for free. The reckoning would come later, of course, if they suited each other: the villa, the carriage, the jewels…

But if she won the wager…

‘I like your terms, but first I need to know what you want from me if I lose,’ he drawled. ‘I do not have a fortune to offer. What would you settle for, sweetheart?’

He waited confidently for her to name her price. A necklace of diamonds, perhaps, to outclass the exquisite but tasteful grey pearls already around her neck.

She moved closer until he could smell her perfume. It was a subtle mix of jasmine and rose petals, warm as the sun on the skin, and it sent his senses into even more of a spin. Damn it, whatever the price, it had to be worth it.

‘I don’t want a fortune,’ she said sweetly, ‘just a small part of your patrimony. I want Fairhaven Island.’

Marcus stared. It comprehensively answered the question of whether or not she knew who he was, but it seemed an extraordinary suggestion. Fairhaven fell in the part of his estate that he had not yet had time to visit, but as far as he was concerned, it was a storm-swept isle in the middle of the Bristol Channel that supported a few people, a flock of sheep and nothing else. There was no earthly reason he could see why it should appeal to a courtesan. It was worth absolutely nothing at all.

Part of his mind prompted him to ask a few questions and get to the bottom of the mystery. The other part, tantalised by her perfume, suggested that there was no need to cavil and he was bound to win the bet anyway. Even if he lost he was fairly certain that he could persuade her to humour him. The time for a discussion on land and property was not now, when he wanted to sweep her into his arms, but later and best left to the lawyers.

‘Very well,’ he said, adding slowly, ‘Do you always honour your bets?’

She looked away for the first time. ‘I do not usually gamble, my lord. Do you honour yours?’

Marcus laughed. No man would have dared ask him that question but, after all, he had questioned her integrity first. And she still had not really answered him.

‘I never renege,’ he said. He took her hand in his and felt her tremble slightly. Her skin was very soft; he turned the hand over and pressed a kiss on the palm. ‘But you did not answer my question.’

There was a flash of something in her eyes that almost looked like fear but it was gone as swiftly as it had come. She raised her chin.

‘I will pay my debt, my lord—if I lose.’

Marcus nodded. He drew her closer until one of her palms was resting against his chest.

‘And if I wish to take something on credit?’ he asked, his voice a little rough.

‘Then you might find yourself even further in debt since there is no guarantee that you would win.’ She looked him straight in the eye. ‘If you are willing to take the risk—’

It took Marcus only a split second to decide that he was. He bent his head and brought his mouth down on hers.

He was experienced enough not to try to take too much too soon. Even a Cyprian liked to be courted and he was no naïve boy to pounce without finesse. He kissed her gently, exploratively, holding her like china until he felt the tension slide from her body and she started to respond to him. She tasted soft and sweet and very innocent. She even trembled in his arms. It had to be an illusion, but it was such a beguiling one that Marcus felt his self-control slipping dangerously. He deepened the kiss and, after a moment’s hesitation, she kissed him back tentatively, pressing a little closer to him. Desire surged through his body, so powerful it pushed all other thoughts aside and he pulled her to him fiercely, careless now of gentleness. But it was too late—she was withdrawing from him, as elusive as she had ever been. Marcus stifled a groan of frustration.

‘The game, my lord?’ Her voice was husky.

The game. He had forgotten. Intent on a different game of his own devising, he had not been certain that she would persist in their wager. Still, he was quite willing to indulge her.

‘If you wish.’ Marcus shrugged. ‘All on the one throw.’ He gave her a slight bow. ‘I will concede you the honour of calling the main, madam.’

Beth threw him one swift glance. ‘Then I call a nine.’

She took the dice up and cast them on to the walnut table. Marcus watched them spin and settle on the polished wood. A five and a four. She really had the devil’s own luck. He could not believe it. He smiled a little. ‘Will you play for the best of three?’

‘Certainly not.’ She sounded breathless and as she turned into the light he saw the expression on her face. He had expected triumph or greed. What he saw was relief.

‘Fairhaven,’ she said, on a questioning note. ‘You will honour your bet, my lord?’

Marcus did not reply. For the first time, doubt surfaced in his mind, faint but troubling. She had come close to him again; her skirt brushed against his thigh. Part of him responded to her proximity, but he clamped down hard on his desire and tried to concentrate.

‘Why do you want it?’ he asked.

She laughed then and he saw the triumph that had been missing a moment before. ‘Your question comes a little late, my lord! Surely that is academic now.’ She took a step back and her silken skirts rustled. ‘My man of business will call on yours on the morrow. Goodnight, my lord!’

She turned to go, but Marcus caught her arm in a tight grip and spun her round to face him. He tore the mask from her face with impatient fingers. Without it she was even more striking than he had supposed. Her face was a pure oval, the smoky eyes set far apart beneath flyaway black brows, the nose small and straight, the sultry mouth that was not smiling now. She was breathing very quickly and he could tell that she was afraid. And that she was not the courtesan she pretended to be. For some reason that took all the anger out of him.

‘One of us is in the wrong place, I believe,’ he said slowly.

‘It is I,’ she said simply. ‘Did you truly believe me a Cyprian, my lord?’

Marcus started to laugh. He could not help himself. ‘Assuredly. Until I kissed you.’

That gave him the advantage. He saw the colour come up into her face and she tried to free herself from his grip. He stood back, letting her go with exaggerated courtesy. No, indeed, this was no courtesan, but even so he still wanted her. He had no idea whom she was, but he intended to find out.

‘You will honour your bet?’ she asked again.

Marcus grinned, folding his arms. ‘I will not.’

He saw the fury come into her eyes and held her gaze steadfastly with his own.

‘I will make you do so!’ she said.

‘How?’ Marcus shifted slightly. ‘Are you telling me that you would have honoured yours had I won? If so, I would press you to play me for the best of three!’

She blushed even harder at that but her mouth set in a stony line. ‘What I would have done is immaterial, my lord, since you lost. You claimed never to renege!’

Marcus shrugged. ‘I lied.’

‘A liar and a cheat,’ Beth said, in a tone that dripped contempt. ‘I repeat, my man of business will call upon yours on the morrow, my lord, and will expect you to have ready the title to Fairhaven to hand over.’

The study door closed behind her with a decided snap and Marcus heard the quick, angry tap of her footsteps receding across the marble hall. He picked the dice up casually in one hand and sat down in one of the chairs. A whimsical smile touched his lips. He could not believe that his judgement had been so faulty. To mistake a lady for a Cyprian, even given the circumstances…He had been thoroughly misled by his desire, like a youth in his salad days. Led by the nose—or some other part of his anatomy, perhaps. It had never happened to him before.

He tossed the dice absent-mindedly in his hand. So he had been richly deceived and for an intriguing reason. He wanted to know more about that. He wanted to know more of the lady. Damn it, he still wanted her. Marcus shifted uncomfortably in his chair. And he needed a drink. Urgently.

Justin found him in the refreshment room after he had already downed a glass of brandy in one swallow. Justin watched him take a refill and despatch it the same way, and raised his eyebrows.

‘Unlucky in love, Marcus?’

‘Unlucky in games of chance,’ Marcus said feelingly. He took Justin’s arm and drew him into the shelter of one of the pillars, away from prying gossips. ‘Justin, you know more of West Country genealogy than I! Tell me, does Kit Mostyn have a sister?’

Justin nodded. ‘He has a widowed younger sister, Charlotte. Allegedly a blonde beauty, but she lives retired so it is difficult to say with certainty.’

Marcus frowned. Beth had never been a blonde and she could scarcely be described as retiring. Perhaps she was Mostyn’s mistress after all. Yet something in him rebelled at such a thought.

‘What is all this about, Marcus?’ Justin was asking, looking puzzled. ‘I thought you were about to make a new conquest, old fellow, not indulge in a mystery play!’

‘So did I,’ Marcus said thoughtfully. His face lightened and he held up the glass. ‘Only find me the bottle and I will tell you the whole story!’

‘I cannot believe that you just did that, Beth.’

Christopher Mostyn sounded mild, but his cousin knew full well that he was angry. She had known him well enough and long enough to tell.

Beth sighed. ‘It was your idea to escort me there, Kit—’

‘I may have escorted you to the Cyprians’ Ball, but I did not expect you to behave like one!’

Now Kit’s voice sounded clipped, forbidding further discussion. Beth sighed again. Kit was head of the family and as such she supposed he had the right to censure her behaviour. The fact that he seldom did owed more to his easygoing nature than her obedience.

Beth rested her head back against the carriage’s soft cushions and closed her eyes. Truth to tell, she could not believe that she had behaved as she had. And she had only told Kit half the story, the half relating to the wager. She knew that if she had told Kit that Marcus Trevithick had kissed her, very likely he would have stormed back and challenged the Earl to a duel and matters would be immeasurably worse.

Beth opened her eyes again and stared out of the window. They were travelling through the streets of London at a decorous pace and the light from the lamps on the pavement skipped across the inside of the carriage in bars of gold and black. It hid her blushes and a very good thing too, for whenever she thought of Marcus Trevithick, she felt the telltale colour come into her face and the heat suffuse her entire body.

Not only had she overstepped the mark—by a long chalk—but she knew that she had been completely out of her depth with such a man. She had a lot of courage and, allied to her impulsive nature, she knew it could be her downfall. However, her nerve had almost deserted her in that secluded room. If he had won the bet…Beth shivered. Like as not he would have demanded his prize there and then on the card table or the floor…But he had not won. She took a deep, steadying breath.

