She slid her arms round his neck, hugging him in sheer delight.

‘Oh, David …’ She sighed. ‘We’ll have to get married now.’

He tensed.

Well, she’d been prepared for that. He must be shocked to learn that she was the woman he’d just ravished.

But before he could say anything someone flung up the sash window and stepped into the orangery.

She didn’t have time to do more than lift her head and swivel it in that direction before the light of two lanterns flooded the scene, clearly showing the unmasked faces of the three people standing there.

The Neapolitan Nightingale, her mouth agape.

Marianne, her hands clasped to her bosom.

And worst of all … David—not the man currently embracing her!

ANNIE BURROWS has been writing Regency romances for Mills & Boon since 2007. Her books have charmed readers worldwide, having been translated into nineteen different languages, and some have gone on to win the coveted Reviewers’ Choice Award from CataRomance. For more information, or to contact the author, please visit annie-burrows.co.uk or you can find her on Facebook at facebook.com/AnnieBurrowsUK.

The Captain’s Christmas Bride

Annie Burrows

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my brand-new daughter-in-law Emily.

Welcome to the family.

And special thanks to Joe for the brainstorming on this one.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Christmas Day, 1815

‘How long do you think it will take? To make sure I am thoroughly compromised?’

Lady Julia Whitney observed Marianne’s face turn a little pink as a frown flitted across her brow. But then Marianne disapproved of the whole venture and was uncomfortable being dragged into it.

‘You only need to leave us alone long enough to be sure he is kissing me,’ Lady Julia pointed out. ‘And then you can burst into the orangery and find us.’

‘Yes, but how will I know he is kissing you?’ Marianne yanked hard at the laces in her valiant, prolonged struggle to do up Lady Julia’s masquerade gown. ‘The mistletoe didn’t work. And we hung kissing boughs everywhere.’

Lady Julia winced. Not only had they hung mistletoe everywhere, but almost everyone else was making good use of it.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Marianne. ‘Did I pinch you? This dress is rather tight, isn’t it?’

‘I shall hold my breath until you get it done up,’ said Lady Julia, unwilling to admit that it was chagrin that made her wince, at the reminder that after all the hours spent gathering mistletoe, fashioning it into dozens of kissing boughs, and getting footmen to hang them all over the house, she hadn’t managed to coax David to stand still underneath a single one of them.

‘Thank you,’ said Marianne. ‘I didn’t realise how difficult this would be. I mean, you do look about the same size as the Neapolitan Nightingale. I didn’t think we’d need to make any alterations when she agreed to lend you her gown for the evening. But actually, you are rather more...um...robust.’

She gave another hard tug. ‘There. All done,’ she said.

‘Oh, my goodness,’ said Lady Julia, studying her reflection in the mirror with awe, as well as a touch of dizziness from having held her breath for so long. ‘But it was worth it.’

‘Lawks,’ said Marianne, her eyes widening as she peeped over Lady Julia’s shoulder.

Lawks indeed. The peacock-blue silk gown was a lot more daring than even she’d suspected it might be. On the Neapolitan Nightingale—the opera singer from whom she’d borrowed it—it hadn’t looked any more daring than any of her other gowns. But with Lady Julia’s bosom hitched up like that, and overflowing the straining bodice, it was teetering on the verge of scandalous.

‘Lawks,’ she echoed faintly, staring with astonishment at the impressive cleavage which had never before had a public airing.

‘Well, that puts paid to any worries that people might recognise you,’ said Marianne tartly. ‘Once you put the mask on, not one single man there will be able to raise his eyes from the front of your gown.’

‘And don’t forget the wig,’ came a muffled voice from behind the screen where the Neapolitan Nightingale herself was changing into the costume supposedly made for Lady Julia.

Marianne and Lady Julia exchanged a guilty look. Just how much might she have heard? They’d been whispering to start with, but the sight of that cleavage had shocked them both into indiscretion.

‘Goodness,’ said the Neapolitan Nightingale when she came out from behind the screen—in a voice that betrayed her far-from-Italian origins—and saw the way the two young ladies were gaping at Lady Julia’s extremely risqué décolletage.

‘You look far more delicious in that than I ever did,’ she said, with a wry twist to her lips. ‘You can keep it if you like, after the party is over.’

‘Oh, no, really, I couldn’t...’

‘Well, I shan’t want it back. It’s been my favourite this season, but it’s about time I got a new look.’

Julia took another look at herself in the mirror. The idea had been to make herself look irresistible and completely unlike her rather demure self. Well, she’d certainly done that!

She stroked the shimmering blue-green silk lovingly. She couldn’t imagine ever having the nerve to wear such a revealing gown again. But she would rather like to keep it as a memento. Of this party, and the woman who’d lent it to her, and, she hoped, the successful conclusion to her campaign to make David propose.

‘Then, thank you. Thank you very much.’

‘Now, the best way to trick everyone,’ said the Nightingale briskly, ‘is to let me do all the work. I’ve got that rather mannish stride of yours down pat. And some of your other little mannerisms. And your stock phrases.’

‘Stock phrases? I don’t use stock phrases,’ Lady Julia objected.

‘Everyone uses stock phrases. Marianne is always saying, “Oh, dear me, no. Really, I couldn’t,”’ said the Nightingale in a voice uncannily like Marianne’s. ‘And you are always saying, “Stuff!”, and then sniffing, and tossing your head.’

‘I don’t toss my head.’

‘You do,’ said Marianne, trying not to giggle. ‘Really, Nellie has you down to a T.’

Lady Julia was on the verge of saying stuff before recollecting that she’d objected to having it pointed out that she was always doing so. Her neck muscles clamped up as she resisted the urge to toss her head, or sniff, or do anything else to express her irritation at learning she was so predictable. It was a funny business seeing someone as talented as the Nightingale learn to impersonate you. She’d had Marianne in stitches over the past couple of afternoons, aping attitudes Lady Julia had no idea she affected. Like the way she shrugged just one shoulder, apparently, and made a little moue with her lips when she was struggling to be polite to some crashing bore.

‘Now, Marianne,’ said the Nightingale briskly. ‘Your part is to stick close by me all night, the way you usually do with Lady Julia. And you mustn’t forget to call me Cuz now and then, just to reinforce the idea that it is Lady Julia in this modest white gown.’

‘I know,’ said Marianne in a resigned tone of voice. They’d been over all this dozens of times. And spent several hours, on the pretext of working on their costumes for tonight’s masquerade, rehearsing.

‘Now for the wigs!’

Nellie the Neapolitan Nightingale lifted a glossy blue-black wig from its stand, and placed it on Lady Julia’s head.

‘I wish my hair was really this colour,’ said Julia, fingering one of the rather coarse-feeling ringlets. Her own was that depressingly dull shade of brown that, were she not the daughter of an earl, people would decry as mousey.

‘Nobody really has hair that colour,’ said the Nightingale prosaically as she tied Lady Julia’s mask over her face. ‘Not unless they get it out of a bottle. There.’

Marianne and the Nightingale stood staring at her, while she stared at her own reflection in the mirror. The mask was made of the same silk as the dress, with just the hint of a beak to disguise the shape of her nose, and was topped off with a plume of peacock feathers that made her look several inches taller.

Actually, she was several inches taller anyway, thanks to the heels of the shoes Nellie had lent her.

‘Now for the finishing touch,’ said Nellie, reaching for a pot of blacking.

With a little brush, she dabbed at the upswell of Julia’s left breast, recreating the distinctive diamond-shaped mole that nestled provocatively upon the Nightingale’s own bosom.

‘There, all done,’ said Nellie. ‘If anyone can tell that we’ve swapped places under these costumes, I’ll eat my hat. But look,’ she said, turning to Julia with a frown. ‘If you find any of the men behave a bit too free, thinking you are just me, then we’ll stop the charade at once. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you got into trouble.’

Julia and Marianne looked anywhere but at each other. The whole purpose of swapping identities was so she could get into trouble. Naturally, they hadn’t let Nellie into the whole of the plan, else she’d never have agreed to go along with it, or been so helpful coaching them. As far as she knew, they’d just thought it would be a lark to try to get everyone thinking that Nellie, the opera singer who’d been hired to entertain her guests, was Lady Julia Whitney, daughter of their host, the Earl of Mountnessing, and vice versa. They’d reminded her of the tradition of having a Lord of Misrule at Christmas, who upset the social order by taking a crown and ordering his betters about, and how everyone thought it a huge joke.

They’d neglected to tell her that the Earl of Mountnessing had never unbent enough to permit a Lord of Misrule to form any part of the Christmas festivities.

‘I shall be fine,’ she said, to Marianne and Nellie, who were both looking at her with a touch of concern. ‘You go off now, together, and I shall come down to the ballroom in a moment or two.’

‘By the backstairs,’ Nellie reminded her, before tying on her own white-satin mask, which sported a set of cat’s whiskers, and pulling up her velvet hood, which was topped with a pair of pointy ears.

Marianne was the only one of them not in costume. She’d agreed to don a plain black-silk mask, but that was as far as she was prepared to go. Julia hadn’t argued with her for long before realising that actually, her stubborn refusal to have an expensive costume made up would help her achieve her goal. Everyone would recognise Marianne instantly. And would assume that the woman she shadowed, who was dressed, very primly, as a white cat, must be Lady Julia.

Once they’d gone, Julia was able to add the last, final touch to her disguise.

From her reticule, she withdrew the bottle of perfume she’d taken from Nellie’s dressing table earlier. Normally, ladies dabbed scent behind their ears and on their wrists. But she couldn’t get at her ears through the mass of false hair and peacock feathers. Neither was she going to risk pulling off her elbow-length evening gloves. She’d never get them buttoned up again without help from a maid.

Finally, in desperation, she tipped the bottle between her breasts, hoping she didn’t spill too much on her gloves in the process. The cloud of scent which billowed out made her eyes water for a second or two. But at least it would mark her out as the Nightingale. Nellie had this perfume specially made, so rumour went, by one of the most exclusive parfumeurs in Paris. There was a lot of musk in it. Not at all the sort of light, floral scent a young girl like Julia would normally use, if she were to use scent, which she didn’t. Plain soap and water was enough for her.

Lifting her chin, she opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. As she made her way to the back stairs, she concentrated on the languid way Nellie had taught her to walk, swaying her hips in what felt like an exaggerated manner, but when viewed in a mirror simply looked sensuous. They’d only practised for a couple of afternoons, but the heels, as Nellie had promised, did help her to avoid striding out the way she usually did. Though she wasn’t mannish. She walked with a purposeful manner, that was all. She’d taken on a lot of responsibilities since her mother had died, and she’d never get the half of her duties done if she dawdled about.

She clutched at the handrail all the way down the stairs. The last thing she wished to do was trip and tumble headlong into the hall below.

‘Nellie, my love,’ cried a man’s voice, as she descended from the last step. ‘You look sublime!’

It was a slender young man, dressed as an Elizabethan courtier. She was just basking in a sense of achievement at having fooled him, when he shocked her by walking slap up to her and kissing her cheek, just where the mask ended and her skin began.

