Dear Reader,

The end of the century is near, and we’re all eagerly anticipating the wonders to come. But no matter what happens, I believe that everyone will continue to need and to seek the unquenchable spirit of love…of romance. And here at Silhouette Romance, we’re delighted to present another month’s worth of terrific, emotional stories.

This month, RITA Award-winning author Marie Ferrarella offers a tender BUNDLES OF JOY tale, in which The Baby Beneath the Mistletoe brings together a man who’s lost his faith and a woman who challenges him to take a chance at love…and family. In Charlotte Maclay’s charming new novel, a millionaire playboy isn’t sure what he was Expecting at Christmas, but what he gets is a very pregnant butler! Elizabeth Harbison launches her wonderful new theme-based miniseries, CINDERELLA BRIDES, with the fairy-tale romance—complete with mistaken identity!—between Emma and the Earl.

In A Diamond for Kate by Moyra Tarling, discover whether a doctor makes his devoted nurse his devoted wife after learning about her past.… Patricia Thayer’s cross-line miniseries WITH THESE RINGS returns to Romance and poses the question: Can The Man, the Ring, the Wedding end a fifty-year-old curse? You’ll have to read this dramatic story to find out! And though The Millionaire’s Proposition involves making a baby in Natalie Patrick’s upbeat Romance, can a down-on-her-luck waitress also convince him to make beautiful memories…as man and wife?

Enjoy this month’s offerings, and look forward to a new century of timeless, traditional tales guaranteed to touch your heart!

Mary-Theresa Hussey

Senior Editor, Silhouette Romance

Emma and the Earl
Elizabeth Harbison

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Neville White, my English pen pal of many years,

who may well have an intriguing secret identity…

Special thanks to the Silveiras: Helen, for the friendship and

tea; and Mark, for saving my computer—

and, by extension, my life—time and again.

And thanks also to Swoffers Estate Agents, Guernsey.

ELIZABETH HARBISON

has been an avid reader for as long as she can remember. After devouring the Nancy Drew and Trixie Beldon series in grade school, she moved on to the suspense of Mary Stewart, Dorothy Eden and Daphne du Maurier, just to name a few. From there it was a natural progression to writing, although early efforts have been securely hidden away in the back of a closet.

After authoring three cookbooks, Elizabeth turned her hand to writing romances and hasn’t looked back. Her second book for Silhouette Romance, Wife Without a Past, was a 1998 finalist for the Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA Award in the “Best Traditional Romance” category.

Elizabeth lives in Maryland with her husband, John, and daughter, Mary Paige, as well as two dogs, Bailey and Zuzu. She loves to hear from readers and you can write to her at c/o Box 1636, Germantown, MD 20875.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

Prologue

June 9, 1998

3431 41st St., N.W.

Apartment #202

Washington, D.C. 20017

U.S.A.

The Right Hon. Brice, The Earl of Palliser

Sheldale House

St. Peter Port

Guernsey, Channel Islands GY1 2NU

U.K.

Dear Sir:

Please forgive my being forward enough to write to you at your residence. I am a pharmaceutical horticulturist with NBL Botanical Laboratory in Washington, D.C., and will be in England between July 5-12.

After seeing your estate in John Turnhill’s photography book of English country gardens, I have reason to believe there is a very rare medicinal plant on the grounds of Sheldale House. If there is any way possible that I could tour the gardens during my trip, I would be most grateful. While I realize this is an unusual request, I feel it would be invaluable to my work at NBL.

I apologize for not giving you more notice, but I’ve only just made plans to visit your country. Please send word to me either at the above address or, in July, at the Sunnington Hotel, Hampstead, London.

Sincerely,

Emma Lawrence

June 9, 1998

3431 41st St., N.W.

Apartment #202

Washington, D.C. 20017

U.S.A.

18 Cecile Park Road

Crouch End

London, N8 9AS

U.K.

Dear John,

Forgive the kitschy Washington, D.C., postcard, but I wanted to get this note off to you as soon as possible, so I had to settle for what the lunch joint across the street from work had to offer. It was this or that hideous letterhead at work. By the way, when I tried to look up your phone number, the international operator said you were unlisted!

So anyway, are you ready for the big news? (Drum roll here, please): we’re finally going to meet!

The lab is sending me to the U.K. from July 5-12. There’s a symposium on the sixth and seventh that I have to attend, but after that, apart from a few things I have to try and arrange, my schedule is going to be really flexible. Hope yours will be too…? I’m dying to see what you look like (why didn’t you ever send a picture?!) I know this isn’t much notice, but that’s the way it always seems to go around here, as you know all too well.

If you don’t get this in time to write me at home, you can contact me at a hotel called the Sunnington in Hampstead as of the fifth.

I’m out of room! Gotta run!

love,

Emma

Chapter One

“Let me get this straight. This American gardener to whom you’ve been writing love notes for two years in my name is finally coming to London and wants to meet you?”