Marcus Trevithick. Children of her family were taught to hate the Trevithicks from the moment they were born. There were tales told at the nursemaid’s knee—stories of treachery and evil. The Earls of Trevithick were jumped-up nobodies, whereas the Mostyns could trace their ancestry back to the Conquest and beyond. The Trevithicks had stolen the Mostyn estates during the Civil War and had wrested the island of Fairhaven from them only two generations back, taking the family treasure and the Sword of Saintonge into the bargain. No good had come to the Mostyns ever since—their fortunes had fallen whilst the Trevithicks had flourished like an evil weed.

Marcus Trevithick. Beth shivered again. She could not believe that he was evil, but he was certainly dangerous. He was also the most attractive man that she had ever met. Having been a child bride, her experience was necessarily small, but even so she was certain that he could stand comparison in any company.

The carriage drew up outside the house in Upper Grosvenor Street that she had rented for the little Season. Kit descended and helped her out with cold, studied politeness. He did not say a word as he escorted her up the steps and into the entrance hall. Beth bit her lip. She knew she was well and truly in disgrace.

Charlotte Cavendish, Kit’s sister, was sitting in the red drawing room, her netting resting on the cushion beside her. She was reading from Oliver Goldsmith’s The Vicar of Wakefield but cast the book aside with a smile as they came in. Like her brother, she was very fair with sparkling blue eyes, slender and tall. A scrap of lace was perched on her blonde curls as a concession to a widow’s cap.

‘There you are! I had almost given you up and gone to bed…’

Her smile faded as she looked from her brother’s stony face to Beth’s flushed one.

‘Oh, dear. What has happened?’

‘Ask your cousin,’ Kit said shortly, stripping off his white gloves. ‘I will be in the book room, enjoying a peaceful glass of brandy!’

Charlotte’s gaze moved round to Beth. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said again, but there was an irrepressible twinkle in her eyes. ‘What have you done, Beth?’

Beth wandered over to the big red wing-chair opposite and curled up in it. She was beginning to feel annoyed as well as guilty.

‘It is all very well for Kit to act the moralist, but it was his idea to go to the Cyprians’ Ball in the first place—’

Charlotte gave a little squeak and clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Beth! You told me you were going to Lady Radley’s rout!’

‘Well, so we did, but then Kit had the idea of the Cyprians’ Ball!’ Beth wriggled uncomfortably under her cousin’s horrified stare. ‘We were masked, so I thought there would be no harm…’ She looked defiant. ‘Very well, Lottie, I admit it! I was curious!’

‘Oh, Beth,’ Charlotte said in a failing voice. ‘I know I cannot accompany you about the town, but I thought you would come to no harm with Kit!’

‘Well, you were wrong!’ Beth said mutinously. It suddenly seemed much easier to blame the whole thing on her cousin. ‘None of this would have happened if Kit had not decided to have some fun!’

‘None of what?’ Charlotte asked, in the tone of someone who was not entirely sure they wanted to know the answer.

Beth yawned. She was very tired and suddenly wanted her bed, but equally she wanted someone to confide in. Her cousin had been as close as a sister this year past, closer than they had ever been in childhood when Charlotte’s five years’ seniority had put Beth quite in awe of her.

Beth, Kit and Charlotte had grown up together, but time and differing fortunes had scattered them. Charlotte had married an officer and followed the drum, Kit had spent several years in India and Beth had been orphaned at seventeen and left penniless. Friends and relatives had murmured of schoolteaching or governessing, but two days after her bereavement, Sir Frank Allerton, a widower whose estate marched with that of the Mostyns, had called to offer her an alternative future. He had not been a friend of the late Lord Mostyn, but Beth knew that her father had esteemed him as an honest man, and so she had accepted.

She had never regretted her decision, but she did regret the lack of children of her marriage. Her home and parish affairs had given her plenty to do, but when Frank had died, leaving her a widow at nineteen, she had been lonely. Though Kit had inherited Mostyn Hall and the title he was seldom at home, and it was Beth who kept an eye on the estate. Then, a year into Beth’s widowhood, Charlotte had lost her husband during the retreat from Almeira and had come back to Mostyn. Fortunately she and Beth had found that they got on extremely well. Charlotte was cool and considered where Beth was impetuous and tempered some of her cousin’s more madcap ideas. Beth’s liveliness prevented her cousin from falling into a decline.

‘So what has happened?’ Charlotte asked again, recalling Beth’s attention to the lamp-lit room. ‘You went to the Ball…’

‘Yes. We only intended to stay for a little, although I think Kit might have lingered if he had been there alone!’ Beth said, with a sudden, mischievous grin. ‘At any rate, it was not as I had imagined, Lottie! There was the most licentious behaviour—’

Charlotte looked exasperated. ‘Well, what did you expect, Beth? You were at the Cyprians’ Ball, not a Court Reception!’

Beth sighed. ‘Yes, I know! Everyone was staring at me—no doubt because they thought me a demirep!’ she added, before her cousin could make the observation herself.

‘Yes, well, it was a reasonable assumption—’ Charlotte looked at her frankly ‘—and you do have a lovely figure, Beth! The gentlemen—’

‘Spare me,’ Beth said hastily, remembering the disturbing heat in Marcus Trevithick’s eyes. ‘I thought you wished to hear what had happened, Lottie?’

‘Yes,’ her cousin said obligingly, ‘what did?’

‘Well, Kit and I had a few dances and, as we were waltzing, the behaviour was becoming more and more uninhibited so I decided it would be wise to come home. Then a gentleman came up to us and asked me to dance.’

Beth looked away. When Marcus Trevithick had first approached her she had been amused and some dangerous imp of mischief had prompted her to play along. She had not known his identity then, but she had been tempted by the atmosphere, tempted by him…

She looked back at Charlotte, who was waiting in silence. ‘We danced a country dance together and he introduced himself as Marcus Trevithick. I had had no notion—I have never met Trevithick before, and although he knew who Kit was he did not know me, though he made strenuous attempts to find out my name…’

‘I’m sure he did,’ Charlotte said drily. ‘Did he proposition you, Beth?’

‘Lottie!’ Beth looked shocked, then smiled a little. ‘Well…’

‘Well, who could blame him?’ Charlotte seemed torn between disapproval and laughter. ‘The poor man, thinking you Haymarket-ware and no doubt getting a set-down for his trouble!’

‘It was not quite like that,’ Beth admitted slowly. ‘Yes, he did…make his interest plain, but I did not discourage him exactly…’ Suddenly, foolishly, it seemed difficult to explain. Or at least difficult to explain without giving some of her feelings away, Beth thought hopelessly. And Charlotte was no fool. She would read between the lines and see all the things that Beth had not admitted.

‘It is just that I thought of Fairhaven,’ she said, in a rush. ‘You know that I had been intending to make Trevithick a financial offer for the island! Suddenly I thought how much more fun it would be to make a wager…’ She risked a glance at her cousin from under her lashes and saw that Charlotte was frowning now, all hint of amusement forgotten.

‘So I suggested that we step apart, and then I challenged him to a game of Hazard, with Fairhaven as the stake—’

‘Beth!’ Charlotte said on a note of entreaty. ‘Tell me this is not true! What did you offer against his stake?’

Beth did not reply. Their eyes, grey and blue, met and held, before Charlotte gave a little groan and covered her face with her hands.

‘Do you wish for your smelling salts, Lottie?’ Beth asked, uncurling from her armchair and hurrying across to the armoire. ‘You will feel much more the thing in a moment!’

‘I feel very well, thank you!’ Charlotte said, although she looked a little pale. ‘I feel better, in fact, than you would have done if Trevithick had claimed his prize! I take it he did not win?’

‘No, he did not!’ Beth felt the heat come into her face. ‘I won! And if I had lost I should not have honoured the bet! It was only a game—’

‘No wonder Kit cut up rough!’ Charlotte said faintly. ‘Stepping aside with a gentleman who already thought you a Cyprian, challenging him to a game of chance, offering yourself as the stake…’ She took the smelling salts and inhaled gratefully. The pale rose colour came back into her face.

‘I have shocked you,’ Beth said remorsefully.

‘Yes, you have.’ Charlotte’s gaze searched Beth’s face before she gave a slight shake of the head. ‘Each time you do something outrageous, Beth, I tell myself that you could not possibly shock me more—and yet you do!’

‘I am sorry!’ Beth said, feeling contrite and secretly vowing not to tell Charlotte any more of the encounter. ‘You know I am desperate to reclaim Fairhaven!’

‘Not so desperate, surely, that you would do anything to take it back!’ Charlotte sat back and patted the seat beside her. ‘This obsession is ridiculous, Beth! The island was lost to our family years ago—leave it in the past, where it belongs!’

Beth did not reply. She had learned long ago that Charlotte was practical by nature and did not share the deep mystical tug of their heritage. Beth could remember standing on the cliffs of Devon as a small child and staring out across the flat, pewter sea to where a faint smudge on the horizon signified the island that they had lost. The tales of her grandfather, the dashing Charles Mostyn, and his struggle with the dastardly George Trevithick, had captured her child’s imagination and never let it go. Lord Mostyn had lost the island through treachery and, fifty years later, Beth had vowed to take it back and restore the family fortunes. In her widowhood, a woman of means, she had twice offered George Trevithick, the Evil Earl, a fair price for the island. He had rejected her approach haughtily. But Beth was persistent and she had fully intended to repeat the offer to his grandson, the new Earl. It was one of the reasons that she had come up to London. Fate, however, had intervened…fate, and her own foolish impulse.

But perhaps it had not been so foolish, Beth thought. Whatever the circumstances Fairhaven was hers now, won in fair play. And she intended to claim it.

‘What sort of man is Marcus Trevithick, Beth?’ Charlotte asked casually. ‘What did you think of him?’

Beth jumped. She was glad of the lamp-lit shadows and the firelight, for in the clear daylight she did not doubt that her face would have betrayed her.