She’d sniffed and turned her head away before she realised the gesture might give her away.

‘Beg pardon,’ said the courtier, raising his hands in apparent surrender. ‘Didn’t think. Must have taken you hours to get into costume. Don’t want it spoiled before you go into the ball.’

Thank heaven this young man didn’t know her very well. She slid him a sideways glance, wondering exactly who he was. At this time of year the house always swarmed with all sorts of extra staff, from Nellie the famous singer, to the humble artist brought in to chalk fabulous yet ephemeral decorations on the ballroom floor. He couldn’t be one of the extra servants, even though she’d met him in the service corridor, or he wouldn’t be all dressed up and ready to attend the masquerade. From the familiar way he’d spoken to her, it was more likely he was one of the troupe of players who worked at the same theatre as Nellie. Wasn’t he the one who played romantic leads? Eduardo something or other—that was it. Though the name was patently false. This man was no more Italian than Nellie, for all that people called her the Neapolitan Nightingale.

Still, he would lend credence to her disguise if he escorted her into the ballroom. So she took his arm and drifted down the corridor beside him, thankful that she’d bitten her tongue when he’d accosted her. The moment she opened her mouth, her disguise would fall apart. No matter how hard she’d tried, she simply couldn’t imitate the mellifluous tone of Nellie’s voice, let alone capture the way she peppered her speech with vulgarisms.

But at least if Eduardo had been fooled by the way she’d moved, the fake mole on her bosom, and the cloud of perfume hanging round her, then it looked as though her plan stood some chance of succeeding.

‘Uh-oh,’ murmured Eduardo into her ear, a few moments later. ‘Here come your admirers.’

She froze as the gentlemen guests of the house party all turned to peruse her through their eyeglasses, detached themselves from the respectable females they were supposed to be escorting and headed her way. Her stomach lurched. Was this what Nellie felt like every time she went onstage?

‘Don’t worry, I shan’t cramp your style,’ said Eduardo, letting go of her arm. She was just about to beg him not to desert her, when he slapped her bottom with an earthy chuckle.

Making her wish him at Jericho.

Five minutes later, she realised he was no worse than any of the other men. They all seemed to think her derrière existed for the sole purpose of being patted, or pinched, or squeezed. It wasn’t long before she was sure it must be a mass of bruises. How on earth did Nellie put up with this kind of treatment? She was sorely tempted to sidle into an alcove and keep her back to the wall, only that might mean losing sight of David.

She’d hoped he would have been amongst the crowd clustering round Nellie. But, bother him if he wasn’t being particularly attentive to her tonight—at least, the woman he thought was her, since she was dressed as a white cat, and attended by a girl who was very obviously Marianne.

Oh, but he did look splendid in the full-skirted coat, long dark wig, and tricorne hat of the seventeenth century. The telescope he held in his hand told the world that he was dressed as Sir Isaac Newton. Well, of course, David being a man of science himself, he was bound to choose such a costume, rather than something more frivolous, like a pirate, or a Roman emperor, or an Elizabethan courtier.

Her own Uncle Maurice was dressed tonight as Henry VIII, a figure he managed to emulate extremely well, since he was rather corpulent and florid of complexion. She smiled at him in relief when he offered her a glass of champagne, feeling sure her dear old Uncle Maurice wouldn’t pinch her, or squeeze her bottom. But her relief was short-lived. First, he tried to manoeuvre her under one of the kissing boughs. Then he asked if she would like to come to his room that night. Of course Uncle Maurice was rather foxed. And he didn’t have very good eyesight. Nevertheless, it was with genuine indignation, larded with a good deal of revulsion, that she rapped him over the wrist with her fan.

It was all proving far more difficult than she could have imagined. She’d assumed David would have approached her before now. She’d banked on it. He’d been so fascinated by Nellie, from the moment she’d arrived. So fascinated that she’d even accused him of flirting with the singer.

David had pokered up. Sworn it was no such thing.

‘If you cannot tell the difference between flirting, and the conversation of an educated man with an intelligent woman, then I despair of you,’ he’d said. ‘The Neapolitan Nightingale has a unique perspective on the world. She has travelled extensively, and rubbed shoulders with the very highest, though she comes from very humble origins.’

Nellie certainly did have an entertaining way of talking, Julia had to admit. Though her stories were sometimes rather scurrilous, she always related them so wittily that Julia could hardly blame David for joining the throng of her admirers.

Though now she wished she hadn’t reproved him for doing so. He was behaving with perfect propriety, just when she most wished him to stray!

She’d almost given up hope of getting him on his own, when a gust of cold air swirled into the ballroom, heralding the arrival of a troupe of mummers. At the sound of their pipe, fiddle, and drum, the professional musicians laid down their own instruments, left their chairs, and headed for the refreshments table. With murmurs of anticipation, the masked-and-costumed guests fanned out, yielding the heart of the ballroom to the newcomers.

Julia’s stomach constricted into a knot. If she didn’t make a move soon, David would leave. Since they’d discussed her father’s refusal to countenance David as a suitor, he hardly ever visited the Hall any more. It was only because of the Christmas masquerade ball, to which all the tenants were invited, that he was here now. Once the mummers finished their act, everyone would unmask, go in to supper, and then go home. And he would return to Edinburgh, and it would be months and months before she could see him again.

It was her last chance. If she didn’t manage to entice David away from the other masqueraders, in her guise as Nellie, the fallen woman who exerted such fascination over every single man attending this house party—and quite a few of the married ones, too—she would have failed. And she couldn’t fail. She just couldn’t.

There had to be some way. Some way to indicate she wanted to get him alone without having to open her mouth and say it, thereby giving away her identity.

But how? How did anyone convey their intentions without speaking?

And then it hit her. She’d hated the way men had been pinching and pawing at her all evening, but it had certainly conveyed their intentions.

Her heart sped up a little more. Both because she’d come up with a plan, and because David had temporarily moved out of sight.

But then she spotted him again. She wondered that she’d lost sight of him even for those few moments, because he was half a head taller than most of the gentlemen present. Especially with that tricorne hat, worn over that long, curled wig.

He was subtly moving to the back of the crowd as they all pressed forward to get a better view. Of course the mummers were dressed up to play out the tale of St George and the dragon. And they would include a scene where a doctor was called to bind up St. George’s wounds. It was a comic scene, which always annoyed David intensely, since he was studying medicine himself and couldn’t bear to see a doctor being made a figure of fun.

Her heart in her mouth, she edged around the outskirts of the crowd until she was right behind him. Nobody was paying her any attention. Especially not now the mummers had taken up their starting positions.

The dragon let out a mighty roar, a puff of smoke billowed from his nostrils, and the heroine of the piece let out a piercing scream.

Lady Julia slid her hand between the tails of his full-skirted coat and found the curve of his bottom. His muscles clenched under the palm of her hand.

St George strode onto the scene, waving his cardboard sword.

The guests gave a rousing cheer, which drowned out the gasp Sir Isaac Newton gave when she pinched his bottom, hard.

She kept her gaze directed at the mummers, and their antics, when he turned to see who’d pinched him. It was bright enough, just here, for him to be able to see her fairly clearly, and she only bore a superficial resemblance to Nellie. She had the same soft roundness to her jaw, but anyone looking closely at the uncovered part of her face would surely notice that her mouth was not as generous, nor her lips so full. And it would be fatal to look directly into David’s eyes. Even though the upper part of her face was covered, and she was using her cleavage as a distraction, if he looked into her eyes he’d be sure to wonder why Nellie’s melting brown eyes had faded to the hue of a peeled grape. And he’d know. And be furious that she was doing something so improper.

But she was done with being proper. It hadn’t got them anywhere at all. If only he didn’t recognise her then the chances were she could get him to behave in a highly improper fashion, too, and then all their problems would be solved!

Only he still wasn’t doing anything! St George was stepping over the heroine, who’d just collapsed in an artistically terrified swoon, but Sir Isaac Newton was just standing perfectly still, apparently content to savour the sensation of her fondling his behind.

Now what?

Oh, bother the man, couldn’t he just once forget propriety, and act with a bit of dash? Well, there was nothing for it. She was just going to have to take the initiative.

She removed her hand from his bottom, and fumbled her way round the tailcoat until she discovered his hand. She got as many fingers round it as she could, considering it was bunched round the brass telescope, and gave it a little tug.

It was enough to propel him into movement. Meek as a lamb, he followed her to the nearest door, which happened to lead out onto the terrace, then all along its length, and down the steps at the end.

She didn’t dare glance over her shoulder, not even when they plunged into the pitch darkness of the path through the shrubbery. And especially not when they emerged again, round the back of the house, where some light did filter out through one or two unshuttered windows, making the glass roof of the orangery glitter as though it was sprinkled with sequins.

She’d chosen to take David to the orangery because it would be lovely and warm in there. It was tacked on to the back of the kitchens where specially designed flues kept her father’s collection of rare tropical plants frost-free throughout the winter. Gatley, the head gardener, had locked the door when the first of the house guests arrived, to prevent anyone wandering in and then carelessly leaving the door open when they wandered out again. But the lock on one of the sash windows, which could be raised or lowered during the summer months for ventilation, was broken. She’d made sure of it that very afternoon.

Julia had to let go of his hand while she pushed the sash window up, but that didn’t matter. He wouldn’t have come all this way only to run away now.

She stepped over the sill, and stood to one side so he could do the same. Then she carefully lowered the sash again. Gatley would be livid if his precious plants were exposed to a draught. Anyway, she didn’t want to be exposed to a draught either. Not when there was so very little gown draping any part of her body.

Goodness but it was dark in here. Only a faint glimmer of moonlight peeked in through the roof. The massed palms at the east end of the orangery curtained the interior from any light that might have found its way this far from the house.

But the darkness seemed to make David uncharacteristically bold. He didn’t even wait for her to turn round before sliding his arms round her waist, and bending his head to kiss her cheek. As his lips brushed her skin, sending delicious shivers right down her spine, she felt his tricorne hat tangle with her feathers.

With a low growl, he pulled off his hat, and his wig, and tossed them aside. Then stooped to lay the telescope down on top. She turned round, longing to be in his arms again, but face-to-face this time, so that he could kiss her properly. On the lips. And so, as he straightened up, she flung her arms round his neck and pressed her lips to his before he could say anything, or required her to say anything that would give her away, and have him marching her back to the house, scolding her all the way.

And, oh, joy! He put his arms round her, and kissed her back.

At last. At last. And, oh, it was every bit as magical as she’d ever dreamed. Better. For now she was in his arms, he seemed taller and broader, and so very much more...muscular, and masculine, than she’d expected.

Her heart pounded, her breath shortened as though she’d been running. Actually, her feet were moving, now she came to think of it. For he’d turned her round a bit, and was steering her toward the rear wall. Against which there was a bench. Oh, clever, clever David, to remember the bench where they’d all sat on rainy days, talking of every topic imaginable. Until, that was, her father had warned him off.