Robert Brice Sorrelsby Palliser, the seventeenth earl of Palliser, looked at his friend, John Turnhill, in the mirror behind him. “She’s a pharmaceutical horticulturist, and I would hardly characterize our letters as “love notes.” But other than that, you’ve got it right, yes.”

John smiled, a little smugly. “And you want my permission to continue the charade and impersonate me in the flesh?”

Brice gave a resigned nod. “I can’t see any other way around it.”

John shook his head, clearly relishing Brice’s dilemma. “I cannot believe it. Is this the same Brice Palliser who sold the most successful daily newspaper in Britain because he felt that kind of journalism was ‘dishonest’?”

“It is dishonest.”

John gave a shout of laughter. “So is pretending to be someone you’re not.”

Brice started a hot objection, then paused. John was right. For two years Brice had corresponded with Emma Lawrence using John’s name and address in London, only a few miles away from Brice’s own London home. Regardless of his reasons—reasons which were very good and completely understandable—when you came right down to it, it was a deception.

Two years ago, John had published a photography book of English country gardens, and Emma, spotting an unusual flower in a photo of Brice’s Sheldale House garden, on Guernsey in the Channel Islands, had written to John asking about it. Since Brice was more familiar with the plant than John was, John passed the letter on to him. Brice, in turn, had answered for John. At the time it had seemed a good, efficient way to answer Emma’s query.

Brice’s correspondence with Emma had been very impersonal, at first. But then she’d written again, and something in her response had moved him. “I couldn’t help but laugh when you mentioned you were off to microwave a ‘pitiful chicken dinner,’” she’d written. “Believe it or not, I had the same thing on the table in front of me. I’m starting to think we’re cut from the same cloth. If you told me it was overcooked and rubbery, despite your best efforts, I’d be sure.…” He’d written back, not wanting to break the illusion he’d created, both for Emma and for himself. Before he knew it, a close friendship had developed. By then it was too late to tell her he wasn’t who she thought he was.

“How do you decide when it’s okay to lie and when it’s not?” John asked Brice now, his freckled face twitching into a goading grin.

“This was not a typical lie,” Brice said calmly. “The difference is in the intent. I didn’t tell Emma I was John Turnhill for any malicious reason, or to take advantage of her. You know as well as I do that I wrote that letter for you in your name as a favor because you were in a pinch. I never dreamed it would lead to any sort of personal correspondence.”

“Come on, old man.” John thumped his friend on the shoulder. “You’ve had a couple of years to tell her the truth now. Why haven’t you?”

“It’s ironic, I’ll concede that.” Brice bit out the words. The truth even sounded like a lie to his own ears. “But the reason is that she has a…a thing, as she puts it, about honesty.”

“A thing?”

“It’s really important to her. And rightly so.” He wouldn’t say more. It had been a confidence Emma had shared with him. He wasn’t going to give John the details, no matter how much they might support his own case. “The fact of the matter is that by the time I should have told her the truth, it was already too late.”

“It’s never too late to tell a woman you’re the earl of Palliser.” John gave a cynical laugh and gestured around the ornate room. “Surely she’d be thrilled to find out your true identity, rather than believe you’re plain old me.”

Brice looked at him seriously. “No, she wouldn’t.”

John studied Brice for a moment, then sat down in the Louis XVI chair in the light of a high narrow window. “Even if that’s so, I honestly don’t see how you can pull this off. A lot of people in this country know who you are on sight, especially women who read articles titled ‘The Ten Most Eligible Bachelors in Europe.’ How are you planning to avoid that kind of recognition?”

Brice gave a heavy sigh. John was right, he had gotten some of that kind of publicity over the years. Every now and then he learned of another magazine or newspaper who had put him on a bachelor list. “Emma wouldn’t read that kind of article.”

“But what if she did?”

Brice shrugged, certain she hadn’t. “How many people would really recognize me in the flesh after just seeing one or two badly reproduced photos?”

“That’s the question. If you ask me, you’re recognizable even from a bad photo.”

Brice looked at his reflection in a gilded mirror on the wall. His dark hair, slightly wavy and a little longer than usual, was fairly ordinary. On the other hand, his distinct Palliser bone structure—the high cheekbones and straight brow—were easily distinguished. The green eyes, which everyone likened to his late father’s, seemed somehow conspicuous.

“Look,” John said, interrupting his thoughts.

“Why don’t you just tell her the truth and let the proverbial chips fall where they may? It seems a lot easier than all this agonizing.”

“I don’t want to lose her,” Brice heard himself say, and realized that it was true. It might be selfish, but he wanted to preserve his friendship with Emma at any cost. “This is the only relationship that I’ve ever had with someone who accepts me for myself alone and not for this…” he gestured around the room, “this persona.”