‘He is perhaps of an age with Kit, or a little older,’ she said, glad that she sounded so casual herself. ‘Tall, dark…He has something of the look of the old Earl about him.’

‘The Evil Earl,’ Charlotte said slowly. ‘Do you think that his grandson has inherited his character along with his estates?’

Beth shivered a little. ‘Who knows? I was scarce with him long enough to find out.’

‘Yet you must have gained some impression of his nature and disposition?’ Charlotte persisted. ‘Was he pleasing?’

Pleasing? Who could deny it? Beth remembered the strength of Marcus’s arms around her, the compelling demand of his lips against hers. He was a man quite outside her experience. But he was also a liar and a cheat. She saw again his mocking smile. She turned her hot face away.

‘No, indeed. He was a proud, arrogant man. I did not like him!’

Charlotte yawned and got to her feet. ‘Well, I am for my bed.’ She bent and dropped a soft kiss on Beth’s cheek, pausing as she straightened up. ‘You did not tell Lord Trevithick your name?’

‘No,’ Beth said, reflecting that that at least was true.

‘And though you were with Kit, you were masked.’ Charlotte sounded satisfied. ‘Well, at least he will not know your identity. For that we must be grateful, I suppose, for it would cause the most monstrous scandal if it were known that you had attended the Cyprians’ Ball! People would assume—’ She broke off. ‘Well, never mind. But perhaps you will think twice in future before you play such a hoyden’s trick again!’

The door closed softly behind her. Beth lay back on the cushions and let out her breath in a huge, shaky sigh. Charlotte was in the right of it, of course—it would be very damaging for it to become known that she had been at the Cyprians’ Ball. And what Charlotte did not know was that whilst she had not given Trevithick her name, he had seen her face without the mask. Beth stared into the fire. Well, it mattered little. She would send Gough to call on the Earl’s man of business in the morning, and once the title to Fairhaven was in her pocket, she would leave for Devon without delay.

Even though he had said he would not honour his bet, Beth could see no reason why Marcus Trevithick would decline to surrender the island to her, for it could not be worth much to him. He had lands and houses far more valuable and there was no sentimental reason for him to hold on to the least important part of his estate. If he persisted in his refusal, however, she was still prepared to pay him, and, Beth thought with satisfaction, one could not say fairer than that. She had heard that his pockets were to let and she was certain that he would see the sense of the matter.

She raked out the embers of the fire, doused the lamp and went upstairs to bed. It should have been easy to put the matter out of her head but for some reason the memory of the encounter—the memory of Marcus Trevithick—still lingered as she lay in her bed. She told herself that she had seen the last of him, but some unnerving instinct told her that she had not. Then she told herself that she did not wish to see him again and the same all-knowing voice in her head told her that she lied.

Chapter Two

‘A gambler, a wastrel, a rake and a vagabond!’ the Dowager Viscountess of Trevithick said triumphantly, ticking the words off on her fingers.

There was a short silence around the Trevithick breakfast table. The autumn sun shone through the long windows and sparkled on the silver. There were only three places set; one of Marcus’s married sisters was coming up from the country for the little Season but had not yet arrived, and the other had gone to stay with friends for a few weeks. Only Marcus, his youngest sister Eleanor and the Dowager Viscountess were therefore in residence at Trevithick House.

‘A vagabond, Mama?’ Marcus enquired politely. ‘What is the justification for that?’

He thought he heard a smothered giggle and looked round to see Eleanor hastily applying herself to her toast. Although she appeared to be the demurest of debutantes on the surface, Marcus knew that his sister had a strong sense of humour. It was a relief to know that the Viscountess had not crushed it all out of her during Marcus’s years abroad.

‘Traipsing around the courts of Europe!’ the Viscountess said, giving her son a baleful glare from her cold grey eyes. ‘Drifting from one country to another like a refugee…’

Marcus folded up his newspaper with an irritable rustle. He had a headache that morning, no doubt from the brandy that he and Justin had consumed the night before, and Lady Trevithick’s animadversions on his character were not helping. In fact, he was surprised that she had not added drunkard to the list.

‘I scarce think that a diplomatic mission accompanying Lord Easterhouse to Austria constitutes vagabondage, Mama,’ he observed coolly. ‘Your other charges, however, may be justified—’

‘Oh, Marcus, you are scarcely a wastrel!’ Eleanor protested sweetly. Her brown eyes sparkled. ‘Why, since your return from abroad I have heard Mr Gower say that the estates are already better managed—’

‘Enough from you, miss!’ the Dowager Viscountess snapped, chewing heavily on her bread roll. ‘You are altogether too quick with your opinions! We shall never find a husband for you! As well try to find a wife for your brother! Why, Lady Hutton was saying only the other day that her Maria would be the perfect bride for Trevithick were it not that Hutton would worry to give her into the care of someone with so sadly unsteady a character! So there is no prospect of that fifty thousand pounds coming into the family!’

Marcus sighed. It was difficult enough having a parent who was so frank in her criticism without her holding the view that he was still in short coats. How Eleanor tolerated it, he could not imagine. He knew that if he had been in her shoes he would have taken the first man who offered, just to escape Lady Trevithick. Marcus was also aware that his friendship with Justin did not help either. The Dowager Viscountess had never got over her disapproval of her nephew and barely acknowledged him in public, a sign of displeasure that Justin cheerfully ignored. Families, Marcus thought, could be damnably difficult.

As if in response to that very thought, Penn, the butler, strode into the room.

‘Mr Justin Trevithick is without, my lord, and enquiring for you. Shall I show him in?’

Marcus grinned. ‘By all means, Penn! And pray send someone to set another cover—my cousin may not yet have partaken of breakfast!’

The Dowager grunted and hauled her massive bulk from the chair. ‘I have some letters to write and will be in the library. There is the possibility that Dexter’s daughter may be a suitable wife for you, Marcus, but I have some further enquiries to make!’

‘Well, pray do not hurry on my account, Mama!’ Marcus said cheerfully, gaining himself another glare from his parent and a covert smile from his sister. ‘Miss Dexter would need to be very rich indeed to tempt me!’

‘Marcus, you make her much worse!’ Eleanor whispered, as the Dowager Viscountess left the room. ‘If you could only ignore her!’

‘That would be difficult!’ Marcus said drily. ‘I curse the day she appointed herself my matchmaker!’ His expression softened as it rested on his sister. ‘How you tolerate it, infant, I shall never know!’

Eleanor shook her head but did not speak and, a second later, Justin Trevithick came into the room. He shook Marcus’s hand and gave Eleanor a kiss.

‘Eleanor! I’m glad that Lady Trevithick did not whisk you away—’

The door opened. ‘Her ladyship requests that you join her in the library, Miss Eleanor,’ Penn said, in sonorous tones. ‘Lord Prideaux has called and is with her.’

Eleanor gave her cousin and brother a speaking glance, then dutifully followed Penn out of the room. Marcus gestured towards the coffee pot. ‘Can I offer you breakfast, Justin? And my apologies for my mother’s transparently bad manners at the same time?’

Justin laughed. ‘Thank you. I will take breakfast—and for the rest, please do not regard it! The only thing that concerns me is that Lady Trevithick considers Prideaux more suitable company for Eleanor than myself! He is a loose fish, but then, I suppose his parents were at least respectably married!’

‘So were yours,’ Marcus commented.

‘Yes, but only after I was born!’ Justin leant over and poured some coffee. ‘How do you feel this morning, old fellow? Must confess my head’s splitting! That brandy was nowhere near the quality it pretended!’

‘The coffee will help,’ Marcus said absently, reflecting that the brandy had proved to be the opposite of his mysterious adversary of the previous night. She had been Quality masquerading as something else and today he was determined to get to the bottom of that particular mystery. He had told Justin an expurgated version of the whole tale the previous night over the maligned brandy bottle, and his cousin had been as curious as he as to the lady’s motives. Justin had been closer to the fifth Earl than Marcus because their grandfather had taken Justin up deliberately to spite his elder son, but despite his far greater knowledge of the old man’s estates and fortune, he could throw no light on why anyone would want the island of Fairhaven.

The door opened for a third time as Penn came in. ‘Mr Gower is here to see you, my lord. He says that it is most urgent.’

Marcus frowned, checking the clock on the marble mantelpiece. It was very early for a call from his man of business, but if Gower had managed to find him rooms well away from Albemarle Street, then the earlier the better. Remembering the previous night, his frown deepened. There was another reason why Gower might have called, of course…

‘Thank you, Penn, I will join Mr Gower in the study shortly,’ he said.

The door closed noiselessly as Penn trod away to impart the message. Justin buttered another roll. ‘Shall I wait here for you, Marcus, or do you prefer to join me at White’s later?’

Marcus stood up. ‘Why don’t you come with me to see Gower?’ he suggested. ‘I have the strangest suspicion that this relates to the business last night, Justin, and I would value your advice.’

His cousin raised his eyebrows. ‘Your mysterious gamester, Marcus? Surely she does not really intend to claim Fairhaven!’

‘We shall see,’ Marcus said grimly.

Mr Gower was waiting for them in the study, pacing the floor with an impatience that set fair to wear a track through the rich Indian rug. He was a thin, aesthetic-looking man whose pained expression had come about through years of trying to make the irascible old Earl see sense over the running of the Trevithick estates. There was a thick sheaf of papers in his hand.

‘My lord!’ he exclaimed agitatedly, as the gentlemen entered. ‘Mr Trevithick! Something most untoward has occurred!’

Marcus folded himself negligently into an armchair. ‘Take a seat and tell us all, Gower!’ he instructed amiably. ‘What has happened—has one of the housemaids absconded with the silver?’

Mr Gower frowned at such inappropriate levity, but he took a seat uncomfortably on the edge of the other armchair, placing his shabby leather briefcase at his feet. Justin strolled over to the window, still eating his bread roll.