He kissed her all the way to the bench, then let go of her with one hand to feel his way down to the cushions. He sat, and pulled her down after him. Not that she needed much of a pull from his hand. It had taken all her resolve to stop herself from flinging herself onto his lap. Except he didn’t pull her onto his lap, but onto the bench next to him. Oh, well, it was almost as good. It was heaven to feel his mouth on hers once more. Such heaven, that she put up no resistance at all when he pushed against her, and kept on pushing, until she was sprawled rather inelegantly on her back with him half over her.

Never mind the inelegance of the sprawl, she sighed. It felt too wonderful to feel his weight bearing down on her. She put her arms round his neck, kissing his face and caressing his shoulders to encourage him to keep on doing what he was doing. Because if Marianne and Nellie found them together like this, then there was no way he could deny he’d crossed the line.

Though, ought she to let him be quite so free? His hands were exploring rather more of her than she’d expected. And a deal more roughly. Not that he was hurting her, on the contrary, it was all very stimulating.

She did let out a shocked gasp when he delved into the front of her bodice and scooped out her left breast. But it didn’t stop him raising it to his mouth, and lashing it with his tongue.

Heavens, it was as though she’d unleashed a wild animal.

She’d never dreamed David could be so...unruly.

Or so exciting.

At last he’d abandoned all his stuffy principles about the way a gentleman should behave. Where, now, was his declaration that he was beneath her station? That he couldn’t aspire to her hand?

Sacrificed, apparently, to his determination to get beneath her skirts.

So forgetful of his station was he, that he was actually reaching down, seizing a handful of her gown and pushing the material up her legs.

All thoughts of Marianne and discovery went up in smoke when he moaned into her cleavage at the exact moment his hand reached the soft flesh of her inner thigh. He was being so eager, so ardent. If anyone dared to interrupt them now, she would probably scream with frustration.

For this was absolutely heavenly. She’d never felt anything so utterly delightful.

Until his exploration became shockingly intimate.

She winced, and yelped, at the startling, and rather painful intrusion of his fingers.

‘I’m sorry,’ he growled into her ear. ‘I thought you were ready.’

Ready? For him to touch her there? How could she have imagined he’d want to do such a thing? Not that she could protest. Else he might stop altogether. Which was the last thing she wanted. They had to be discovered locked in a passionate embrace, not sitting next to each other demurely begging each other’s pardon.

While she was still puzzling over what response she ought to make, he dropped to his knees on the floor and pushed her skirts right up to her waist. She almost cried out a protest. It had been hard enough having her bosom on show all evening let alone her most private parts. Not that he could actually see anything in the darkness, nor was he trying to, Julia suddenly realised in shock. What he was doing was lowering his head and kissing her. Nibbling at the top of her tightly clenched thighs, and then, when the sheer bliss of it had her relaxing, he pushed her legs apart so that he could kiss the exact place where his hand had ventured.

Julia almost panicked and pushed him away. Surely he couldn’t want to kiss her there? Could he?

Oh, heavens, whatever was she supposed to do now? What would Nellie do in her place? Was she used to men doing this sort of thing? Was she...?

Oh, heavens but that felt...

Oh, goodness, if he kept on doing that...

Oh, goodness, she hoped he would keep on doing that. That was...that was...

Excitement built in her, just as though he’d lit a fuse. It went fizzing through her, burning brighter and brighter, until somehow, she knew, there was going to be some sort of explosion.

It burst through her, startling a scream of pleasure from her throat.

He knelt back with a satisfied growl. Got up, bent one of her lax legs at the knee and propped it up against the wall. He then pushed the other down so that her foot was on the floor and came back down on top of her.

‘Unnhhh...’ She tried to say something, anything. But she was still stunned by the force of the explosion that had just flung her skyward. She was still floating, somewhere far above the earth, as he settled between her legs.

It was only when he surged forward she realised that at some point he’d undone his breeches and was sliding inside her. She tensed, remembering the discomfort his fingers had caused. But this didn’t hurt. Not even when he started thrusting into her—clutching at her bottom with one hand, and propping himself against the kitchen wall with the other.

And then he exploded, too. She felt him pulsing deep inside her as his whole body shuddered over her.

She slid her arms round his neck, hugging him in sheer delight.

‘Oh, David,’ she sighed. ‘We’ll have to get married now.’

He tensed.

Well, she’d been prepared for that. He must be shocked to learn that she was the woman he’d just ravished.

But before he could say anything, someone flung up the sash window and stepped into the orangery.

He didn’t have time to do more than lift his head and swivel it in that direction, before the light of two lanterns flooded the scene, clearly showing the unmasked faces of the three people standing there.

The Neapolitan Nightingale, her mouth agape.

And Marianne, her hands clasped to her bosom.

And, worst of all... David.

Chapter Two

‘David?’

No! If David was standing over there, by the window, then who was this man who’d just...who she’d just permitted to...

Her stomach froze into a solid block of ice. David’s face contorted with disgust.

‘Cover yourself,’ he said.

The man on top of her twitched the full skirts of his coat over her exposed thigh. Though there was nothing he could do about her leg from knee to toe.

‘If you wouldn’t mind giving us some privacy,’ he drawled in the hatefully cutting way that identified him at once. ‘I can hardly...disengage, with you three standing there staring.’

Marianne gave a little whimper, and sagged at the knees. David put his arm round her shoulder and pulled her face to his chest.

The Nightingale clapped her hands over her mouth.

And Julia clamped her jaw against a wave of nausea. David was standing over there. Which meant she had her legs wrapped round the waist of another man. And not just any man, but the very last man she’d have suspected of being able to act like...like this.

Captain Lord Dunbar. The dour Scotsman who’d arrived uninvited a couple of days ago and had been acting the part of spectre at the feast ever since—skulking on the sidelines and glowering particularly ferociously at anyone who dared look as if they were enjoying themselves too much.

‘Wait!’

As the three witnesses to her downfall turned to leave, the man she’d just seduced by mistake barked out the single word in a forceful way that only served to confirm his identity. Only a man used to command could make perfect strangers stop in their tracks that way. A man who was used to storming enemy ships and cutting his opponents to ribbons. A man who would have been perfectly at home on the deck of a ship tossed by a howling gale, but who’d looked stifled by the social niceties of a drawing room.

‘You will none of you speak of this,’ he informed them. ‘Not until I have had a chance to speak to the young lady’s father.’

David swelled and quivered with indignation. ‘If you think I would ever stoop to blacken the name of a lady, no matter what her conduct—’ he flicked her another disgusted look that flayed her like a whip ‘—then you are very much mistaken.’

Oh, David. She’d lost him. Irrevocably. She’d never be able to look him in the face again, after this, never mind persuade him that, despite the difference in their stations, she’d make him a good wife.

‘And I could never, never speak of it,’ added Marianne in woeful indignation.

‘I definitely don’t want anyone knowing I had a hand in any of this,’ added the Nightingale.

‘Would it be too much to ask for one of you,’ Captain Dunbar said in the sarcastic way that never failed to set Julia’s teeth on edge, ‘to leave us a lantern?’

Marianne placed hers on the floor. Well, she wasn’t going to need her own, since David was holding her in such a protective embrace. No chance of her tripping over a loose flagstone on the way back to the house.

There was an awkward little interlude after the others had left, during which Captain Dunbar disentangled himself from her and briskly readjusted his clothing. Julia just about managed to swing both legs to the floor though they felt all weak and wobbly.

Oh, heavens! Now she knew just what a spent rocket felt like. Two minutes ago she’d experienced a kind of fire-bursting ecstasy. Now she just felt used and shattered.

* * *

Damn it all to hell and back! Snared by the oldest trick in the book. By a green girl, which was worse. Lady Julia, if he wasn’t mistaken. The two sycophants, who normally trailed everywhere after her, wouldn’t have cared tuppence what happened to any of the other guests at this house party.

Just to make sure, though, he untied the ribbons holding the elaborately decorated mask over her face. She barely reacted. Just sat there, shoulders hunched, gazing miserably at the floor, in the position she’d adopted after sitting up and smoothing down her skirts with trembling hands.

She looked as broken as the peacock feathers that had snapped off some time during their frenzied coupling.

Hell. He looked at the bedraggled mask dangling from his calloused fingers. Lady Julia had been a virgin. Of course she’d been a virgin. And he’d just treated her as though she was an experienced courtesan.

Though wasn’t that what she’d wanted him to believe? Else why sidle up to him and get him all primed, then run him out here and set the spark to the touch hole?

It was her own fault.

He clenched his jaw, recalling her yelp of discomfort when he’d started exploring her. He had been impatient. Rough. He’d probably torn her then, with his fingers. He’d certainly felt no resistance when he’d entered her. Just a slick glide into the haven he’d sought ever since coming ashore two weeks earlier.

But blast it all—he’d have stopped if he’d sensed she was a virgin.

He would.

She lifted her head and met his furious gaze full on. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’

Defiance burned from her eyes—eyes that looked too big, too bright. And luminous with unshed tears.

‘I’d like to say plenty,’ he snarled. ‘But the sad truth is, the only words spoken between us tonight have already said it all. We are going to have to get married.’ There was no other way out. Not for him. His whole future depended on maintaining a spotless reputation. It wouldn’t have mattered so much during the height of the war. An able, hard-working, skilled captain would always have been able to get command of a ship. But now?

And it wasn’t just his own career he had to consider. He couldn’t afford to become one of those officers who were only considered safe at sea. If it got about that he went about debauching unmarried, titled ladies he wouldn’t be welcome anywhere. Which would cast a cloud over Lizzie’s reputation, too. So far, his sister had done really well for herself. Sending her to that exclusive, expensive school had meant she was rubbing shoulders with girls from the best families. She’d even gained an invitation to this Christmas house party because of a connection to one of the Earl of Mountnessing’s nieces.

But if word got out that her brother was a rake, what would that do to Lizzie’s standing in society? To her chances of making a good match?

‘No,’ Lady Julia whispered.

She couldn’t marry this man. She was going to marry David.

David.

‘No...’ she moaned as the truth hit her squarely in her midriff. David would never marry her now. He had such high ideals. He could never marry a girl he’d caught with her legs wrapped round another man’s waist. No matter how highly he’d esteemed her before.

Alec squared his shoulders, remembering all the promises he’d ever made to his little sister. His promise that no matter how little they saw of each other, he’d always look after her. His promise that she would never go hungry, nor fear being made homeless. But most of all, his promise to be the kind of man on whom she could depend—unlike their scapegrace of a father.

He’d kept his word all these years. And he wasn’t going to break it now. He’d always done whatever necessary to shield Lizzie from the worst excesses of their father. And now he was going to have to do what was necessary to shield her from his own excesses, tonight.

‘Ye cannot say no to me like that as though you have a choice,’ he snarled. ‘D’ye think I want to marry you either? Hell, you’re the last woman alive who would make a suitable wife for a man like me. You’re too young, too foolish, and entirely too untrustworthy to leave alone while I’m away at sea.’

‘How dare you—?’ she began, getting to her feet.