“In leaving out this persona,” John gestured as Brice had done, “haven’t you left out a great deal of who you really are?”

Brice followed the sweep of John’s arm, assessing the office of his London home. Oriental carpets covered a gleaming wood floor. The high walls were adorned with priceless art and tapestries. His eye fell on a Remington painting, whose value was higher than that of some people’s homes. This wasn’t exactly the impression he had given Emma of his life, he knew. “Maybe.”

John gave a knowing nod. “And you’ve used my name to do it. That’s two enormous lies right there. It’s a tangled web all right.”

Unbelievably tangled, Brice thought with an inner groan. Almost schizophrenic. Yet for everything he’d left out in telling her about himself, he’d revealed something more important, in many ways more true. That was at the core of his dilemma, in fact: one of the main reasons Brice was reluctant to tell Emma who he really was, was that in his letters he’d been free to be the man he really wanted to be but couldn’t. He’d been light, fanciful at times, even funny. He’d never gone into the subject of his duties, his public persona, the historical estates he had to maintain, the international company he had to run. The heavy weight of his responsibilities lifted every time he picked up the pen as John.

Emma would be hugely disappointed to learn that the man she’d been writing to all this time was a serious, duty-minded aristocrat, who might have dreamed of dancing in the fountain in front of the Ritz on paper, but who would never even consider such a thing in his real life.

When John spoke again, he was very serious. “You have to be very careful about getting involved with someone, remember.”

“I know.”

“Unless you’re ready to tell your mother the truth about Caroline.…”

Caroline Fortescue was the daughter of Brice’s father’s business partner. Though both men had passed away several years back, there was an expectation among remaining family members, most notably Brice’s mother, that Brice and Caroline would marry.

It made sense as a business merger: the budding Fortescue microchip technology together with the Palliser telecommunications technology would dominate the market. Their parents thought it was “a good match,” and they’d been heavy-handed in their persuasion ever since Caroline and Brice had been in their early twenties. Finally, for the sake of living in peace with their parents, the two had decided to pretend to agree with the plan until they’d found what they really wanted. They were very sure of one thing though, they would never marry each other.

Brice groaned. “If I tell my mother that Caroline and I have no real intentions of getting married, she’ll go on a matchmaking campaign the likes of which would have made Wellington quake with fear.” He shook his head. “I’m not up for that just yet.”

Brice’s parents had made “a good match,” and as a result Brice had grown up with cold, distant parents who had more regard for appearances than they did for each other. Now his mother was fully willing to extend that legacy to him. Living alone, he’d found out at age twenty, was a far warmer experience than living with two people who led such pointedly separate lives. Perhaps when two people loved, living together was something different than he had experienced. But unconditional love was for other people. He’d never experience it—how could he? His very name created conditions that would be difficult to live with, not the least of which was the occasional public scrutiny.

“Until you say otherwise, and firmly,” John said, “Caroline is a consideration.”

“That’s right.”

“Then you’ll have to let this Emma know,” John persisted. “Before she gets dreamy ideas about herself and you and inadvertently creates havoc for you both.”

That was one worry he didn’t have, thank goodness. “Emma has no romantic interest in me whatsoever.” Brice reflected on this relief for a moment, watching the silent sway of the trees in a gentle wind, then snapped himself out of it. “So that’s not a consideration. She need never know.”

John didn’t look convinced. “If you’re sure…?”

“I’m sure.” He spoke with complete confidence. “So what about it? Can I use your house while she’s here? You’re going to be gone anyway, right?”

“I am, yes.”

“Then it will be perfect. I have to get away from here.” Brice leaned against the windowsill and looked out. The lawn fanned out a long way to the wrought-iron fence bordering the quiet street in South Kensington. Though it was a sunny warm day, no one was out. No one was ever out.

He couldn’t invite Emma here, even if he wanted to. It would be like a big wet towel on her vacation. The neighborhood was austere, full of people like him—people who lived quiet, shadowed lives. He wondered if anyone had ever really had fun here. Was it even possible? He doubted it. He had to use John’s home for Emma’s visit, just in case she insisted on seeing where he lived. “You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was absolutely necessary.”

“I know.” John looked at him in silence for a moment, then smiled. “All right. If you insist on going through with this, I don’t see how I can protect you from yourself.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring of three keys. He dropped them onto the end table with a clang. “Now that I think of it, perhaps this is just what you need to get out of your slump.”

Brice looked at him sharply. “What slump?”

John gave him a patient look. “The one that’s made you the most grim, serious man in the country. The one that you’ve been in for the last—how old are you?”

“You’re exaggerating. I’m not that bad.”

“No? The Independent recently referred to you as a living heart donor.”

Brice grimaced. “That’s a very old joke. I would have thought they could do better than that.” He didn’t want to reflect on any nugget of truth behind the statement.