‘This morning I had a call from a gentleman by the name of Gough who has chambers close to mine,’ Mr Gower said, still agitated. He shuffled his papers on the table. ‘He is a most respected lawyer and represents only the best people! He came to tell me of an agreement between one of his clients and yourself, my lord, an agreement to cede the title deeds to the island of Fairhaven, which is—’

‘I know where it is, thank you, Gower,’ Marcus said coolly. He exchanged a look with Justin. ‘Gough, is it? Did he tell you the name of his client?’

‘No, sir,’ the lawyer said unhappily. ‘He told me that his client expected—expected was the precise word used, my lord—that I would have the deeds to the island ready to hand over immediately. Naturally I told him that I could do no such thing without your consent, my lord, and that you had issued no such authorisation. He therefore suggested…’ Mr Gower shuddered, as though the suggestion had been made with some force ‘…that I call upon you to gain your approval forthwith. Which I am doing, sir. And,’ he finished, apparently unable to stop himself, ‘I do feel that I should protest, my lord, at the cavalier manner in which this transaction appears to have been handled, putting me in a most difficult position with a fellow member of my profession!’

There was a long silence. ‘You are right, Gower,’ Marcus said slowly. ‘The whole matter is damnably out of order and I apologise if it has put you in a difficult situation.’

‘But the island, my lord!’ Gower said beseechingly. ‘The deeds! If you have an agreement with Mr Gough’s client—’

‘There is no agreement,’ Marcus said. He heard Justin draw breath sharply, but did not look at him. ‘Tell Gough,’ he said implacably, ‘that there is no agreement.’

‘My lord…’ Gower sounded most unhappy. ‘If there is any way that such a contract could be proved, I do beg you to reconsider!’

Marcus raised one black eyebrow. ‘Do you not trust me, Gower?’ he asked humorously. ‘At the very most it could be construed as a verbal contract and there were no witnesses.’

Gower blinked like a hunted animal. ‘None, my lord? Can you be certain of that?’

A smile twitched Marcus’s lips. ‘Perfectly.’

‘But even so…’ Gower glanced across at Justin. ‘A verbal contract, my lord…’

‘I think Mr Gower feels that you should honour your pledges, Marcus,’ Justin said, with a grin. ‘Even in a game of chance—’

‘A game of chance!’ Gower looked even more disapproving. ‘My lord! Mr Trevithick! This is all most irregular!’

‘As you say, Gower,’ Marcus murmured. ‘Have no fear. Gough’s client will never sue. I would stake my life on it!’

Justin grimaced. ‘Can you be so sure, Marcus? She sounds mighty determined to me!’

Gower, who was just shuffling his papers into his briefcase, scattered them on the carpet. ‘She, sir, she?’ he stuttered. ‘Good God, my lord, not even the old Earl would have indulged in a wager with a female!’

‘He was missing a trick then,’ Marcus said coolly, ‘for I found it most stimulating!’ He rose to his feet. ‘Good day, Gower. Give Gough my message and if you find his instructions are that he persists in his claim, refer him direct to me. Penn will show you out!’

‘Marcus,’ Justin said, once they were alone, ‘do you not consider this a little unsporting of you? After all, the girl won the bet, did she not?’

‘She did,’ Marcus conceded. He met Justin’s eyes. ‘Truth is, Justin, I would like to meet her again, find out about this passion she has for Fairhaven. It intrigues me.’

‘And this is how you intend to flush her out?’

‘Precisely!’ Marcus grinned suddenly. ‘I could go to Kit Mostyn and ask for his help, of course, but I would wager he will not grant it! So…if I refuse to honour the bet, my mysterious opponent may show her hand again!’

Justin’s lips twisted. ‘You’re a cunning devil, Marcus! But what is your interest in the lady herself?’

Marcus’s grin deepened. ‘That depends—on the lady and who she turns out to be!’

‘And you would recognise her again?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Marcus said slowly. ‘I would recognise her anywhere, Justin.’

‘Pull your chair up a little closer, my love,’ Lady Fanshawe instructed her goddaughter, gesturing her to move to the front of the theatre box. ‘Why, you will not be able to see anything at all from back there! But do not lean out too far! It is not good to lean excessively, for the gentlemen will stare so! Oh, pray do look, Beth!’ Lady Fanshawe leant as far out of the box as she could without falling. ‘It is Mr Rollinson and Lord Saye! I do believe they will call upon us in the interval!’

Beth edged her chair forward an inch and leant backwards at the same time. She had every intention of effacing herself until she was practically invisible. The invitation to the theatre was a longstanding one and could not be avoided, for Lady Fanshawe had been her mother’s closest friend. That was the only reason why Beth had come to Drury Lane that evening, although the play, Sheridan’s The Rivals, would normally have been sufficient to tempt her out. Normally, but not now. The matter of Marcus Trevithick and her ill-conceived wager with him had suddenly become so very difficult that she had no desire to risk meeting him again.

Beth chanced a glance over the edge of the box at the crowded auditorium below. Fortunately it would be easy to be inconspicuous in such a crush. People were milling around and chattering nineteen to the dozen: dandies, ladies, courtesans…Beth drew back sharply as a passing buck raised his quizzing glass at her in a manner she considered to be odiously familiar. Lady Fanshawe did not notice for she was waving excitedly to an acquaintance in the crowd.

It was already very hot. Beth fanned herself and looked around idly. Kit had escorted her again that evening but as soon as they had arrived he had left her in Lady Fanshawe’s company and could now be seen in a box to the left, chatting to a very dashing lady in green silk with nodding ostrich feathers. Lady Fanshawe had taken one look and remarked disapprovingly that one met with any old riff-raff at the theatre and that Kit need not think to foist his chère amie on their attention! Beth had been a little curious, but had tried not to stare. She thought that the dashing lady looked rather fast but, given her own performance at the Cyprians’ Ball, she was scarcely in a position to comment.

As time wore on without mishap, Beth started to relax a little. She felt comfortably nondescript in her rose muslin dress. She had chosen it deliberately because it was so unremarkable and she had tried to disguise herself further with a matching rose-pink turban, but Charlotte had positively forbidden her to leave the house looking such a dowd. Beth sighed. It was a terrible shame that Charlotte could never accompany them, but her cousin had had a fear of crowds ever since she was a girl and the glittering hordes that thronged the ton’s balls and parties terrified her. It was odd, for Charlotte was perfectly comfortable in society she knew, and could travel and visit amongst friends quite happily, but she was never at ease with strangers.

Beth watched as Kit took a fond farewell of his companion and turned to rejoin them for the start of the play. He was just making his way back to their box when Beth saw that his attention had been firmly caught by a slender young lady, very much the debutante, who was just taking her seat opposite. Intrigued, Beth watched as the young lady saw Kit and faltered in her conversation. For a long moment the two of them simply gazed at each other, then the girl gave Kit a half-smile and turned hesitantly away. Beth smiled to herself. Kit seemed smitten and she must remember to quiz him on the identity of the young lady…

She froze, all thought of Kit and his romantic entanglements flying from her mind as she saw the gentleman who had entered the box behind the girl. She recognised his height, the arrogant tilt of his head. She could even imagine those smooth, faintly mocking tones that she had last heard at the Cyprians’ Ball, but which had positively leapt from the page of the letter he had sent her via Gough earlier in the week:

‘My dear lady adventuress…’

Beth’s fan slipped from her shaking fingers and she leant down to retrieve it, trying to shrink into the shadows. Bent almost double, she groped around on the floor and tried to think quickly at the same time. How was she to avoid Marcus Trevithick seeing her when their boxes were almost opposite each other? If she tried to leave now, would she be able to slip away or would she only draw more attention to herself? She cursed the pale pink dress, which had seemed such a good idea earlier but in the dim light seemed to glow like a beacon.

‘What are you doing down there on the floor, Beth, my love? Are you feeling unwell? Do you wish to return home?’

Beth straightened up hastily as Lady Fanshawe’s carrying tones threatened to attract the notice of the whole theatre.

‘I am very well, I thank you, dear ma’am. I had only dropped my fan…’ Her words trailed away as, under some strange compulsion, she looked across the theatre and directly into the dark eyes of Marcus Trevithick. There could not be the slightest doubt that he had recognised her. He held her gaze for a long moment, a smile starting to curl the corners of his mouth, then he inclined his head in ironic salutation.

The play started at last and Beth forced herself to look at the stage and nowhere else. This proved difficult as a wayward part of her seemed to want to look across at the Earl of Trevithick all the time and she had to fix her gaze firmly on the actors instead. She soon discovered that she was one of the few people in the whole theatre who was giving their undivided attention to the stage. The chatter about her scarcely faltered and it seemed that most of the fashionable crowd viewed the play as a diversion from the main business of the evening. Eventually the noise began to grate on Beth, who inevitably found her concentration interrupted. After that it was easy for her thoughts to wander back to the tangle in which she found herself.

When Gough had come to her five days before and told her that the Earl was refusing to honour his bet and give Fairhaven to her, she had been annoyed but not particularly surprised. She had sent the lawyer back to offer a price that she felt was more than fair and had waited, confident that Trevithick would agree this time. It had come as a nasty shock when Gough returned the next day, out of countenance, to relate that he had seen the Earl in person and that her offer had been spurned. Further, the Earl was demanding in no uncertain terms that his client identify herself and discuss the matter with him face to face. This Beth declined to do, but she sweetened her refusal with a far more tempting sum of money. She could afford it and he…Well, she had thought that he would seize the chance to make such a profit. Instead, Gough had delivered the letter.