‘Don’t waste those hoity-toity manners of yours on me. We’re not in some drawing room now, where you can get away with looking down your nose at me, just because you think I’m uncouth.’

Though she looked as though she would dearly love to answer back, she restricted herself to a toss of her head, and a disapproving sniff. Because he’d hit the nail on the head. She’d queened over the tea table too many times to be able to refute his accusation. She’d looked down her aristocratic little nose at him when he’d been rude to one of the dozens of simpering misses infesting her father’s house. Though being rude was the only way he’d found of fending them off. If he was polite, they kept on cooing over him. And batting their eyelashes at him. And sighing over his supposed heroic exploits, which they claimed to have heard all about.

And trying to manoeuvre him underneath one of the kissing boughs.

Julia alone had turned her nose up at him. He’d assumed it had been because she was too high in the instep to look twice at an impoverished sea captain, no matter how heroic the newspapers made him out to be. Instead, all the time, she must have been planning a far more effective stratagem than the others.

‘Though what kind of marriage you think we’re going to have when we come from such different worlds I cannot imagine.’ Alec turned from her and ran his fingers through his hair, before turning back on her. ‘You know nothing about me at all. So what on earth possessed you to make a play for me like this? I can only think it some kind of attempt to prove you could triumph where all the others had failed.’

‘You arrogant oaf,’ she hissed. ‘I didn’t make a play for you at all. I detest you.’

‘Then what the hell was all that...fondling about? You cannot deny you got me all primed up before leading me out here.’

‘No, but I didn’t know it was you under that wig!’ She pointed wildly at the heap of horsehair lying on the floor. ‘I thought it was Sir Isaac Newton!’

‘You were attempting to seduce a man who’s been dead two hundred years?’

‘Oh, don’t be so stupid. I mean the man who came to the masquerade disguised as Sir Isaac Newton, of course!’

Of course. That made sense. She wouldn’t have looked so dejected if he had been the man she was trying to compromise.

But, what kind of man came to a Christmas masquerade dressed as Sir Isaac Newton? What did Sir Isaac look like anyway? And then he realised.

‘That man who found us. He was wearing a full-skirted coat like this.’ Though he’d discarded his wig, and tricorne hat—had he ever been wearing one. ‘You mean to tell me he was the one you intended to seduce?’

‘I never intended to seduce him,’ she protested, clenching her fists as she squared up to him. ‘I thought we would just kiss a bit. And then Marianne and Nellie would find us, and because Nellie is an outsider, Father would agree David and I would have to get married.’

‘If kissing was all that had happened, it’s more likely your father would have paid the singer to keep her mouth shut and have taken a horsewhip to that David.’ Actually, he felt like taking a horsewhip to the man himself. The pompous bag of wind had marched out and left her lying in the arms of what any gentleman would have assumed was her seducer. What kind of man abandoned a girl, a sheltered, pampered innocent, just when she needed help the most?

‘He isn’t worthy of you,’ he growled, incensed now that, after the lengths she’d gone to in order to strong-arm him into marriage, all the ungrateful oaf had done was look at her as though she was something nasty he’d stepped in.

‘How dare you say that! Just because his parents have no title, and only modest means, it doesn’t mean he’s a nobody.’

He hadn’t said the man was a nobody. So she must be reacting to arguments she’d heard from someone else about the pompous bladder of wind’s unsuitability.

‘He is the son of a gentleman,’ she carried on, indignantly.

Though her anger was completely misdirected, at least she’d cast off that pitiful, dejected air that made him feel like a clumsy great gowk.

‘And one day, he will be somebody. He’s studying medicine. He’s going to make great discoveries and become famous! So I wouldn’t be throwing myself away on him. And anyway, I love him.’

‘Well, he doesn’t love you.’

‘How can you possibly know anything of the sort? Of course he does.’

‘No, he doesn’t. Or he wouldn’t have looked at you that way.’

‘What way? I mean—naturally, he was very shocked. And...and disappointed.’

‘But not devastated. Any real man who was in love would have attempted to strangle the man who’d got there first, not turn his nose up as if he’d smelled something bad.’

She reeled as if he’d struck her. He firmed his jaw. Better to get her to face facts now, than have her mooning over the man for months. He’d far rather have her angry and spitting fire when he marched her down the aisle, than drooping on the verge of tears.

‘Come on,’ he said, gripping her arm and towing her towards the window. ‘We need to go find your father and make the best of this.’

* * *

‘Wait,’ Julia gasped, struggling ineffectually to shake off his hand. He had to let go of it eventually, to throw up the sash. Once he’d done so, he held his hand out again, imperiously.

Instead of taking it, she backed away. They couldn’t go and tell her father what they’d done! She couldn’t bear his disappointment, on top of her own. Or worse, his disapproval. So far, he’d never subjected her to the chilling antipathy he invariably displayed towards her older half-brothers. She’d been prepared to brave it for David’s sake. But for this man? This stranger? No.

‘Look...’ He sighed. ‘I know I shouted. And, yes, I’m angry, very angry, but I promise, you don’t need to be afraid of me.’

‘I’m not afraid of you.’

‘Then what is the matter? You’ve got to face the facts, woman. You cannot very well pretend this never happened. I ken well it wasn’t with the man you intended, but the end must be the same.’

‘No. No, there must be some other way...’

‘There isn’t. The only way to make this right is to marry.’

‘You think marrying a stranger could ever make anything right?’

‘It will make it the rightest it can be.’ He stepped over the sill, leaned back inside, and hauled her out after him.

She’d already discovered he was too strong to make struggling with him anything but undignified. So, she simply trotted along behind him, though her mind was racing as fast as he was obliging her legs to go.

* * *

Thank goodness she’d stopped trying to resist. There was no time to waste. Alec didn’t trust any of those three to keep their mouths shut. Not for very long, anyway. And he needed to get this mess straightened out before they had a chance to do any damage. The very last thing he needed right now was a rumour going round that would blacken his reputation. He’d had to work twice as hard to gain his present rank, as men with family sponsors greased their way into promotions and fat prizes. He wasn’t going to let this silly girl bring it all crashing down round his ears.

‘Weeping and wailing isn’t going to make this go away,’ he said harshly, when he heard what sounded suspiciously like a stifled sob. Alec clasped his fingers round her wrist a little tighter as a fresh wave of indignation had him lengthening his stride. If it had been Sir Isaac Newton dragging her through this shrubbery to confront her father, she would be cock-a-hoop. No man liked to have a woman think of him as second best. Second best? Not even that. She’d been looking at him as though he was some kind of ogre ever since he’d removed his mask and she’d seen exactly who he was.

‘What...’ she panted ‘...what do you plan to tell my father?’

That brought him to a dead halt. She caught up with him, and stepped in front, barring his path. Though she need not have done. He did need a moment to come up with a story that would satisfy an outraged father, and also prevent their union becoming fodder for scurrilous gossip.

He glared up at the bulk of the immense house Lady Julia’s father owned. Light and laughter spilled from its windows. The laughter of the rich, privileged guests the earl had invited into his home. The kind of people who thrived on gossip and scandal. The kind of gossip that would ring a death knell to his career, as well as Lizzie’s hopes.

‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I don’t care what you say about me. About my part in...in enticing you away from the party and...and all that.’

He lowered his head to look at her.

She lifted her chin and met his eyes squarely, for the very first time.

‘Naturally you are very angry with me. I’m angry with myself,’ she admitted with a shake of her head. ‘But please, please, don’t let that anger spill over to my friends and drag them into our mess. That is, I know you will have to relate how they found us, but you don’t need to make it sound as though they knew anything about it. Or...or helped me, do you?’

It hadn’t occurred to him before. But now he saw that to carry out a deception of this magnitude, she would indeed have had to have accomplices.

‘Nellie—I mean, the Neapolitan Nightingale did lend me her dress and agree to pretend to be me, to throw others off the scent, but she didn’t know the whole of it. She just thought it was a jest, to see if we could fool people into mistaking us for each other. She thought we were going to stand next to each other at the end of the evening, and take off our masks, and everyone would be astonished. I couldn’t bear it if she got into trouble for a...a prank I played on her as much as anyone else. And I’m afraid that if Papa thinks she was in any way responsible, he will throw her out. Probably do things to destroy her career. And it’s all she has.’

Now it was his turn to reel. Up till now, he’d thought she was just another spoiled, petulant society miss. Just like the other empty-headed chits his sister claimed as friends. But that impassioned speech proved she was capable of thinking of others.

It was more than he would have expected of a girl like her. Not that it would do the opera singer any good. Lady Julia’s father wasn’t a fool. He would have seen her aping his daughter’s mannerisms all evening, as well as Julia sashaying around in the opera singer’s revealing gown. It was typical of her sort to act irresponsibly and then be surprised when the underlings they’d dragged into their mess bore the brunt of the repercussions.

‘I agree,’ he said curtly. ‘You should take all the blame.’

She made a little moue of protest. But then, instead of launching into yet another barrage of protests, she lifted her chin.

‘Thank you,’ she said, stunning him. ‘And...and as for Marianne...’ Her whole face creased in concern. ‘She didn’t want any part of it. She told me it was wrong, but I...I took no notice.’

‘Your father won’t hold that against her,’ he grunted. ‘I only met any of you two days ago, but it’s clear even to me that she has no influence over you whatsoever. You do as you please and expect her to trot along at your heels like a spaniel.’

‘I do no such thing! Marianne is my friend!’

‘Oh? I thought she was some sort of poor relation.’

‘She—well, yes, she did come to live with us when her parents died. Because she had nowhere else to go, but I absolutely do not treat her like a spaniel. And she doesn’t behave like one, either.’

He shrugged. ‘It’s of no concern to me. You want to shield both her and the opera singer from blame. That’s commendable, I suppose, if a touch impractical.’

‘Impractical? How?’

‘Never mind how,’ he said, irritated that somehow she’d made him share even a tithe of his thoughts. A good officer never let his subordinates into the workings of his mind. It could lead them to believe he wasn’t totally infallible. ‘Let us just leave it at the point where I agree to leave all the others out of it. Except for the part where they found us in flagrante delicto.’

She lowered her head for an instant, as though discomfited by his brutal reminder of her spectacular fall from grace.

‘Then, what,’ she finally said in a small, almost penitent voice, ‘do you plan to say?’

‘You leave that to me,’ he growled. ‘And just remember, your father isn’t going to be the first hurdle we have to leap tonight. We’re going to have to walk back into that house and start searching for him. With everyone staring at us, and wondering what on earth we’re doing together when so far this week we haven’t been able to say two civil words to each other.’

‘Oh. Well, I’m sure we can go in a side entrance...’

‘If you think we’re going to be able to carry this off with either one of our reputations intact, by skulking about as though we’ve done something to be ashamed of, then you’re even sillier than you look.’

‘Oh! What a nasty thing to say.’

‘But true.’

She opened her mouth to argue. Looked as though she’d been struck by the truth of what he’d said. Shut it with a snap.

‘Very well,’ she conceded. ‘We’ll walk in together, stroll around until we find my father, and then—’

‘And then I will insist on speaking with him in private,’ he broke in, before she could come up with yet another hare-brained scheme.