John shrugged. “You’ve got to admit, you haven’t been the most jubilant fellow in the world. Maybe this will lighten you up some. Now, about the house. Sarah’s leaving for Venice on the second of July. I’ll be following by a day. After that, the place is yours.”

“Excellent.”

They were interrupted by a discreet knock at the door. A maid entered holding a silver tray with a special delivery letter on it. She extended this to Brice, who took it from the tray and nodded a dismissal.

Brice glanced at the envelope and felt a sense of dread. He tore open the letter, read it, and felt the blood leave his face. “Good God.”

“What is it?”

“Trouble. This just came from Sheldale House on Guernsey.” Brice shook his head and held the letter out to John.

“‘Dear Sir,’” John read aloud. “Blah, blah, blah, ‘will be in England between July fifth and twelfth. If there is any way possible that I could tour the gardens on my trip,’ blah, blah, blah, ‘send word at’ blah, blah, blah…” He looked at Brice and raised his eyebrows. “So?”

“Look at the signature.”

John looked. “Emma Lawrence,” he read, then his mouth dropped open. “This?” He pointed at the letter. “Same woman?”

Brice nodded. “She must have sent it there the same day she wrote to me here in London.” He took the paper from John and wadded it into a ball. It had been years since their correspondence had anything to do with the gardens at Sheldale. It hadn’t even occurred to him that she might still be interested in seeing them.

“So what’s the big problem?” John asked.

“The problem is that she can’t go near the place without discovering who I am.”

“You could have the staff take down all the portraits and photos,” John suggested.

“And ask them to pretend I’m someone else, that they don’t recognize me?” Brice scoffed. “Be serious.”

“It’s not as though you have to go with her, you know. Send her along to look the place over and see her when she gets back.”

“And run the risk of her seeing something or hearing something that will give me away and I won’t even know it?” The possibilities made his mind reel. “I can’t take that chance.”

A long silence hung between them.

“What are you going to do?” John asked at last.

“I’m not going to answer.” Brice expelled a long breath. Not answering went against every fiber of his responsible being. “It’s the only thing I can do. The earl is out of commission for the time being.”

“Until she sees you,” John pointed out. “Obviously she’s a bit more familiar with ‘the earl’ than you thought. She managed to find your address.”

“Any resourceful person could have done that,” Brice said. “It doesn’t mean she knows what I look like. She probably thinks I’m a doddering old man.”

“What about when she gets here? With Palliser Telecommunications going public, your picture has been in the newspaper several times this week already.”

He knew. “That’s local news,” he said, more to himself than to John. “They wouldn’t know about that in America. At any rate, I’m quite sure she won’t be reading the financial pages while she’s here.”

Emma stumbled out of customs at Heathrow Airport, thanks to slick new shoes and a polished linoleum floor, and almost fell right into the newsagent’s kiosk, knocking one of the papers to the floor in several pieces. “I’m sorry,” she said, stooping to gather them together again. A headline caught her eye: Palliser Telecommunications Prices Skyrocket as Economy Rises. Palliser! The very man she wanted to see. She picked that section of the paper up to look closer.

“You going to pay for that?” the seller asked sharply, startling her.

“Oh. Yes, of course.” She started to reach for her purse, then remembered that she hadn’t changed any of her money yet. “Sorry, I don’t have any cash…” Under the man’s dark scrutiny, she reassembled the newspaper and handed it back to him. “Jeez, welcome to England,” she said, under her breath.

She walked away, wishing she could have seen a picture of the earl of Palliser. He hadn’t answered her letter before she left and she was getting nervous. She hoped he was a kindly old man who would be glad to let her tour the gardens of his estate, but as time wore on she pictured him more and more as a pointy, mean, middle-aged dandy, who had tossed her letter in the trash as soon as he’d gotten it, cursing her American brashness for even asking.

Maybe he’d even gotten on John’s case about it, since she had mentioned his book in her letter. Perhaps that was why John was so vague every time she asked him anything about the earl or Sheldale House in her letters. She hoped not. It hadn’t occurred to her that if the earl didn’t like personal contact, he might blame John for it.

No, that was borrowing trouble. John would have said something if the earl had given him a hard time. He didn’t hold things back from her. She smiled at the thought of finally meeting him, then immediately felt a twinge of nerves. The unwelcome thought that he might be disappointed when he saw her flew to mind. There was no telling how he pictured her in his mind, but she worried that he’d expect some tall, thin, blond California-type beauty. If so, he was in for a surprise.

Emma was plain. She had ordinary facial features, nondescript brown eyes, a plain old straight nose, an ordinary smile. At five feet eight inches, she was tall but not willowy or especially thin, or any of the things that made being tall a desirable trait for a woman.

Usually she went about her life and her work without thinking much about her appearance. Normally it didn’t matter. And it shouldn’t matter now, she realized. She and John were already great friends, it wasn’t as though either one of them expected it to lead to anything more.