My dear lady adventuress,

Your offers intrigue me but you should know that I will only do business with you directly. If you choose not to identify yourself it makes no odds; I shall soon know your name and your direction. Then, even if you do not choose it, I shall seek you out…

After that, Beth had not set foot outside the house for two days. Glancing across at Marcus Trevithick now, she acknowledged that she had not felt afraid, precisely, more angry and outmanoeuvred. She had won the wager, but he held all the cards. He was not only refusing to give her Fairhaven, but he was also refusing to sell it to her, and if he discovered her identity he could ruin her by having it whispered abroad that she, a respectable lady, had attended the Cyprians’ Ball. She knew that the wisest thing was to withdraw her offer and retire from the lists, but it seemed that Marcus Trevithick was not prepared to let her do so. She was angry with him, but she was furious with herself for giving him the advantage.

‘Do you care to take a walk during the interval, Beth?’ Kit enquired, from beside her. ‘It might be pleasant to stretch our legs…’

Beth came back to the present, looked around and realised that the curtain had come down at the end of the first act. She glanced across at Marcus Trevithick and saw that he was already moving purposefully towards their box. So much for her half-formed hope that he would not dare accost her there! She took a quick breath.

‘A walk? Yes! No…I am not sure…Yes!’

Kit looked understandably confused. ‘What the deuce is the matter with you, Beth? You’re as edgy as a thoroughbred mare!’

Beth grabbed his arm. She could see that Marcus had been delayed by an acquaintance, but he was still watching her with the concentrated attention of a predator. There could be no question that he meant to approach her.

Beth took one last look and hurried out of the box. ‘Yes, by all means! Let us walk! This way!’

She steered her cousin out of the doorway and plunged into the corridor outside, making for the place where the crowd was thickest.

‘Steady on, Beth!’ Kit protested, as he was buffeted on all sides. ‘You’ll have us trampled in the crush!’

It was inevitable that such tactics, whilst they might delay matters, could not put them off forever. It was only a matter of minutes before someone recognised Kit and stopped him for a word, whilst the pressure of the crowd pulled Beth from his side before she had even noticed. Seconds later she looked round and realised that her cousin was nowhere in sight. Marcus Trevithick was, however.

He was leaning against a pillar just a few feet away from her, arms folded, as though he were prepared to stay there all night. His black gaze was watchful and faintly amused. Beth felt her breath catch in her throat. For one moment it seemed as though the press of people would whisk her past him, but then he stretched out one hand in a negligent gesture and caught her arm, pulling her to his side.

‘Well, well! My mystery lady—at last! Have you any idea of the balls and routs I have endured these past few days in the hope of catching sight of you, ma’am?’

There were prying eyes and ears all around them. Beth strove to keep her face blank and give nothing away, though her heart was hammering.

‘Good evening, my lord! I am sorry that you have put yourself to such trouble on my account!’

Marcus gave her a look of brilliant amusement. ‘Thank you! It was worth it, however, for now I have found you again!’ He tucked her hand through the crook of his arm and steered her out into the corridor. The crowd had lessened now and they could stroll along without too much difficulty. Beth looked around for rescue, but none was immediately forthcoming.

‘I only wanted to speak with you, you know,’ Marcus said reproachfully. ‘I was utterly intrigued by your offer and wished to discuss the matter with you—’

‘Is that not why you employ a man of business, my lord?’ Beth asked, keeping her bright social smile in place. ‘To relieve you of such onerous tasks?’

‘Generally. But this would hardly be onerous.’

Beth found the warmth in Marcus’s tone difficult to resist. She glanced up through her lashes and saw that he was smiling at her. It made her feel strangely hot and cold at the same time and she almost shivered. She made an effort to gather her scattered senses.

‘If you had but honoured your wager, my lord, such a situation would not have occurred!’

‘True.’ Marcus bent closer and she felt his breath stir the tendrils of hair by her ear. ‘But that would have defeated my object—of seeing you again, sweetheart!’

Beth stopped dead and glared at him. ‘Do not call me that!’ she hissed. ‘You must know I am no…no lightskirt for your tumbling!’

Marcus grinned. ‘Then why behave like one, ma’am? A dignified request to buy Fairhaven might have elicited a more dignified response!’

Beth could have wept with frustration. What had started as a light-hearted idea—to visit the Cyprians’ Ball—had caused more trouble than she could ever have imagined. She wondered what on earth had possessed her to dance with Marcus Trevithick and to further the masquerade. At the time the opportunity to trick him out of Fairhaven had seemed too good to miss, amusing, clever even. She had congratulated herself on her ingenuity—and on her courage! Now she could see that the wager had been the product of too much wine and excitement. She tightened her lips in exasperation.

‘It was an impulse! Which I now bitterly regret!’

‘Understandably. If you are indeed the lady you pretend to be, what could be worse than a version of the events of that night circulating amongst the ton? Dear me, ma’am, it does not bear thinking about!’

Beth coloured up furiously. ‘You would not do such a thing!’

‘Why not?’

Marcus’s tone was mild, but when she glanced up at his face Beth saw that he was watching her intently. It was exactly the problem that Charlotte had hinted at, the one that Beth had not even anticipated. If the Earl of Trevithick let it be known that he had had an encounter with a lady indecorously disporting herself at the Cyprians’ Ball, no one would believe in her innocence. And yet some instinct told her that he would not do that to her. Her troubled grey gaze scanned his face and she saw the hard lines soften a little as a smile came into his eyes. Suddenly she was acutely aware of him; of the smooth material of his sleeve beneath her fingers and the hard muscle of his arm beneath that, of the warmth of his body so close to hers and the disturbing look in his eyes.

‘Just tell me your name,’ he said softly, persuasively.

‘Beth, my dear! There you are!’ Beth jumped and swung round, tearing her gaze from Marcus. Lady Fanshawe was bearing down on them, her good-natured face wreathed in smiles. Her gaze moved from her goddaughter to the Earl of Trevithick and her smile faltered slightly in surprise, but she recovered herself well.

‘Oh! Lord Trevithick, is it not? How do you do, sir? I had no notion that you knew my goddaughter!’

Beth was aware of a sinking feeling as she watched Marcus bow elegantly over Lady Fanshawe’s hand. She knew that her godmother, voluble as ever, was about to give her identity away completely.

‘It is so delightful to see that the younger generation has ended that tiresome estrangement between the Mostyn and Trevithick families!’ Lady Fanshawe burbled. ‘I have never quite understood the cause of all the trouble, for it was an unconscionably long time ago and over some trifling matter such as a lost battle—’

‘Or perhaps a lost island, ma’am!’ Marcus said smoothly. Beth felt his dark gaze brush her face and deliberately evaded his eyes. ‘In fact, I was hoping that your charming goddaughter—’ there was just a hint of a query in his voice ‘—might tell me more about our family feud, for I confess it fascinates me!’

Lady Fanshawe beamed, accepting Marcus’s other arm as they strolled slowly back towards the box. ‘Oh, well, Beth will be able to tell you the whole story, I dare say! All the Mostyns are steeped in family history from the cradle!’

‘I see,’ Marcus said slowly. Beth could feel him moving closer to his goal, but for some reason she felt powerless to intervene and direct the conversation into other channels. And Lady Fanshawe was so very good-natured, and seemed pleased that the Earl was showing such an interest…

‘You must know the family extremely well, ma’am,’ he continued.

‘Oh, indeed, for Davinia Mostyn, Beth’s mama, was such a dear friend of mine, was she not, Beth, my love? It was such a tragedy when Lord and Lady Mostyn were killed in that horrid accident! But then Kit inherited the title and Beth married Frank Allerton…’

Beth felt Marcus’s arm move beneath her fingers. She caught her breath.

‘You did not tell me that you were Sir Francis’s widow, Lady Allerton,’ Marcus said gently, smiling down at her. She could see the triumph in his eyes. ‘He was a fine man and a great scholar. His treatise on hydrostatics formed part of my university studies. I remember his work well.’

‘Thank you,’ Beth murmured, looking away. ‘Sir Francis was indeed a fine academician.’

They had reached their box now and discovered that the second act of the play was about to start. Kit was already in his seat and looked up, startled, to see both his cousin and Lady Fanshawe escorted by the Earl of Trevithick. The two men exchanged a stiff bow, and then Marcus took Beth’s hand in his.

‘I should deem it an honour to call on you, Lady Allerton,’ he murmured, his gaze resting on her face in a look that brought the colour into her cheeks. ‘I understand that you are staying in Upper Grosvenor Street?’

Beth hesitated. ‘We are, but—’

‘Then I shall look forward to seeing you shortly.’ He bowed again. ‘Good evening, ma’am.’

Beth bit her lip as she watched his tall figure make its way back to the party in the Trevithick box. It seemed that the Earl was difficult to refuse. And now that Lady Fanshawe had told him everything he needed to know, his position was well nigh unassailable. With a sigh, Beth tried to direct her attention back to the play. She wondered what his next move would be.

‘I am not at all sure about these newfangled artists,’ Lady Fanshawe sighed, pausing in front of a landscape painting by John Constable. ‘Only look at those odd flecks of light and the strange rough technique. There is something not quite finished…indeed, not quite gentlemanly about it!’

Beth laughed. She rather liked Constable’s atmospheric landscapes and they gave her a longing for the countryside and the fresh sea air. It was pleasant to be able to escape the bustle of the London Season for a little and step through an imaginary window into another landscape, even if they were in fact in the Royal Academy and Lady Fanshawe was starting to complain that her feet were aching.

‘Why do you not take the seat over there, ma’am, if you are fatigued?’ she suggested, gesturing to a comfortable banquette placed over by the window. ‘I shall not keep you long, but I should just like to see Mr Turner’s collection in the blue room. If you would grant me five minutes…’

Lady Fanshawe nodded, sighing with relief as she took the weight off her feet. ‘Take as long as you wish, my love,’ she said, sitting back and closing her eyes. ‘I suggest we call in Bond Street on our way home. Far more to my taste, but one must be seen here, you know!’