She glared at him.

‘Fine,’ she snapped, after a brief struggle with herself. ‘Have it your way.’

‘Oh, I will,’ he said smoothly, as she laid her arm on his sleeve and squared her shoulders. ‘From now on, you’re going to find that there are some people you cannot twist round your little finger. No matter how you simper, and smile, and cajole.’

‘And you will find out,’ she snapped back, as they mounted the steps, ‘that there are some women who would rather die than simper and smile and cajole a man. Particularly not a man like you!’

‘Then it appears our married life is going to be a stormy one,’ he replied grimly. ‘We will both be as glad as each other when my business ashore is done, and I can go back to sea.’

She smiled up at him sweetly. Because they’d reached the terrace, where anyone might see them if they happened to glance out of the windows.

‘Oh, I think,’ she said in a caressing tone, ‘that I shall be far more pleased to see the back of you, than you will of me.’

They strolled across the terrace and in through the same door they’d used such a short time before in silence. It was a good job he wasn’t the kind of man who minded having the last word. But then he just couldn’t see the point of engaging in pointless debate with her. Not when they were, basically, in agreement. Neither of them, given the choice, would have chosen the other for a life partner. Hell, he hadn’t planned to marry for years, if at all. His estates were mortgaged. His ancestral home let out to tenants. His sister living with friends she’d met at the exclusive boarding school that had swallowed up practically every penny he’d ever earned. He had nothing to offer a wife. No home, no money that wasn’t spoken for, and few prospects now that Wellington had finally defeated Bonaparte on land, which meant that the war against the French was over.

* * *

‘You could try smiling, too,’ she hissed up at him through a smile so forced it was hurting her teeth. ‘To look at your face, anyone would think some great disaster had just befallen you.’

‘It’s my natural expression,’ he replied. ‘Better get used to it.’

‘I thought we were trying to persuade everyone we hadn’t done something to be ashamed of.’

‘Aye. But that doesn’t mean I need to go about with a fatuous grin on my face.’

‘There’s a world of difference between a fatuous grin and the murderous look you’ve got on your face.’ Though her own smile faltered as she said it. Because she’d seen Papa. ‘And my father has seen us,’ she said, pointing towards the fireplace. ‘Over there.’

He was standing beside one of the ornate marble fireplaces that were a feature of Ness Hall, eyeing them with one of his bushy grey eyebrows raised in reproof. Hardly surprising. Julia’s scandalously low-cut gown was crumpled and stained now, her exposed bosom streaked black with what remained of her attempt to make it look as though she had a mole, her mask gone, her hair straggling round her face. In short, she looked as though she’d just been thoroughly ravished.

Once Papa learned she had just been thoroughly ravished, all hell was going to break loose. If he’d been so adamant he wouldn’t have her throwing herself away on a perfectly respectable man she’d known all her life, he was going to be furious to learn she’d flung herself at a total stranger.

Nevertheless, they made straight for him. Because she had to face him sooner or later. Better to get it over with.

‘I should like to speak to you in private, if I may, sir,’ said Captain Dunbar.

‘I should think,’ said Papa, raking her from head to toe, ‘you do.’ He drained the glass of wine he’d been holding and set it down on the mantelpiece with a snap. ‘My study. Now.’

* * *

Lord Mountnessing turned and made his way out of the reception room. They followed close behind, leaving a trail of avid eyes and speculative whispering in their wake.

Alec scanned the inquisitive faces as people made way for them, searching for one of her particular friends. It would be better if he could palm her off on one of them. This was not an interview Lady Julia needed to attend. Both men were going to have to speak bluntly, and it wasn’t going to be pleasant. No gently born lady should have to go through that kind of scene.

No matter what she’d done.

‘You should make yourself scarce now,’ he murmured into Lady Julia’s ear, when he failed to spot anyone to take care of her. ‘This isn’t going to be pleasant.’

‘You think I’m going to run away and hide while you and my father decide my whole future,’ she hissed back at him. ‘I think not!’

‘But you agreed to let me handle this.” He couldn’t believe she’d changed her mind so quickly.” I’m only trying to spare you unpleasantness. Your father is going to lose his temper when he finds out what we’ve done. He may say things he later regrets. Better for you to face him once he’s had time to cool down, and can speak to you rationally.’

She shot him a suspicious look through narrowed eyes.

‘I can handle my own father. But if you think I’m going to trust you, or meekly do as you say, at a time like this, then you have another think coming!’

‘I might have known,’ he muttered, as the earl opened a door to their left, and went into a book-lined room. ‘He is the one who has spoiled you, isn’t he? The one who has made you think you can have whatever, or whomever, you want for the crooking of your finger?’

‘He has done no such thing,’ she just had time to spit back at him, before the earl reached yet another fabulously intricate fireplace, turned, and took up the very same position he’d adopted in the ballroom. Legs apart, with his back to the writhing Greek demi-gods.

‘Well?’

‘I have to beg your pardon, sir,’ replied Alec stiffly, ‘but also to inform you that your daughter and I will be getting married.’

‘Indeed? And what makes you think that I will grant my permission?’

‘We have been indiscreet. And the indiscretion was witnessed.’

The earl’s shrewd eyes flicked over the state of Lady Julia. His lips compressed into a hard line for a second. Then he looked at Alec again.

‘By whom was this indiscretion witnessed?’

Alec couldn’t believe the old man was taking this all so calmly. He’d expected an explosion of wrath. But it seemed that the earl was the type to weigh everything up, and take his vengeance cold. He stood a little straighter.

‘Lady Julia’s companion. I forget her name.’

‘Marianne,’ put in Lady Julia in a woeful, almost penitent voice.

‘And the leading lady,’ he continued, not sure whether to be annoyed by her interruption, or glad she was doing what she could to soften the old man’s heart.

‘I believe she goes under the name of the Nightingale,’ he said, squeezing Lady Julia’s hand hard in the hopes she’d understand he’d rather she didn’t interrupt again.

‘And a young man, by name David.’

Something flared in the old man’s eyes at that.

‘David Kettley?’

Lady Julia nodded her head. Then hung it. She looked the very picture of repentance. If he was her father, he might almost have been taken in by it.

But the old man didn’t look the least bit compassionate.

‘And you, sir, what have you to say for yourself? What do you mean by it, eh?’

‘Oh, please, don’t be cross with him, Papa,’ blurted Lady Julia, before he’d managed to utter a single word of the excuse he’d planned to make. ‘It was all my fault.’

What? She was admitting it? For some reason, though he’d said the very same thing not five minutes ago, hearing her try to take the blame didn’t sit right with him.

‘We are both—’ he put in swiftly before floundering to a halt. He may not have come up with a story to satisfy the heart of a doting father, but he knew the truth wasn’t going to suffice. ‘That is, neither of us—that is—the truth is, sir, that...’

Actually, there could probably be only one excuse he could give that might, eventually, mollify an outraged father.

‘Our feelings for each other overwhelmed us.’

That eyebrow went up again. ‘Your feelings?’

‘Yes, sir. We got carried away.’ Well, that was certainly true. He couldn’t remember ever being so completely entranced by a woman. There had been nothing in his head but her. After all the months of oak and muscle and sinew, the sweetly scented softness of her body had been too alluring to resist. He hadn’t stopped to think. He’d just wanted to drown in the haven she offered. The heaven.

‘And when Lady Julia says it was her fault, she can only mean, of course, in permitting me to take her to a secluded spot when she knew it was not at all the thing. The blame for what happened afterward was entirely mine. As a man, an experienced man, I should not have let things go so far.’

‘And how far, exactly,’ said the old man in that cold, forbidding tone, ‘did things go?’

He felt Lady Julia flinch. He squeezed her hand again.

‘I regret to have to inform you, sir, that your daughter could be with child.’

The earl went very still. Not a single flicker of emotion appeared on his face. But in a voice that could have frozen the Thames, he said, ‘You have, in effect, left me with no choice.’

Chapter Three

With child? Heavens, that possibility hadn’t even crossed Julia’s mind.

But of course, doing what they’d just done was obviously what started babies.

And just as obviously, she would have to marry the man who might have started one growing inside her. She simply couldn’t have a baby out of wedlock. She couldn’t do that to a child.

And no matter what she felt for the father, she would love her own child. She knew only too well how much a child could suffer because of what the parents felt about each other. She’d always known that the main reason her father hadn’t been able to warm to his first two sons was because they resembled their mother in looks.

The thought sent a fresh chill down her spine. Captain Dunbar was very, very angry with her. What if that anger never went away? What if the resentment he felt about having to marry her spilled over to their child?

‘It appears,’ her father continued, jerking her back to her present difficulties, ‘that my daughter has escaped the wiles of one fortune hunter only to fall into the clutches of another.’

* * *

Alec’s stomach turned over, as her father brought that aspect of the case to his attention. Not only was he going to be saddled with a wife, he was also going to be accused of marrying her for her money. Like father, like son, they’d say. When he’d worked so hard, for so long, to prove he wasn’t that kind of man at all. Damn the chit!

‘No, Papa!’ Lady Julia took a step forward, as though attempting to defend him from the invisible darts her father was shooting his way. ‘I told you it was my fault. Entirely my fault. He didn’t even know it was me in the orangery. Just look at the way I’m dressed.’

‘Eh?’ The earl stopped trying to send Alec to the coldest reaches of hell by sheer force of will, and turned to look at his daughter.

‘He thought I was the Neapolitan Nightingale. I... I deliberately deceived him and lured him out there...’

‘You did what? Why?’

‘Well...’ She swallowed and then started gazing frantically along the rows of books on the shelves, as though she might find inspiration amongst the stiff leather spines.

Yes, what excuse could she possibly come up with to explain this evening’s fantastic sequence of events? Without, that is, confessing the whole truth, which would land her friends in the very trouble she’d already declared she wanted to spare them.

Or laying the entire blame upon his shoulders, which it looked as though she was equally reluctant to do. Which came as quite a surprise. He would have thought she’d have been only too willing to throw him to the lions. Instead, she’d drawn the earl’s fire down on herself. Although from the look on her face now, she hadn’t really thought it through. She’d acted on impulse. And backed herself into a corner.

Alec supposed he had to give her credit for speaking up in his defence. He hadn’t expected her to demonstrate the slightest shred of honour over this affair, not given the way it had come about.

‘Don’t say another word,’ he advised her. He’d come in here seething with resentment at the way she’d trapped him. But she’d drawn the line at letting her father think he was a fortune hunter as well as a despoiler of innocence. It would cost him nothing to return the favour.

Besides, he could see she was floundering in a welter of equally unpalatable choices. Whatever lie she might choose to tell her father next was only likely to plunge them both into even deeper water. And he was used to thinking on his feet. Alec knew, only too well, that no matter how meticulously you planned an assault, something always cropped up that you couldn’t possibly have foreseen. The success or failure of many a mission had depended on his ability to adapt to such new challenges.