Attraction wasn’t an issue.

She wondered, ruefully, if it was the habit of all women or just those who were particularly insecure about their looks to feel like it always was an issue. There hadn’t been a job interview, a party, or a blind date where Emma hadn’t felt the same self-consciousness.

This was what was good about her relationship with John. They liked each other for who they truly were, not for their looks, their jobs, their finances, or anything else that could be summarized in a demographic label.

It was the most…what was the word? Honest came to mind. It was the most honest relationship she’d ever had.

The two-day symposium on holistic medicine in the twenty-first century seemed to Emma to last two years, partly because of her jet lag and partly because of her eagerness to get it over with and meet John. After the first day, she’d been disappointed to return to the hotel and find no message from him. She couldn’t call him because she didn’t have the number, despite the fact that she had again tried the information operator and the phone book. She hadn’t heard from him since sending the card about her visit, so she wasn’t even positive he knew she was in London.

During the second day of the symposium, she could barely follow the debate about the medical use of marijuana because she was trying to decide what to do if there was still no message from John when she got back. She had his address. If worse came to worst, she could always just show up and knock on his door, but she really didn’t want to do that. Emma was not a fan of surprises, either giving them or receiving them.

When the group finally let out on the second day, she was so eager to get back to the hotel that she took a cab rather than saving the money and figuring out the bus schedule. The desk clerk called to her as soon as she walked in the door.

“Message for you, miss,” he said, with a knowing smile. Emma had asked him about messages at least twice a day since she’d arrived. He looked at her over the wire rims of his glasses, and handed her a folded yellow slip of paper.

She could barely breathe as she opened it. “John Turnhill rang,” it said, “at 4:10 p.m. Would like to take you to dinner. Can you make it tonight?” He had also left a phone number. At last!

She turned to ask the clerk if she could use the phone, but before she could speak, he nudged it toward her. “Dial direct,” he said, then deliberately turned to busy himself with the mail slots in order to give Emma some privacy.

With a shaking hand she dialed the number on the paper. When he answered, she went weak at the sound of his voice. She tried to speak, but all that came out was an embarrassing squeak. She cleared her throat and tried again. “John? This is Emma,” she said.

“Emma.” Was it her imagination or was there tension in his voice? “I’m so glad to hear from you.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. She must have imagined the tension. She swallowed. “I got your message. Dinner tonight sounds great. What time?”

“How about if I pick you up at half past seven?”

She looked at her watch. Half past. That meant 7:30, which meant she’d have two hours to get ready. “Perfect,” she said. Her entire body was tingling with anticipation. “Do you know how to get here?”

“Yes, I can manage.”

She didn’t want to let him hang up. She’d waited so long for this that she was half afraid it was a dream that would pop like a bubble if she wasn’t very careful.

“So I’ll see you then,” he said, again sounding a little stiff.

“Great,” she said quickly. Don’t sound over-eager, she told herself. “Until then.”

When she hung up the phone she noticed that her hand was shaking like a dry leaf in the wind. Breathe, Emma. You’ve got two hours to calm down.

“Boyfriend?” the desk clerk asked, taking the phone back.

“Nope. Just an old friend.” She felt her face grow warm. “A pen pal, actually. We’ve never met before.”

“Ah.” He nodded, and gave her a commiserative smile. “You look nervous.”

“I’m more nervous than I’ve ever been in my life.” The words came out in a rush.

“You needn’t be, a lovely girl like yourself.” He gave a quick smile and said very seriously, “Your friend will be very happy when he sees you, I’m certain.”

Chapter Two

Emma went back to her room, buoyed by the desk clerk’s compliment. Yes, perhaps he was just being nice. It was his job, after all. But he had such an honest face that she allowed herself to believe him. A lovely girl like yourself. Your friend will be very happy when he sees you, I’m certain.

She returned her thoughts to work and sat down on the bed to take her notebook out of her bag. As she leafed through her notes from the day, she realized that she’d been so distracted that she hadn’t even written complete sentences. She’d been more consumed with anticipation than she’d realized. Now she’d have to rewrite all the notes before she forgot what they meant. With a sigh, she looked at her watch and hoped she’d have at least a little time after she’d finished to get ready for dinner.

The task took a little more than an hour, and when she was finished her hand was aching, but her purpose in coming had been reinforced. Part of her had been so eager to meet John that she’d let the goal of going to the earl of Palliser’s estate slip to the back burner. Now she remembered just how important it was.

When she’d first seen John’s photo of the earl’s Sheldale House garden on Guernsey, she’d been so surprised she nearly spilled her hot coffee in her lap. For nearly three years she and her boss had been researching natural alternative painkillers for arthritis and had narrowed it down to Schilus mucre, or St. Paul’s Heart, a very rare plant related to Barren Wort, which was itself a rare English plant.