Smiling, Beth wandered through to the second gallery. There was quite a fashionable crowd present, bearing out the truth of Lady Fanshawe’s statement on the social importance of attending the exhibition. Beth paused before a picture of seascape and gave a small, unconscious sigh. The water was a stormy grey and the clouds were building on the horizon, and far out to sea there was an island…

‘Daydreaming, my lady?’ The voice, deep and slightly mocking, caught Beth by surprise. She turned her head sharply to meet the quizzical gaze of the Earl of Trevithick. She could feel a vexatious blush rising to her cheeks and looked away swiftly. It was irritating enough that she had spent the last three days waiting for him to call on her, with a secret anticipation that she had not acknowledged even to herself. She had just begun to relax and think that he had forgotten her, when here he was.

‘How do you do, my lord.’ Beth smiled politely. She tried not to notice how superbly elegant Marcus looked in a coat of green superfine and the fawn pantaloons that clung to his muscular thighs. ‘I hope that you are enjoying the exhibition?’

Marcus took her hand. ‘To tell the truth, I came here with the sole intention of seeing you, Lady Allerton. I called in Upper Grosvenor Street and was told that you would be here, and I hoped to persuade you to drive with me. It is a very pleasant autumn day and my curricle is outside.’

Beth hesitated. ‘Thank you, my lord, but I am here with Lady Fanshawe—’

‘I am sure she could be persuaded to entrust you to me.’ Marcus smiled down at her. ‘That is, if you wish to come with me, Lady Allerton. You might not want to break a centuries-old feud, after all!’

Beth could not help laughing. ‘How absurd you are, my lord! I believe I might take the risk, but…’

‘I know!’ Marcus looked apologetic. ‘You are quite out of charity with me because of my ungallant refusal to grant you Fairhaven! But now, Lady Allerton…’ he bent closer to her ‘…now you have the opportunity to persuade me! Will you take the challenge?’

Beth looked at him. There was a definite gleam of provocation in his eye. She frowned.

‘It seems to me, my lord, that you have the best of both worlds! You have nothing to lose whereas I may wear myself to a shred trying to convince you of my attachment to Fairhaven and still have no influence over you!’

A wicked smile curved Marcus’s lips. ‘Believe me, Lady Allerton, you have made quite an impression on me already! I would put nothing outside your powers!’

Beth blushed and looked away. ‘Pray do not tease so, my lord.’

‘Must I not?’ Marcus offered her his arm and they started to walk back through the gallery. ‘It is difficult to resist. So, will you take my challenge?’

Beth paused. ‘I will drive with you. That would be most pleasant.’

‘Very proper. You are not always so proper, are you, Lady Allerton?’

‘However, I could withdraw my acceptance. Any more of your mockery, my lord—’ Beth looked at him severely ‘—and I shall do so!’

Marcus inclined his head. ‘Very well! We shall instigate a truce! You are a most determined person, Lady Allerton. It is quite unusual.’

‘Unusual, perhaps. Most certainly imprudent.’ Beth spoke wryly. She was thinking of Charlotte and her strictures on her conduct. ‘I think it comes from being an only child, my lord. I was much indulged and given my own way. It bred stubbornness in me, I fear. And then, my late husband…’

‘Yes?’ Marcus slanted a look down at her. Beth sensed that his interest had sharpened and she managed to stop her runaway disclosures just in time.

‘Well, he was very kind and indulgent too…generous to me…I was most fortunate.’

‘You must have been a child bride,’ Marcus observed lightly, after a moment. ‘After all, you are scarce in your dotage now! How long have you been widowed, Lady Allerton?’

Beth turned her head so that the brim of her bonnet shielded her from his too-perceptive gaze. Something about this man made her feel vulnerable, as though he could read into her words all the things she did not say.

‘Sir Francis died two years ago. Yes, I was very young when I married. My parents had been killed in an accident and I…’ Her voice trailed away. She did not want to reveal how lonely she had felt, uncertain if she was making the right decision in marrying hastily. On the one side had been security and on the other…On the other, she had felt as though she was throwing away all her youth and future by marrying a man older than her father. Yet Frank had been a kind husband, as kind to her as to a favourite niece. All she had lacked was excitement.

‘I see,’ Marcus said, and Beth had the unnerving suspicion that he did indeed see a great deal.

‘My dears!’ Lady Fanshawe had watched them approach and now rose to her feet, wincing slightly. She greeted the Earl as though he was a family friend of long standing, which Beth found slightly unnerving. She watched with resignation as it took Marcus all of a minute to persuade Lady Fanshawe to his plan.

‘If you have offered to take Lady Allerton up with you I am all gratitude, my lord,’ Lady Fanshawe trilled, ‘for I am sorely in need of a rest! I was intending to call at Bond Street, but fear I do not have the energy! This picture-viewing is unconscionably tiring!’

They went out of the Academy, Marcus calling a hackney carriage to convey Lady Fanshawe home before handing Beth up into his curricle. It was a fine, bright day for autumn and the pale sun was warm. It was pleasant to be driving slowly through the fresh air of the Park, although it seemed to Beth that they were obliged to stop every few yards to greet the Earl’s acquaintances. She knew few people in London, so had little to contribute to this social ritual, and after a while she had been introduced to so many new people that her head was spinning.

At last, when they reached a quieter stretch of road, Marcus turned to her with a rueful smile. ‘Forgive me. To drive at the fashionable hour precludes sensible conversation!’

‘You seem to have a vast number of friends in London, my lord,’ Beth said non-committally, thinking of the elegant ladies who had appraised her with curiosity-hard eyes and the sporting gentlemen who had looked her over as though she was a piece of horseflesh.

Marcus smiled. ‘I certainly know a lot of people, but as for friends—’ he shook his head ‘—I could count them on the fingers of one hand! But I almost forgot, Lady Allerton…’ His gloved hand covered Beth’s and her pulse jumped at the contact. ‘I cannot count you my friend, for we are sworn enemies, are we not? Will you tell me more about the feud?’

‘Oh, the feud…’ For a moment, gazing into those dark eyes, Beth was all at sea. She had forgotten all about it. Then she pulled herself together. This was the point of the whole exercise, after all. Somehow she had to persuade Marcus Trevithick of the importance of Fairhaven to her, and becoming distracted by his company was not going to help at all. She pulled her hand away and saw him smile at the gesture.

‘I believe that the feud between the Trevithicks and Mostyns dates back to the Civil War, my lord.’ Beth cleared her throat and tried to sound businesslike. ‘The Mostyns were on the side of the King and the Trevithicks were for Parliament. When Sir James Mostyn went into exile with Charles II, the Trevithicks took the chance to steal—I mean to seize—Mostyn land.’

‘Steal will do,’ Marcus said lazily. ‘I fear the Trevithicks always were thieves and scoundrels, Lady Allerton! But they prospered as a result!’

‘To profit by the misfortune of others is not honourable!’ Beth said hotly. ‘Even worse, at the Restoration, the Mostyns regained a little of their former estate, but the Trevithicks managed to persuade the King of their good faith and were not punished!’

‘I can see that you have a very strong sense of fair play, Lady Allerton!’ Marcus observed. ‘Sadly, the way the Trevithicks prospered is the way that fortunes are often made—through double-dealing!’

Beth looked severe. ‘That is no recommendation, my lord!’

‘No, I can see that my ancestry is doing me little service here. I sense that worse is to come as well. Pray continue!’

Beth glanced at him doubtfully. Although his tone contained its habitual teasing edge, he was looking quite absorbed. She shifted uncomfortably.

‘I hope that the tale does not bore you, my lord?’

‘Not in the least! I am all attention!’

Beth realised that this was true. Marcus had loosened his grip on the reins and the horses, very well-behaved thoroughbred bays, were trotting at a decorous pace along the path. All of Marcus’s attention was focused on her and as soon as Beth realised it she became acutely aware of the warmth of his regard and the disturbingly intent expression in those dark eyes.

‘Well, yes…anyway…For a hundred years the Trevithicks prospered and Mostyns struggled, but they still held Fairhaven Island.’ Beth glared at Marcus, forgetting for a moment that he had not been personally responsible for wresting it from her grandfather. It was easy to fall back into the stories of her childhood, the enthralling tales of Trevithick treachery. ‘Then my grandfather inherited the estate and came up against your grandfather, my lord, the fifth Earl, George Trevithick.’

‘Ah, the Evil Earl. I have heard much of his exploits. They say that in his youth he was in league with the wreckers and the smugglers and the pirates and anyone who could help him make an illegal profit.’

‘I have no doubt. What is certainly true is that our grandfathers were implacable enemies, my lord, and had sworn to take their fight to the death. One stormy March night my grandfather was sailing for Fairhaven, not knowing that the Earl had already landed there and that the wreckers were waiting for him. There was a gale blowing and in the dark my grandfather did not realise that the shore lights were not placed there by his servants but were a trick of the enemy.’ Beth took a deep breath. ‘His ship ran aground and all hands were lost, along with the chest of treasure the ship had been carrying. My grandfather was the only one to escape ashore, but he was ambushed by the Evil Earl and cut down in the fight. Then the Earl stole his sword, the Sword of Saintonge, that had been in the family for centuries, and took the island into the bargain! Now, what do you think of that, my lord?’

Beth finished, out of breath, and looked at Marcus expectantly. It was a tale for a dark, stormy night rather than a bright day in the park, and it was difficult to believe that either of them were the descendants of men who had struggled to the death for supremacy only fifty years before. That conflict had been ruthless and atavistic, belonging to a previous and less civilised time. Beth allowed herself to consider the man who sat beside her, looking every inch the sophisticated society gentleman. She wondered suddenly just how much of that image was a façade, for she already knew from her dealings with Marcus that if one scratched the surface there was something infinitely more ruthless beneath. As for herself—how far would she go to regain Fairhaven? The stubborn tenacity of the Mostyns was in her blood. Perhaps both of them were true to their ancestry after all.