‘My lord,’ he said, turning to her father, ‘I am sure your daughter did not know what she was doing. She is so naïve—’

‘No, I won’t have you taking the blame, and everyone saying you are a fortune hunter when it is no such thing,’ she cut in, hotly. ‘I may not have planned for things to go so far, but—’ She broke off, blushing. ‘Papa—you...you saw how he was with all the ladies. So curt. So dismissive. How he refused to take any notice of me at all.’

The old earl’s wintry gaze turned on her. He regarded her coldly for some moments. ‘I have spoiled you,’ he said. ‘You saw a man who wouldn’t pay court to you, and decided you must have him, by hook or by crook.’

It hadn’t been like that. It hadn’t been the least like that. She had detested him.

So why was she implying that it was? Why was she willing to shoulder the blame herself? She could easily have painted him as the very sort of opportunistic fortune hunter her father had taken him for. Instead, she was clearing his name.

And he couldn’t even contradict her story, not without exposing what she’d really been up to out there... Ah! So that was it. A matter of saving face. She’d rather her father think he was the man she’d wanted to seduce all along, than for him to know how very far her true plans had gone awry.

He gave a sort of mental shrug. If that was the way she wanted to play it—fine.

‘Well,’ said the earl with weary resignation. ‘At least this one is an improvement on the last fellow you fancied yourself in love with. At least nobody will blink at the connection. Only the manner by which it came about.’

‘Yes, Papa. He is the Earl of Auchentay, as well as being a naval captain, is he not? And you always did say I should marry within my own class.’

‘The title is hollow, sir,’ he felt duty bound to point out. ‘My lands are mortgaged—’

‘But still in your possession?’

‘Aye, but not likely to bring in any revenue, beyond what I get for renting the house and land. Which isn’t very good land, either.’

‘You won’t be needing the rent so very much now you are marrying into my family. Julia’s dowry will enable you to buy half-a-dozen Scottish properties, I dare say, if you had a hankering for them.’

‘I’ll not be squandering your daughter’s money on foolishness of that sort,’ he said testily. A man should take care of his womenfolk, not marry them for their dowry then fritter it away. Making free with his wife’s money would smack too much of what his father had done—marrying an heiress then gambling away her entire fortune. Something he’d sworn he’d never do.

Not that lifting the mortgages would be a bad thing, if he could do it.

And he would like to improve conditions for his tenants, too. But...

‘I had no thought of that when we—that is when I—’

The earl held up his hand in a peremptory gesture. ‘Spare me the details of what you were, or were not, thinking when she took you out to the orangery.’

‘Aye, sir.’ For the first time that night, he felt his cheeks heat in a flare of embarrassment. He’d been too long at sea, too long without a woman to have been thinking of anything but the glorious release the siren in the blue-silk gown had appeared to be offering. He just wasn’t used to being surrounded by so many females, all revealing so much flesh. There’d been nothing but delicate arms, and slender necks, and tantalising bosoms wherever he’d looked, ever since he’d arrived. And all of them belonging to gently reared girls who were out of bounds. He’d been so frustrated, what with one thing and another, that by the time a mature, available woman—or so he’d believed—had offered him the opportunity to do something about it, he hadn’t stopped to think.

He’d just followed her out to the orangery like a lamb to the slaughter.

‘Whig, I suppose, are you? Like so many of your countrymen?’

‘Aye, but—’

‘Good, good. You’ll be taking up your seat in the House, in due course. When you do, it may interest you to know I have the ear of—’

‘No. My lord, it is very good of you to take a concern in my future, but I must tell you right now I have no head for politicking.’

‘Then what do you plan to do, now the war is over? England doesn’t need so many ships. Nor so many captains. Do you intend to return to your ancestral lands and take up the reins of estate management?’

Alec hadn’t thought about it. He’d still been in the process of gutting his last ship when he’d received that letter from Lizzie which had brought him hotfoot to Ness Hall. Getting married and restoring his ancestral home had been the last thing on his mind.

‘You didn’t expect to be pressed into marriage, did you, by Gad!’

It was as if Lord Mountnessing had read his mind. Not only that, but his cold expression had melted into something approaching sympathy, the words sounding downright apologetic. Having given them both a hearing, he’d clearly decided to blame his headstrong daughter.

And it was her fault. All her fault.

Yet he couldn’t just stand here and let her take all the blame. It wouldn’t be the act of a gentleman.

‘I did not, no, but I can only say what I always say to men pressed into the Navy. This is my life now. No point in complaining. Just have to make the best of it.’

He felt her stiffen at his side. Probably in outrage that he should speak of making the best of marriage, when she must consider it ten times the disaster he did.

‘Quite so,’ said the earl drily. ‘Julia—’ he turned to his daughter ‘—I need to speak with Captain Lord Dunbar in private.’

‘Oh, no, Papa—’

‘Oh, but, yes, my girl,’ said the earl firmly. ‘You need not fear I am about to tear the poor fellow to shreds. But we do need to deal with all the dull, legal matters with our lawyers. Settlements, and so forth.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘But nothing. I am too disappointed in you to bear looking at you tonight. Tomorrow, when I have come to terms with your behaviour, you may say whatever you wish. I dare say I shall even be able to consider forgiving you once my anger has cooled.’

‘Thank you, Papa,’ she said in a small, penitent voice. He glanced sideways at her downbent head. If he were a doting father, her pose would have wrung his withers.

As he was not, it made him want to wring her neck.

‘We will announce your engagement tomorrow, at the Hunt Ball,’ Lord Mountnessing continued. ‘Too many people saw you coming in from the garden in a state of disarray for us to prevent gossip. But at least we can turn it into the kind that nobody will very much mind. And then everyone can attend your wedding before they return home. We can fit most of them into the chapel. We even have a bishop on hand to perform the ceremony—’

‘Uncle Algernon?’ Lady Julia’s head shot up, and she wrinkled her nose.

‘And there will be no problem procuring a licence. So we can hold the wedding the day after tomorrow.’

‘Oh, but—’

He turned a wintry stare on his daughter. ‘If you are going to say something about not having time to shop for bride clothes, or anything of that nature, then I have to tell you, my girl, that you should have thought of that before you dressed up like a trollop and all but ruined a man who has so far served his country in a brave and commendable fashion.’

Nothing commendable about deflowering his host’s daughter though, was there? Angry with her though he was, still it rankled to hear the man scold her, in his hearing, whilst remaining silent in regard to his own conduct. He’d rather the man had ordered him flogged.

For Lord Mountnessing had been a remarkably generous and understanding host. He hadn’t batted an eyelid when he’d shown up two days ago without an invitation, demanding to see his sister. Instead, after hearing a brief, and strategically censored, version of what had brought him here, Lord Mountnessing had told him he was welcome to stay for as long as he needed, to get the business with the wayward girl settled to his satisfaction. True, he’d then proceeded to serve him up as a sort of after-dinner entertainment to stimulate the jaded palates of the lords, poets, and bishops already in situ. Nothing like having a serving naval officer, who could provide eyewitness accounts of battles they’d only been able to read about in the papers before.

Though he found it hard to speak about his part in any of the actions in which he’d been involved, he felt he owed it to his host to repay his hospitality by at least answering any question put to him as honestly as he was able. And so, each evening after dinner, when the ladies withdrew, Alec had rendered accounts of various engagements in which he’d fought, drawn verbal sketches of the more famous among the officers with whom he’d served, and attempted descriptions of the various countries where he’d dropped anchor.

It generally ended in them all raising their glasses to him. Which he’d hated. His answering toast had always been to all the other gallant officers and men who’d served with him. Aye, and died, too, in defence of their country. Though the memory of all the friends he’d lost over the years wasn’t all that left a bitter taste in his mouth. It was the fact that these pampered, soft gentlemen felt a sort of patriotic glow from just drinking a toast to the men who’d actually gone out and done the dirty work. That they felt a part of an action they’d never seen, just because he’d told them about it. And though possibly one or two of them might have followed the course of the war against France, the general level of ignorance of the others had been hard to stomach.

They hadn’t cared, not really, that men like him had spent their entire adult life fighting so that they could lounge about their clubs and country estates, secure from threat of invasion.

‘I shall do all in my power,’ said Lord Mountnessing, now, to his daughter, ‘to prevent any slur being cast upon his name because of this. And you will do the same, d’ye hear me?’

She hung her head again. And in a small, chastened voice, a voice that might have fooled him had he not known how many lies she’d told this evening, said, ‘Yes, Papa.’

* * *

One good thing about having been at war for most of his adult life was that Alec was used to surprise attacks from the enemy. Not that Lady Julia was his enemy, but she’d certainly surprised him. Which meant he’d had to come up with a strategy to deal with the new tack on which he was going to have to steer his life. He’d spoken the truth last night when he’d said that, like a press-ganged man, there was no point in struggling against the inevitable. Marriage, like life on board ship, would depend a great deal upon how a man went about it. So the question was, what did he want from marriage?

He’d had a vague notion of finding a sympathetic companion, one day, eventually, to be a mother to his children. A woman he could trust to run his household while he was away, and make it a place he’d be glad to return to after an arduous voyage.

Instead, he was going to have to make a life with a woman he neither liked nor respected. He was facing a lifetime with a challenging, unprincipled, hot-blooded siren for his wife. Just as she was facing a lifetime with the last man on earth she would have chosen, to judge from the look on her face when the masks had come off.

Well, he’d been faced with seemingly impossible challenges before. He wouldn’t have gained promotion to captain without displaying ingenuity and daring. Could making a success of his marriage truly be more daunting than closing with a French frigate twice the size of his own vessel, or leading a boarding party against apparently insurmountable odds?

No. Besides, though his mind balked at spending a lifetime with a woman of Lady Julia’s stamp, his body wasn’t paying attention. His body was eager to engage with her all over again.

And so he planned to tell her. At least, that his conclusion was that they were both going to have to make adjustments. Huge adjustments, if they didn’t want to make each other completely miserable. He had to let her know that he bore her no ill will, that he was willing to put in the effort required to make the match run as smoothly as it could, all things considered. And not just for themselves, but for the sake of any children they might have. He didn’t want his children to become casualties of the kind of warfare waged between his own parents.

To that end, he’d decided to go along with the fiction that this was a love match. He was pretty certain she’d see the sense of that. For the one thing he’d learned about her last night was that she didn’t want anyone to suspect he wasn’t her choice. Which suited him fine. Alec didn’t want anyone to know what a tangle they’d landed in, either, nor have any shadow of scandal cast over his children’s lives. So he had to speak to her in private, as soon as possible, and negotiate terms.

Lizzie had informed him, when he’d managed to corner her briefly at luncheon the day before, that most ladies took breakfast on trays, in their rooms. She’d offered it up as an explanation as to why he’d not been able to locate her, though it was a poor excuse. She’d been avoiding him. And continued to do so.

Women! He still hadn’t got to the bottom of what Lizzie was up to—though he hadn’t been in Ness Hall for five minutes before discovering it wasn’t what she’d led him to believe—and now he was entangled in another net, cast by another scheming, manipulative female.