Yet there, plain as the grass in John’s picture, was what looked like a large patch of St. Paul’s Heart. They’d examined the photo closely and determined that it looked very similar. Then funding for the research had run low and they’d been forced to turn their priorities elsewhere. Until a month ago, that was, when a new benefactor had donated nearly one million dollars to them for medical research. Emma had volunteered to come to the symposium and stay on using her vacation time in hopes of researching the plants and conditions at Sheldale House.

It was a goal she shouldn’t lose sight of, no matter how excited she was about meeting John. In fact, she might even need John to help her with it. Much as she hated to do it, if she didn’t hear from the earl soon—like on her way out the door this evening—she was going to have to ask John if he could pull any strings to get her permission to visit Sheldale House. Heaven knew she didn’t want to do it. After their initial correspondence, she’d tried to keep business out of their relationship, but if she explained to him how important it was, maybe he would want to help. That thought boosted her optimism considerably.

She set her notes aside and went to the cupboard for a towel so she could get showered and ready for dinner. She bathed quickly and dried her hair. After trying three different “meeting John” outfits, she finally settled on a simple yellow sundress, cut in a classic forties’ style that created the illusion of a narrow waist thanks to a full skirt. It wasn’t one of her new “going to London” outfits, but it was an old favorite that she felt comfortable in.

Her hair, as usual, was proving to be a problem. It fell halfway down her back in a thick tangle of auburn curls. After trying several possibilities, she finally decided to let it hang in wild curls about her shoulders. Luckily all the latest fashion magazines were heralding that look as “pre-Raphaelite fabulous,” which she supposed was a good thing. She brushed some color on her cheeks and lips, the way the girl at the drugstore had taught her, and went downstairs to wait for John.

She went to the front step and sat in the balmy evening air, drinking in the sights, sounds and smells of London. The sky was deepening blue, with streaks of lipstick pink stretching across the horizon. Some of the birds in the leafy green trees were singing new songs, unfamiliar to Emma.

A small blue car pulled up outside the hotel. That, Emma realized as she looked at its tiny dimensions, must be what they call a Mini. There was a man in it, alone. Her heart tripped. It was almost certainly John. The time had finally come.

The man got out of the car and walked toward the hotel. He was tall, with a lean, muscular build. His dark hair, just a bit longish at the collar, gleamed in the amber evening sunlight, bringing Sir Lancelot to mind.

But nothing could have prepared her for the exquisite dignity of his face or, more specifically, her heart-pounding reaction to it. Even from a distance, she was struck by the masculine square jaw, and the sensual perfection of his curved mouth. His cheekbones were strong and noble-looking without being so high as to be “pretty.” As he drew closer, she could see that his straight dark brows framed pale, intelligent eyes. Eyes that made her feel, for one irrational moment, that she was home.

“Hello,” he said, nearing her.

“Hi,” she said, but it sounded like a question. Was it him? Was it really him?

He stopped before her and cocked his head slightly to the side. “Emma?”

She gave a slight nod—the best she could do, considering the fact that his looks had practically paralyzed her—and only then realized that she’d been holding her breath.

He smiled, extending his hand. “I’m John Turnhill.”

It was him. Had she ever even imagined he would be so handsome? That old familiar self-consciousness about her own looks resurfaced. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” she said, holding out her hand.

He held her gaze easily as he took her hand in his. “You are exactly as I imagined.”

Something about the way he said it put her at ease. She believed him, and it was okay. “Am I?”

“Exactly.” He let go of her hand and they started to walk side-by-side to the car. “So how do you like London so far, Emma?”

“I really love it,” she said, hoping he couldn’t hear her thundering heart. It had to be nerves, she told herself. After all, this was John. She knew him already, there was nothing to be nervous about.

“Good. I’ve chosen a little place for dinner just around the corner in Hampstead Heath.” His voice was low and rich, with a perfectly measured English accent. That part of it was as she’d imagined. “I hope you like French food?”

He had once mentioned in his letters wanting to take her to the famous Thames Gate Restaurant. Had he changed his mind? She had the unwelcome thought that perhaps he was embarrassed to be seen with her since she wasn’t beautiful. But he wasn’t like that, she knew he wasn’t. It was probably just because he was on a budget, like she was. It was all well and good to say you wanted to take someone to a fancy restaurant, but it wasn’t so easily done. “Yes, I love French food,” she said. “That sounds great.”

“I realize it’s not typically British, but the food is quite good, and it’s in one of London’s most Dickensian spots. I thought you’d prefer that to boiled potatoes in the business district.”

She laughed. “You made the right call.”

He led her to the Mini and opened the door for her. She smiled and, as gracefully as possible, folded her five-foot-eight-inch frame into the car. John had to be at least six feet tall, probably taller. The Mini seemed like an odd choice of car for him, though he had less trouble getting in gracefully than she had.