Marcus encouraged the horses to pick a bit of speed, then turned to Beth with a smile. ‘What do I think of it? I cannot deny that it is a tale that reflects no credit on my grandfather. Yet I have some questions for you, Lady Allerton. What was Lord Mostyn doing sailing in such dangerous waters at night? Why did he have his treasure with him? Was there not something slightly suspicious about his own actions?’

Beth stared. In twenty years she had never questioned the detail of the story. She remembered Maddy, her nursemaid, telling her the tale at bedtimes, by the light of the candle in the nursery at Mostyn Hall. She had imagined the perfidious, flickering light of the wreckers’ lamp on the cliff, the smashing of the ship’s timbers as it broke up on the rocks, the glint of gold as the family treasure tumbled into the depths of the sea…It had never occurred to her to wonder why her grandfather had been carrying so much money on his journey, nor what he had been doing sailing to Fairhaven on a stormy night. Until Marcus had spoken, she had not even thought of it.

Beth wrinkled up her nose, looking at him thoughtfully. ‘I must concede that it is odd…’

‘Indeed. One is tempted to go to Fairhaven to discover the truth of the whole story!’ Marcus flashed her a smile. ‘Would you accompany me, Lady Allerton, if I invited you to join me on Fairhaven Island?’

Beth looked scandalised. ‘Accompany you? I should think not, my lord! A most improper suggestion!’

Marcus laughed. ‘A pity. Yet I do not doubt your loyalty to the notion of regaining Fairhaven for your family.’

Beth clenched her gloved hands together in her lap. ‘It is something that I feel I must do, my lord. My grandfather’s ghost is unquiet…’

Marcus smiled at her. ‘I hope you do not feel that in order to lay the ghost you must foster the quarrel!’ Once again he transferred the reins to one hand and put the other over hers. ‘I have a feeling, my lady, that you and I might settle this feud once and for all.’

This time Beth let her hand rest still under his. ‘I hope that we may, my lord,’ she said, deliberately reading nothing into his words. ‘Might I suggest that you accept my offer for Fairhaven as a first step? It is a very generous offer…’

‘It is.’ Marcus let go of her and picked up the reins again. ‘Too generous. Fairhaven cannot possibly be worth such a sum.’

Beth shrugged a little. ‘How does one assess sentimental value, my lord? To me, Fairhaven is priceless.’

Marcus smiled. ‘I understand that,’ he said slowly. ‘Fairhaven has become your passion, has it not, Lady Allerton? I wonder just what you would do to achieve that obsession.’

Beth stared at him. Despite the fact that his words only echoed what Charlotte had said to her previously, it was disconcerting to hear them from a relative stranger. It was even more disconcerting to read the double meaning behind them. She looked at him very directly.

‘I am not sure that I understand you, my lord. Are you rejecting my offer?’

‘I preferred your original one,’ Marcus said coolly.

Their gazes locked. The sun disappeared behind a grey cloud and suddenly the wind was chill. Beth shivered inside her pelisse, but it was not entirely from the cold.

‘Are you offering me carte blanche, my lord?’

Marcus laughed out loud. ‘You are very frank, my lady! I was under the impression that the boot had been on the other foot! You set the terms of our wager—’

‘You lost the wager,’ Beth said swiftly, ‘and it is because you did not honour your stake that I am offering so much more!’

‘You are offering more financially, I suppose. As I said, I preferred your original—more personal—offer!’

Beth could feel herself blushing and was vexed. She knew he was deliberately provoking her and was determined to stay calm. It was difficult, however, particularly as a tiny corner of her mind was acknowledging the attractions of such a course of action. To offer herself to Marcus in return for Fairhaven Island. It was immoral. It was iniquitous. And it was definitely tempting…

She frowned.

‘The wager was a means to an end, my lord! It is not my usual mode of behaviour to offer myself as part of a bargain!’

‘I see.’ Marcus had allowed the curricle to come to a halt under the bare branches of a spreading oak tree. ‘In that case it was a remarkably dangerous wager.’

‘It was.’ Beth held his gaze. ‘However, if I had lost, I had only to refuse to honour my stake—as you did, my lord!’

‘Touché!’ Marcus laughed again. ‘I must confess myself disappointed, Lady Allerton. I was hoping that you might be persuaded—’

‘Were you? You cannot know me very well, then, my lord!’ By now there was a warning glint in Beth’s eye. ‘I have told you that I am no courtesan! I wish you take me home now, if you please!’

‘Very well!’ Marcus’s tone betrayed amused admiration. ‘I will not tease you any further, my lady. And if it is true that I do not know you well, time can at least remedy that situation!’

The thought gave Beth little comfort. In the first place, she had a strange and disturbing conviction that Marcus did in fact understand her very well, for all his teasing. As for his pledge to know her better, her instinct told her that that could be a very perilous enterprise indeed.

Chapter Three

Another country dance came to an end and Beth applauded enthusiastically and accepted the escort of her partner back to Lady Fanshawe’s side. It was very hot in the Duchess of Calthorpe’s ballroom for there were at least two hundred guests and the event was assured of the accolade of being a crush. The Duchess had chosen white as her theme to create the impression of approaching winter, and it was ironic that the temperature resembled that of the tropics. Hundreds of white candles added to the heat in the ballroom, creating such a fire risk that footmen were stationed about the room with buckets of water.

‘Are you enjoying yourself, my love?’ Lady Fanshawe fanned herself vigorously. ‘It is such a sad crush in here, I declare there is barely a spare rout chair to be had! And all this white is quite dazzling to the eye!’

Beth giggled. As well as the white candles there were filmy white draperies that were threatening to catch fire and droopy white lilies that evidently preferred a cooler climate.

‘You are in looks tonight, my dear,’ Lady Fanshawe continued. ‘That lilac muslin is very pretty and stands out well amongst the debutantes. Poor girls, I fear they will melt into the draperies!’

‘In more ways than one!’ Beth agreed, gratefully accepting a glass of lemonade from Mr Porson, who had been partnering her in the previous dance. He was a worthy young man and he showed signs of lingering at her side, which Beth did not particularly mind. At least she felt safe with him.

‘Mr Porson, do you think—?’ she began, only to raise her eyebrows in surprise as the young man shot away with barely a word of farewell. Kit Mostyn came up and took the vacated rout chair at his cousin’s side.

‘Good gracious, Kit!’ Beth said crossly. ‘What sort of reputation do you have that scares away my innocent admirers? Poor Mr Porson was only indulging in conversation!’

‘I doubt that it was my arrival that scared him off,’ Kit said drily. ‘The Earl of Trevithick has just come in, Beth. Porson won’t want to be seen trespassing on Trevithick’s ground!’

Beth glanced quickly at the doorway and looked away equally quickly, conscious that plenty of people were watching her. She was unhappily aware that she had become the talk of the town during the previous ten days, all as a result of Marcus Trevithick’s attentions. They had driven in the park twice, attended a concert and fireworks at Vauxhall, met at a musical soirée and danced at a couple of balls. That had been sufficient to set tongues wagging and it seemed to Beth that Marcus had done nothing to quell the speculation. He had behaved entirely correctly towards her on all occasions, and yet Beth was aware of something beneath the veneer of convention, something entirely more exciting and dangerous in his attitude towards her.

The interest of the ton was piqued because of the family feud and also because the Dowager Viscountess of Trevithick had made her disapproval of Beth very plain. Only the previous night, the Dowager had cut her dead at the opera and Beth had decided that she would have to avoid Marcus in future. This was not entirely because of his mother’s attitude but also because of some belated sense of self-preservation. Beth knew that she found Marcus all too attractive and she had heard something of his reputation and did not want to become another conquest. Now, however, her resolution put her in an awkward situation, for to shun Marcus’s company at the ball would be remarked upon. Beth fidgeted, drumming her fingers on the arm of the chair as she tried to decide what to do.

She saw Marcus start to cross the room towards her. He had paused to speak to an acquaintance but Beth saw that although he was talking to the man, he was still watching her with a deliberation that was most disturbing. She got hastily to her feet.

‘Kit, will you dance with me, please?’

Kit looked pained. ‘Must I? If this is some elaborate charade to avoid Trevithick—’

‘Kit!’ Beth frowned at her cousin’s lack of tact. ‘How can you be so unchivalrous? Even if it is, I still need your help!’

Kit grinned at her. ‘I only meant to warn you that Trevithick would not be fobbed off! By all means let us dance if we must!’

He took her arm and led her away from Marcus Trevithick, joining the set that was at the furthest end of the ballroom.

‘I saw you talking to Eleanor Trevithick when her mother’s back was turned,’ Beth said slyly, as they took their places. ‘If you seek to warn me, perhaps you will take some advice in turn? I hope you do not have a tendre there, Kit, for you must be doomed to disappointment!’

She had the satisfaction of seeing a hint of colour come into Kit’s lean cheek. He avoided her gaze. ‘Don’t know what you mean, Beth! Miss Trevithick is a charming girl, but I have no interest there!’

Beth smiled beatifically. ‘Of course not! How foolish of me even to imagine that you did!’

‘It’s bad enough having Charlotte dispensing advice,’ Kit said gloomily, ‘without my honorary sister joining in as well!’