But at least he could begin to make some headway with Lady Julia. Though he had hardly seen any female make it to the breakfast table during the time he’d been here, and scarcely more of the men either, she’d always been up, acting as hostess.

Or, as he’d thought of it before last night, queening it over the breakfast table and all its occupants.

* * *

Well, he’d have to erase any trace of disdain from his face before he spoke to her this morning. The success of his plan depended on it.

As he descended the stairs, he schooled his features into what he hoped passed for the kind of expression a man would wear, who’d just been granted the hand of a woman with whom he was infatuated.

He was glad he’d taken the precaution. There were decidedly more people clustered around the table this morning. Mostly men. Dressed in riding gear.

Of course—the hunt.

It was a tradition for the guests staying here to join the local hunt on Boxing Day, so Lord Mountnessing had informed him upon arrival. He’d even offered to provide him with a mount, should he wish to take part.

He was glad he’d declined now.

He glanced to the head of the table, where Lady Julia was sitting next to her father. Alec breathed a sigh of relief. For she was dressed in a simple morning gown, which meant she wouldn’t be joining the hunt either.

It would give him an opportunity, he hoped, to speak with her alone. Surely, with so many of the houseguests being out of doors, they would be able to find ten minutes in which to negotiate the terms of truce? It shouldn’t take much longer than that. He’d already seen signs she might be amenable to his terms when she’d admitted she’d been at fault, and defended him against the charge of being a fortune hunter.

Lady Julia was sitting, as usual, at her father’s left hand. She looked pale, but calm. Her eyes were clear. She didn’t look as if she’d spent the night weeping into her pillow, at least. Nobody would guess how very upset she must be to have landed herself in this predicament.

He ignored the footman who was holding out a chair halfway along the table, went to where she was sitting, and pulled out his own chair, sitting down on it without taking his eyes from her face.

Which put paid to her pallor, anyway.

‘Good morning, my lord,’ she said, then, her blush deepening, lowered her head to stare at her plate.

‘Good morning, indeed,’ he replied, edging his chair a little closer to hers.

One or two people, he noted out of the corner of his eye, were already shooting curious glances their way.

He leaned in close.

‘Follow my lead,’ he murmured into her ear. Then took a crust of her toast from her plate and popped it into his own mouth.

‘Coffee or tea, my lord?’ A footman thrust a silver pot between them, dangerously close to his face, obliging him to heel to port. He had to admire the servant’s loyalty. And wonder at the devotion she appeared to have inspired in him, since he’d come to her defence from what he must assume was an importunate male guest, with such alacrity.

‘Ale, if you have it,’ he replied, which made the servant glower at him, since it meant he’d have to desert his mistress, to go to the sideboard and fetch him a tankard.

By this time, all eyes were upon them. And conversation ebbed. Claiming the place at her side, and whispering into her ear had been enough to raise brows. But the fact that she was doing nothing to rebuff him, when he’d previously observed her repelling all boarders with chilling hauteur, was clearly such unusual behaviour that it invited speculation.

‘What the deuce,’ said Lord Staines, who was sitting on the earl’s other side, ‘do you think you are about, sir? How dare you treat my sister with such familiarity at the breakfast table?’ He blinked as though realising the absurdity of what he’d just said, and added, ‘Or anywhere else, come to that!’

‘No need to get into a pucker, Staines,’ the earl said drily. ‘I meant to announce it today anyway. The pair of them have decided to tie the knot.’

Alec carried Julia’s hand to his lips, striving to look as though she’d just made him the happiest man in the world.

‘And they have my blessing,’ said her father, shooting Lord Staines a frosty look.

Masterly. Lord Mountnessing had concealed his displeasure at their behaviour by turning it all upon his son, for speaking out of turn. Nobody would now guess that he was far from happy about the match. Or the way it had come about. Nor even the fact that he’d had to announce the betrothal at breakfast, rather than at the ball later on, as he’d planned.

‘Good grief,’ said a man who looked so very much like Staines that he had to assume they were brothers. ‘She’s finally deigned to drop the handkerchief.’

‘No call for vulgarity of that sort, Whitney,’ said Lord Mountnessing, confirming his suspicion that they were related. ‘Mixed company.’

There were only two ladies present. One of whom was Lady Julia. The other, a matron who was rigged out in full hunting gear, uttered a little gurgle of laughter.

‘No need to mince words for my benefit,’ she said. ‘I think it’s marvellous. Especially the fact that I’m clearly one of the first to find out about this sudden turn of events. Your other aunts are going to be green with envy, Julia dear, that I found out before they did.’

She popped a forkful of eggs into her mouth with a cat-like smile.

‘So,’ said Lord Staines, dourly, ‘I suppose this means you are going to break out the champagne.’

‘Too early for that,’ replied the earl, firmly.

‘I didn’t mean at the breakfast table,’ retorted Lord Staines.

‘No?’

Lord Staines glowered at his father. And Alec, who’d put the man’s ruddy complexion down to his love of outdoor pursuits, now wondered whether it owed as much to consumption of alcohol.

‘We will have champagne tonight, to mark the occasion,’ said the earl to Lady Julia, turning his shoulder to his heir. ‘Instead of making the announcement just before supper, as I’d planned, we’ll let everyone know that this year’s Hunt Ball will serve as your betrothal ball as well. I am sure all those radicals, who are forever decrying the shocking extravagance of the ruling classes, will applaud the economy of utilising an occasion when all your family are already about you.’

‘Just as you say, Papa,’ she said, half-rising from her seat to place a dutiful kiss upon his cheek.

Her apparent meekness made him feel a trifle nauseous. The last thing she wanted was to have a ball celebrating her union with a man she detested. And as for being pleased that all her family would be about them—neither the earl nor his daughter, from what he’d observed, seemed all that fond of any of the others.

But perhaps it was as well to know exactly how duplicitous she could be. Alec would be on his guard with her, which would stand him in better stead heading into the choppy waters of the matrimonial sea, than the blinkered hopes and dreams of men who believed their brides were paragons of virtue. He was at least going into this with his eyes open. There would be no shocks along the way. For he’d already seen her at her worst.

‘My sweet,’ he said, when at last she’d finished pushing a selection of meats and bread around her plate, signifying the end of breakfast. ‘Will you allow me to escort you for a walk about the gardens?’

‘In this weather?’ The man who looked so very like Lord Staines shot a disbelieving glance out the window.

‘You’re going hunting in it, Herbert,’ Julia retorted.

‘Yes but I don’t care about getting my clothes muddied,’ he replied scornfully.

‘Plenty of gravel walks in the grounds,’ put in the matron, with a twinkle in her eye. ‘So she won’t need to get her skirts muddy and there are all sorts of convenient little outbuildings, should it come on to rain.’

Did everyone feel they had the right to make observations about how he intended to spend his day?

‘Captain Lord Dunbar won’t have time for strolling round the grounds this morning,’ Lord Mountnessing informed the table at large. ‘I’ve arranged for Benson—my man of business,’ he explained to Alec, ‘to attend us in the library. We have a lot of documents to sign.’

‘Plenty of time for that, I should have said,’ remarked Lord Staines.

‘No, you really shouldn’t,’ replied his father coldly.

Lord Staines narrowed his eyes. His lips twisted into the beginnings of a snarl.

‘What Papa meant,’ put in Lady Julia swiftly, ‘is that we are going to marry very soon. As soon as can be arranged. So there isn’t much time.’

Lord Staines didn’t look the slightest bit grateful to her for attempting to smooth over their father’s cutting remark. Instead, he turned his venom on her.

‘You? The embodiment of all the virtues? Getting married in a hurry? To a man you only met two days ago?’ He laughed rather nastily. ‘You do know what people are going to say, don’t you? They are going to say you have to get married. Lord, if that were only true! I’d give a monkey to hear you’d been knocked off that pedestal on which you stand looking down your nose at all us lesser mortals.’

‘That’s enough, Staines,’ growled Lord Mountnessing, as Lady Julia turned an even deeper shade of red.

‘By Gad, I think you’ve hit the nail on the head,’ cried his brother. ‘Just look at her face!’

Indignation sent him surging to his feet.

‘If either one of you,’ he snarled, glaring from one sneering, malevolent face to the other, ‘dare repeat such foul accusations again, I shall—’ He stopped, recalling that it wasn’t the done thing to duel with one’s brothers-in-law. Even if they hated her. Which it appeared, from their faces and the pleasure they took in baiting her, that they did.

He didn’t know what she’d done to rouse that hatred, but whatever it was, no man who had a sister ought to treat her with such contempt. Especially not in public.

‘The reason we have decided to marry so swiftly is—’

‘Is none of their business,’ Julia said, cutting him off before he had time to manufacture an excuse. ‘Don’t descend to their level. They’d enjoy nothing better than starting a brawl over the breakfast table.’ She gave them a scornful look.

Lord Mountnessing rose from the table. ‘Come, my lord. We have more important issues to deal with than petty family squabbles.’ He tossed his napkin on the table with the sort of disdain that told everyone present exactly what he thought of his sons.

‘I shall have to go,’ he said, bending down to murmur into Julia’s ear, hoping it looked as though he was whispering an endearment. ‘But I must speak with you privately at some time today. When can we meet?’

She twisted her own napkin between her fingers. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know. I have a thousand-and-one things to do today.’

‘I won’t have you avoiding me,’ he growled. This was what Lizzie was already doing—coming up with feeble excuses when what they needed to do was sit down in private and talk. ‘If you don’t think of a time and place, I shall hunt you down.’

‘Very well, very well. Oh, um, how about...as soon as you have finished with Papa and Benson? In the orangery.’

He quirked one eyebrow. Really?

She flushed, and lifted her chin.

‘I will be waiting for you there.’

Chapter Four

Captain Lord Dunbar despised her! Oh, he’d been trying to hide it, but he wasn’t a very good actor. He’d been wearing a brave, rather resolute smile when he’d entered the room but he hadn’t been sitting next to her for more than a minute before she detected the anger and distaste simmering just below the surface. And as for the way he’d demanded she meet him, so that they could speak privately. Oh, she had no doubt what kind of things he wanted to discuss. No doubt at all.

Especially after the way he’d looked at her when she’d suggested they meet in the orangery...

Even now she cringed at the message his wintry grey eyes had sent her. He thought she was a trollop. A scheming baggage.

And if he did, she had nobody to blame but herself.

She sniffed loudly, blinked hard, and quickened her flight up the stairs. She had to get to her room, where she could pace up and down, or throw something, or scream into her pillow. She was not going to give way in public. She was not.

Both Papa and Captain Dunbar were doing their best to conceal how they felt, which was shielding her from any threat of censure. She must not be the one to give the game away by giving so much as a hint that there was anything amiss.

Julia got to her room, shut the door firmly, then sagged back against it.

She was going to be married to a man who despised her. In the chapel where, for years, she’d dreamed of marrying David...

Oh, David. Her stomach contracted into a knot of pain.

The way he’d looked at her! She slid to the floor, landing with a bump on the bare boards, covered her face with her hands, and groaned.