Driving it was another story. After he ground the gear into first and lurched the car out into the street, they drove in silence for a couple of miles before John said, “I have to admit, this is a bit awkward for me.”

“It is a funny little car,” she agreed, wondering why the car struck her as so discordant with the man.

He gave a brief laugh. “No—well, yes, but I meant meeting this way. After all this time.”

“Oh, that. Me, too.” She glanced at him, but her self-consciousness surged again, and she decided it was best to concentrate on the passing scenery so she could actually get a few sentences out without being dazzled by his looks. “You know, suddenly I feel like we don’t really know each other at all.” She glanced back at him.

He gave a sober nod. “I think it’s safe to say there are a lot of things we don’t know about each other.” He glanced over at her as he drew to a halt at a pedestrian crossing. “Quite a lot.”

A tremor buzzed through her. Excitement? Or trepidation? She couldn’t say. “Sounds like someone’s got some skeletons in the closet. Or the tower.”

“The tower?” He glanced at her, then put the car back into gear and edged forward.

“You know, the Tower of London.” She laughed nervously, immediately embarrassed at the lame joke and wishing she could take it back. “Sorry, I’ve had the aristocracy on my mind for the past few days.” That didn’t come out right either. “I mean, it’s impossible not to in a city like this. It can really make an ordinary person feel like a peasant.”

“Ah.” He watched the road in front of him, but she noticed his grip adjust and tighten on the steering wheel. “Well, chimney sweep or…or earl, isn’t it what’s inside that counts?”

She breathed a sigh of relief. He was picking it up instead of just letting her comment fall with a thud. “I’ve always thought it only mattered what was on the inside.” She looked at his handsome profile and smiled to herself. Nothing wrong with that outside though, she thought. “As long as you’re honest about it.”

He stiffened and kept his eyes fastened on the road. “Right.” He turned the car into a sleepy Georgian block just north of Hampstead Heath. The street was lined with tall trees, and narrow alleys with tiny shops: booksellers, herbalists, boutiques. Several pubs that they passed had tables set up outside. “Although sometimes people have very good reasons for not telling the truth.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know that there’s ever a good reason to lie to someone you care about and trust.” She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to. Several months ago, she’d finally told John about an incident which had nearly destroyed her career and had wreaked havoc with her emotions.

Eight years back, when she’d been working at a pharmaceutical laboratory, her supervisor had helped himself to the inventory after hours using a magnetized identification card that was linked to Emma, just in case he got caught. He’d been careful to use the duplicate card only late at night, when Emma wasn’t likely to come in with her original card. He’d viewed her as a plain Jane, correctly guessing that she would have little or no social life, and thus no alibi for her late-night hours. She’d been the perfect person to frame. Indeed, when the crime was detected, Emma had been under heavy scrutiny for the first several weeks of the investigation.

When all was said and done, the worst part of it for Emma was knowing that her supervisor had been stealing for months and lying to her all that time. She would never have dreamed he was betraying her that way.

“I know you feel strongly about telling the truth,” John said, parking in front of a charming restaurant called La Fontaine du Mars. He got out of the car and came around to open Emma’s door for her. It was a small gallantry, but still appreciated. “I do, too, really. I only meant that sometimes people lie with good intentions.” He took a bracing breath. “Anyway, this is a nice little place to eat. Usually they have tables set out in the morning and people come for coffee and to watch the world go by. It’s a good place for that.”

“I can imagine.”

They walked toward the ivy-clad front door. Emma thought of the help she needed from John in getting to Brice Palliser and wondered if he would find it dishonest of her to ask for that kind of help. “It is all in the intention,” she agreed, deciding it would be best for her to mention the favor before they ate, rather than running the risk of appearing to butter him up first.

The restaurant was as charming inside as out. The walls were made of weathered brick, and a huge fireplace sat dormant at one end of the room. The red-checked tablecloths were worn but clean, and the unlit candles on each table were secured in various old, mostly inexpensive, wine bottles. It was quietly intimate, and she was suddenly glad he hadn’t chosen a more famous and probably austere place instead. This was comfortable and comfort was definitely helpful right now.

“John,” she said, after they were seated and had studied their menus for a few minutes.

He didn’t answer.

“John,” she said again, louder.

There was another moment’s hesitation before he made a small exclamation and said, “Sorry. Did you say something to me?”

“Yes.” She gathered her nerve. She really hated to ask this of him, but she had to, and she had to do it now and get it over with. “I’m afraid I have a favor to ask of you. A big favor, that is.” She sucked air in through her teeth. “A really big favor.”

“Of course. What is it?”

Three solid heartbeats passed. “I need to meet Brice Palliser.”

Was it her imagination or did his face pale? “Why do you need to meet him?”

He sounded stung. “Actually, I don’t really need to meet him,” she said quickly. “I just need to talk with him. Specifically, I need permission to go to his estate and dig around in the gardens a little.”

“Sheldale House.” His voice was monotone.