They danced in perfect accord, though Beth found that she had to concentrate on her steps rather more than usual. Her gaze was drawn with tiresome repetitiveness to the tall figure of Marcus Trevithick as he threaded his way through the crowd and joined his mother and sister over by one of the long terrace windows. It seemed that some strange compulsion made it well nigh impossible for Beth to ignore him, for even when she was not looking at Marcus she sensed exactly where he was. It was only when Justin Trevithick came up to the family group and he and Marcus headed towards the card room that Beth started to relax, but by then the dance was ending. Kit bowed to her, then hastened away to claim another lady for the boulanger.

Beth was about to rejoin Lady Fanshawe, when she saw Marcus emerge unexpectedly from the card room again and start walking towards her through the crowd. She immediately dived towards the door and took refuge in the ladies’ withdrawing room, where she fretted and fidgeted for twenty minutes, uncertain whether Marcus would simply be waiting in the corridor outside. He was not. Wrestling with a mixture of relief and disappointment, Beth tiptoed back into the ballroom and saw that Marcus was now dancing with Eleanor. She made her way back to Lady Fanshawe’s corner of the room, only to find that her chaperon had disappeared.

Beth sat down, feeling a little self-conscious. She could see Kit, who was dancing with a plump debutante in a pink gown, but was looking over her shoulder all the time at Eleanor Trevithick. So much for his denials of an interest there! Beth smiled to herself. It seemed that she and her cousin were both caught in the same trap.

The crush in the ballroom was lessening now as some of the guests moved on to other engagements, and without the camouflage of the huge crowd Beth felt strangely vulnerable. She watched as the dance ended and saw Marcus look around and fix on her with an almost uncanny accuracy. In a candlelit room of a hundred and fifty people it seemed unreasonable that he was able to pick her out so quickly, but she did not feel she had time to stop and think about the implications. She started to edge towards the doors that led out on to the terrace, then paused, thinking that it would probably not be a good idea to wander out into the dark, especially on a cold autumn night. If Marcus decided to follow her they would end up playing hide-and-seek in the gardens and who could say where that would end. Glancing over her shoulder, Beth saw that he was getting closer to her, moving with a purposeful intent that was most disconcerting. She skittered along the edge of the dance floor, almost tripping over in her attempts to put some more distance between them. What she really needed now was someone to ask her to dance. Someone, anyone…

‘Would you care to dance, Lady Allerton?’

Beth turned sharply, her grateful acceptance withering on her lips as she looked up into the smiling face of Justin Trevithick. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. She was certain that Justin had seen her trying to avoid Marcus, but she was also aware that she could not refuse to dance with him without seeming dreadfully rude.

‘Oh, Mr Trevithick! I…yes…thank you, sir…’

Beth had met Justin several times in the previous ten days and had taken to him immediately, liking his sense of humour and easygoing manner. Just now, however, she was wishing him at the bottom of the sea. Dancing with Marcus’s cousin was getting too close to Marcus for comfort. She looked round and saw that Marcus was now speaking to a fashionable matron in striped red and white silk. He looked engrossed and suddenly Beth began to feel rather silly. Perhaps Marcus had never intended to approach her at all and all her diversions had served no purpose other than to make her look foolish. Probably she was flattering herself by imagining that he had ever shown any real interest in her.

Justin was waiting, a look of speculative amusement in his eyes. Beth hastily wiped all expression from her face and gave him her hand. She was pleased that she managed to keep up a tolerably bright conversation throughout the polonaise, only faltering slightly when she observed Marcus and the stripily clad matron disappearing through the door together. That was that, then. Evidently Marcus had found company more to his taste and had retired to enjoy it in privacy. Beth felt even more out of countenance at the unedifying jealousy that swept through her.

At the end of the dance, Justin guided her off the floor and into the refreshment room.

‘May I fetch you a glass of lemonade, ma’am?’ he suggested. ‘It may be a tame sort of beverage but is just the thing in a hot climate like this! If you take a seat in this alcove I will undertake to be back directly.’

Beth sank gratefully onto the window seat. It was fresher here with a pleasant draught of air that cooled her heated face. She rested her head against the stone window casing and closed her eyes. The noise of the ball swirled around her but she took no notice.

‘Your lemonade, Lady Allerton.’

Beth jumped so much that she almost banged her head against the stone. The voice was not Justin Trevithick’s, but the deeper tones of his cousin the Earl. Sure enough, Marcus was standing before her, a glass of lemonade in one hand, watching her with the same quizzically amused expression that he had been wearing all evening. Beth felt at a disadvantage and tried to get to her feet, but she found that Marcus was standing too close to her and that any movement would bring her into physical contact with him. This did not seem a very good idea, so she leant back instead and took the lemonade from him with an assumption of ease.

‘Thank you very much. How do you do, Lord Trevithick?’

Marcus gave her his devastating smile. ‘I am all the better now that I have finally caught up with you, Lady Allerton! I thought that I would never achieve it!’

‘I was expecting your cousin’s company—’ Beth began.

‘And did not want to have to tolerate mine instead? I fear I persuaded him to exchange places with me.’ Marcus shrugged lightly. ‘Now that I finally have you to myself, Lady Allerton, I would be obliged if you would keep still for at least a minute! I would like to speak with you!’

Beth shifted guiltily on the window seat. There was little chance of her escaping anywhere since Marcus was now leaning against the alcove embrasure and comprehensively blocking her retreat.

‘In that case you had better sit down,’ she said coolly, ‘and cease looming over me in that threatening manner!’

Marcus grinned and sat down next to her. ‘I will do as you ask on the understanding that you will not run away! What has all that ridiculous rigmarole been about this evening—dodging out of rooms, hiding away, avoiding even looking in my direction—?’

‘When I did look in your direction I thought you most preoccupied!’ Beth said tartly, before she could stop herself. ‘I am surprised that you noticed me at all!’

Marcus laughed. ‘I collect that you are referring to me stepping aside with a lady just now? That is my elder sister, Lady Grace Walters. She found the heat too overpowering in the ballroom and needed some fresh air.’

Beth looked away, feeling foolish. ‘I am sure that I do not care—’

‘Well, you do, or you would not have quizzed me about it!’ Marcus sat back on the window seat and stretched his long legs out in front of him. ‘And you still have not answered my question, Lady Allerton. What was all that play-acting for?’

Beth flushed. ‘I thought it best to avoid you,’ she said candidly, trying to look him in the eye. ‘There has been so much speculation about our…’ She hesitated, trying to think of the right word to describe their relationship.

‘Our friendship?’ Marcus supplied helpfully.

‘Friendship. Yes, thank you. So much speculation about our friendship, my lord, that I thought it best to subdue it by—’

‘By creeping about like an actor in a bad play? You have caused so much speculation tonight by your strategies for avoiding me that I am amazed you are not aware of it!’

‘Well, if it comes to that, you have hardly suppressed the gossip by cornering me in this alcove!’ Beth said, firing up. ‘It seems to me that you positively enjoy stirring up scandal, my lord!’

Marcus shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘I confess that I seldom regard it. As you should not, my lady! Why should the tabbies concern you? I am minded to kiss you here and now and see what the scandalmongers make of that!’

Beth recoiled slightly. ‘Do not jest, my lord!’

‘Why should I be jesting? You did not object to kissing me before!’

Beth blushed scarlet. ‘My lord! Kindly lower your voice—’

‘Come and speak with me in private, then. I want to talk to you about your offer for Fairhaven. It is time that we settled the matter.’

Beth gave him a very direct look. ‘I do not believe you, sir! This is just a trick! In fact, I do not trust you! At all!’

‘Why not?’ Marcus grinned. ‘Because the last time we were private together we shared more than just a conversation—’

Beth waved her hands about in mute appeal. ‘I believe you must be inebriated to speak thus, my lord—’

Marcus captured both her hands in one of his. ‘Not in the slightest! But if you will not speak with me, come and dance with me instead!’

He had already pulled her to her feet and was steering her through the crowded room with one hand resting lightly in the small of her back. Beth was sharply conscious of his tall figure close beside her, so close that her skirt brushed against his thigh as they walked. She tried to move away a little but found that the press of people forced them together. She could feel the warmth of his touch through the thin muslin of her dress, and suddenly she felt hot and vulnerable. It was no state in which to begin a dance, and when Beth heard the waltz striking up she almost turned tail and fled.

‘No need to look so terrified, sweetheart,’ Marcus murmured in her ear. His voice was warm and persuasive. ‘I promise to behave!’

A strange shiver went down Beth’s spine. She did not dare look at him. She reluctantly moved into his arms and felt only slightly relieved when Marcus held her at an irreproachable distance from his own body and made no attempt to draw her closer.

They started to circle the floor in time to the lilting rhythm of the music. The faces of the guests spun past them, curious, avid, amused, sharp, and spiteful…It seemed to Beth that the music was whirling faster and faster and that the flickering candlelight washed over them like a kaleidoscope of black and white. Marcus’s face was in shadow, his expression inscrutable, almost distant. Yet despite his apparent coolness Beth could feel a current of heat running between them, intense and strong. She shivered again, convulsively.

Beth had intended to keep a decorous distance between them and to avoid the intimacy of conversation during the waltz, but some compulsion made her glance up into Marcus’s face as they completed their second circuit of the floor. His gaze met hers for a split second and now it was dark and heavy with a passion he made no attempt to conceal. Beth caught her breath on a little gasp and almost lost her footing. Immediately Marcus’s arms tightened about her, pulling her into sudden and shocking contact with his body. His cheek brushed hers, hard against the softness of her skin, causing a feeling of helpless, wanton warmth to flood through her. Beth shuddered in his arms, unable to prevent her body betraying her with its trembling. She saw Marcus’s lips curve into a smile, felt his own body harden with arousal against hers and thought that she might well faint with shock and sheer, sensual delight, there in the Duchess of Calthorpe’s ballroom in front of one hundred and fifty people. It was terrifying but also strangely exhilarating all at the same time, and she was thoroughly confused. She did not risk looking at Marcus again.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.