However was she going to get through it? How was she going to walk down the aisle to wed another man if David was sitting in the congregation, watching? Remembering her with her bare legs wrapped round Captain Dunbar’s waist—yes, for that was the way he was always going to picture her, now. Just as she was always going to remember him with that appalled, disgusted look on his face.

Perhaps he wouldn’t attend, though. He wouldn’t want to attend, surely? And who was likely to invite him, come to that? The chapel was not all that big. Wouldn’t it be filled with all those currently staying as guests in the house itself? Anyway, she would be in charge of issuing invitations, wouldn’t she?

So—that was one problem dealt with.

She raised a trembling hand to her brow. Rubbed at the furrow between her eyebrows where a headache was beginning to form.

Oh, but it was tempting to use that as an excuse to stay in her room and hide all day. She didn’t know how she was going to face anyone, never mind David. But she would have to. Almost her entire family had come to stay for Christmas. Not to mention a smattering of those people in whom Papa was currently interested. The poet whose latest work was all the rage. The brace of scientists who’d discovered something or other. Not only was it her duty to ensure they were all enjoying their stay, but the family would also think it was their right to ask her why she’d suddenly, as Herbert had put it, dropped the handkerchief, when until now she’d managed to evade all attempts to get her to the altar.

Her unmarried cousins would also want to know how she’d managed to snare Captain Lord Dunbar when all their efforts to get him to notice them had failed.

When she thought of the way the girls had sighed over whispered rumours of his prowess in various naval battles, gazed adoringly at his rugged profile, simpered, and giggled, and generally made total fools over themselves, because he was so manly, it made her want to scream. Because she’d seen the man behind the reputation. The reputation, she reflected waspishly, that he’d done his best to promote with all those tales he’d regaled the gentlemen with over the port.

And the man behind the so-called hero of the British navy was dour as well as being a braggart. Harsh, and judgemental, too, if his own sister’s determination to avoid him was anything to go by. Nobody knew a man quite so well as his own sister. And his sister, Lady Lizzie Dunbar, had been doing her level best to avoid him, even though he’d been away at sea for so long. If he’d been even a halfway decent brother, surely she would have been pleased to see him? Surely she would have wanted to spend every moment she could with him? Instead, her attempts to hide from him had reminded her of the way, as a little girl, she’d always done her utmost to evade her own brothers whenever they’d come home from school in the long vacation.

And this was the man she was going to have to marry.

She pushed herself up from the floor and made her way to her dressing table. Within the many pots scattered across its surface there must surely be one that could help her look as though she was an excited bride, on the eve of her wedding to the man she loved, with such fervour she’d anticipated her vows.

Although—her hand stilled as she reached for a pot of rouge—only a few people knew she’d actually done so. If Marianne, or Nellie, or David, had let the cat out of the bag, breakfast would have been an ordeal of an entirely different nature.

Everyone who’d heard would have dragged themselves out of bed to goggle at the spectacle of Lady Julia Whitney, in love. As it was, the half-dozen or so habitually early risers had behaved the way they always did. There hadn’t been a keen glance or muttered aside to suggest she’d become the subject of gossip.

Not until Captain Lord Dunbar had made his way to her side and played the part of adoring swain.

She dipped her brush in the rouge pot, idly swirling it round and round. She still couldn’t really understand it. He’d been trying to make it look as though he was delighted to be marrying her. When he was anything but.

Perhaps he’d calmed down overnight, and was now resigned to his fate?

Absentmindedly, she flicked the rouge over her cheeks. No, that couldn’t be it. He hadn’t looked resigned to his fate. He’d looked determined. As though he’d decided to make the best of it. Hadn’t he said something to that effect last night? It was hard to recall. She’d been such a seething mass of mortification, and loss, and dread, and anger, and...oh, a dozen other negative emotions.

But later, when she’d tried to get to sleep—oh, heavens! She caught sight of herself in the mirror, her cheeks such a deep shade of carmine she looked like something out of a pantomime. She flung the rouge brush aside, dipped a clean handkerchief in water, and began to scrub it off. She had no need of rouge when she recalled the thoughts that had slid into bed alongside her last night. Far too many of them involving searching hands, and determined lips, and the feel of a large, masculine body pressing down on her. Pressing into her.

Not even now she knew exactly who it had been doing all those wickedly exciting things. And that was another thing. Modesty dictated she should have felt ashamed, not excited. So excited that she hadn’t been able to lie still. She couldn’t understand herself. Even thinking about it now made her feel all...

She wrung out the handkerchief and dabbed at her heated cheeks in an attempt to reduce the redness that the rouge, and the blushing, and the scrubbing had produced. Though perhaps a natural blush wasn’t such a bad look to wear. Didn’t they talk of blushing brides? People would expect her to blush, and look a little uncomfortable when they began to congratulate her over her marriage.

And they would congratulate her. Everyone considered Captain Lord Dunbar to be a terrific catch. His name had often been in the papers, in connection with some great naval victory or other. Nobody cared that he was penniless.

Oh. She sat up a little straighter. Hadn’t Papa said something last night about him now being able to buy as much property as he wanted? She’d been so angry that he wasn’t going to cut up stiff over the settlements, the way he’d threatened to do when she’d told him of her intention to marry David, that she hadn’t taken any notice of Captain Dunbar’s reaction to the news he was about to become a wealthy man. But perhaps that was why he looked more cheerful this morning. He’d had all night to consider what it would mean to be able to spend her fortune however he liked.

Well, she thought, shrugging one shoulder, he’d obviously decided that her money was some compensation for the fact he hadn’t wanted to have anything to do with her, let alone marry her.

Something cold landed on her lap. She looked down to see that she’d squeezed her handkerchief so hard a rivulet of pink water was trickling over her dressing table and onto her gown.

She’d have to get changed. Bother. Now he’d think she’d done so just to impress him—if he was the kind of man who noticed what a woman wore.

She’d pick something as close to this morning gown as she could, then. And hope he couldn’t tell the difference between muslin and cambric.

It was only as she went to ring for a maid that it struck her that on any other day Marianne would normally have been in here by now. Julia wouldn’t have needed to ring for a maid at all. Marianne would have helped her to change. But Marianne was clearly too embarrassed to face her this morning.

And no wonder.

* * *

Alec paused and narrowed his eyes as he left the ballroom through the door on to the terrace. Though whether it was the bright sunshine, or his reaction to Lord Mountnessing’s attitude that made him blink, it would be hard to say.

Not that he’d been surprised to find the old man so keen to get his wayward daughter off his hands. Alec hadn’t been surprised either, all things considered, to find her money tied up in such a way that if he had been a fortune hunter, he’d have been mightily disappointed.

He was surprised, however, by the amount left over, free and clear, to dispose of exactly as he saw fit. For the first time in his life, there wouldn’t have been any need for him to take out a loan in order to fit out a ship—had he a command awaiting him. He could have bought the best supplies, silver buckles for his shoes, new lace for his uniform—hell, he could have gone the whole hog and purchased a new uniform altogether while he was at it.

And still be able to leave his wife living in the kind of luxury she’d always been used to enjoying.

Of course, he’d never be sure who she’d be enjoying it with, but that was a risk all men who spent most of their lives at sea had to run.

Shaking his head, like a dog caught in a shower of rain, he set off across the terrace with the measured tread his officers and crew called his ‘mulling’ walk—behind his back, naturally. Any landlubber who saw him would have assumed he was just out for a stroll. But the way he clasped his hands behind his back and the angle of his downbent head were a certain sign to those who knew him. He was mulling over a plan. A complex plan, if his completely wooden expression was anything to go by. The deeper his thoughts, the less they always showed on his face.

Or so his crew had believed.

Right now the thoughts uppermost on his mind concerned the woman he was about to marry. In particular, did he stand any chance of making such a spoiled, society beauty pay him any heed?

He didn’t hold with beating wives, though it was within his legal rights to do so, should she misbehave. It might make a certain kind of man feel better, but he wasn’t that sort. And yet her father had just informed him that he was relying on his son-in-law to discipline his lively, self-willed new bride.

‘I’ve always been too soft with Julia,’ the earl had admitted ruefully. ‘Could never deny her anything. She was such an affectionate, demonstrative sort of child, you see. As well as being the first fruits of my second marriage. I was terribly in love with her mother.’ He took a pinch of snuff then shut the box with a snap, as though he was annoyed with himself.

‘She gave me another brace of sons, as well as those I had from my first wife.’

Had there been just a hint of distaste about his lips?

‘But you cannot mollycoddle boys if you want them to grow up to become men.’

‘Indeed not, my lord,’ he’d agreed wholeheartedly. He’d gone to sea himself at the tender age of twelve. If his own father had ‘mollycoddled’ him, the harshness of those first few weeks on board his first ship might well have destroyed him.

‘When my Maria died,’ the earl had continued, ‘I suppose I switched all the affection I felt for the mother to the daughter. Very much like her, you see.’ He sighed. ‘Now, of course, I see that it was disastrous to appear to favour her over my other children. But at the time...’ He shook his head.

‘However, since she claims to love you, I have no doubt she will do her best to be a good wife to you.’ He frowned. ‘Her idea of a good wife. It will probably not be your idea of what a good wife should be, but then, women, you know...’ He’d finished with another of his grimaces of distaste.

Captain Dunbar had made no response. If Julia really had been in love with him, it would have been the act of a scoundrel to complain about the way she’d entrapped him. Especially since her poor old father was trying to encourage him to hope the union might bring him the same kind of happiness he’d experienced with her mother.

Nor could he very well explain that Lady Julia had been as appalled as he when their masks had come off. He hadn’t needed to question her assertion that she hadn’t been trying to trap him. He’d seen his own shock mirrored on her face. She didn’t love him, but another. The last thing on her mind was making him a good wife. No, for her, it was all about saving face.

So why the hell had she asked him to meet her in the orangery? His heart started skipping like a frigate in a stiff breeze as it hove into sight. But he kept his pace even and steady. He wasn’t going to betray, by any outward sign, just how much it affected him to approach the scene of last night’s tryst, in broad daylight.

Which was a foolish resolution to make. The moment his mind turned to the astonishing events of the night before, his body began to behave in a most unruly manner, springing enthusiastically to attention. Giving an all-too-visibly outward sign that he was far from reluctant to be meeting her in such a secluded spot.

So it was with a frustrated growl that he tried the handle of the door, and with a scowl on his face that he knocked on it.

She emerged from behind a screen of foliage, and gestured to one of the windows. Then she went to it and threw up the sash.

‘Gatley—that’s our head gardener—keeps the door locked when we have guests,’ she explained, beckoning him over. ‘You will have to climb in through this window, as we did last night. The lock is broken, you see. But hardly anyone knows. So we won’t be disturbed.’

So that was why she’d suggested they meet here. It was just as he’d thought. She was going to try to fuddle his mind with memories of last night, so that he wouldn’t see whatever trap she’d laid for him today until it was too late. He’d laid enough traps, himself, when he’d needed to sneak up close to an enemy in order to inflict maximum damage, to recognise one.

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