“That’s right.”

The restaurant lights dimmed and the waitress came to the table to light the candle. “Would you like some wine with dinner?” she asked.

“Please. Could you bring a bottle of Dom—” He stopped, cleared his throat. “How about a sparkling wine of some sort?” He looked to Emma for approval.

“Great.” She nodded.

He looked at the menu, and pointed one out. “This is from a good region.”

The waitress made a note on her pad, then asked Emma, “Are you ready to order?”

Emma hesitated, unsure of the budget. Though he’d never specifically said, she guessed from his job description that John wasn’t much better off than she, so she looked down the right-hand side of the menu for the least expensive dishes. She was about to order the grilled chicken breast when John spoke.

“How about the filet mignon with bearnaise?” he suggested. “The beef is local and quite good.”

“Filet mignon? Really?” Emma couldn’t even remember the last time she’d had real steak instead of hamburger.

He raised an eyebrow. “Does it not appeal to you?”

“I’d love it, but…” She lowered her voice and spoke through her teeth. “It’s kind of pricey…”

“Don’t worry about that. If it’s something you want, you’re certainly worth it.” He smiled, and his eyes lit a flame in her heart.

“Well, it does sound good—”

“Then it’s settled.” He slapped his menu shut.

“The filet for both of us,” he said to the waitress, keeping his eyes on Emma.

“Are you sure about this?” Emma asked, when the waitress had gone. She was warmed by the idea that he was trying so hard to make it a memorable evening for her, but worried that he was overextending himself to do it.

“Absolutely,” he said, without a trace of doubt. “Now. Where were we?”

“Brice Palliser.”

He looked startled for a moment, then his expression relaxed some and he said, “The garden.”

She nodded, noting for the second time that he wanted to keep the subject off the man. Clearly there was discomfort there, and she wondered if John thought she’d rather meet the earl than spend time with him. “Right, the garden,” she said, trying to reassure him. “Frankly, I’m not sure I have much use for the man. You know, I tried writing to him for permission, but he didn’t even bother to respond. You’d think he could at least have had his secretary or someone write back.”

He looked pained. “We-ell. Maybe he didn’t get your letter. He may be out of the country. He travels quite a lot, you know.”

“But doesn’t he have a private secretary?”

“Not at home,” he said, then added quickly, “Or, uh, did you write to him at his office?”

“Home, I guess. Sheldale House on Guernsey.”

John clicked his tongue against his teeth. “I don’t think he goes there very often.”

Hope deflated. “There’s no way to get in touch with him at all? For permission, I mean.”

John laced his hands before him on the table and considered for a moment, before he said, “This is really important to you, I know.” He let out a pentup breath and raked a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I feel bad that I let it go this long. I should have arranged for you to go to Guernsey as soon as I got your letter.”

Emma reached across the table and touched his arm. “John, this isn’t your responsibility. There was no reason you should have made the arrangements for me, that’s my job.” She tried to lighten it with a laugh. “I don’t even think I mentioned Sheldale in my letter to you. I’m only asking your help now because it doesn’t look like the man is going to bother to answer a nobody like me, at least in his eyes.”

“Emma, it’s not like that—”

“Here we go,” the waitress called, reappearing with their wine. She set the glasses down, then opened the bottle, poured them each a glass, and left with a promise to bring their dinners along in a few minutes.

Emma watched her go, then said, “To be fair, I didn’t tell the earl of Palliser just how important this might be. I didn’t want to overstate it because if I’m wrong, I’m just a crackpot, you know? I didn’t want to make any grand claims that could later be called lies or exaggerations. Especially not to this fancy-schmancy earl, who would probably think I was just trying to rub elbows with the upper crust.”

He stiffened. “Why would he think that?”

“Well, I’m not, of course,” she hastened to amend. “You know that.” She took a sip of her wine, then gestured with the glass. “What I meant was, he’s rich and powerful. I suspect people are approaching him for money and favors all the time.”

“Not like this.” When she looked at him, he added, “Probably.” He smiled then, snatching her breath away.

She shrugged. “Maybe not, but he doesn’t know me from any of the rest of the masses.”

His smile faded slightly. “It’s definitely a tough situation.” There was weight in his words. Emma found herself trying to figure out why. After a pause, he went on, “But I think perhaps you’re underestimating him.”

“Really?” She was interested. “How well do you know him?”

He frowned, started to speak then stopped. After another moment, he said, “That’s hard to say.” He poured more wine into her glass. “Well enough to know that he really means well, but doesn’t always know how to juggle all of his responsibilities.”

“Does he really have that much to keep track of?”

“You’d be surprised.” He finished his wine in a gulp. “A multi-national company, several estates—there’s quite a lot, actually.”

“I see.” She wanted to believe it, but something told her there was more to it than that. “Then maybe he didn’t get my letter. Maybe, as you said, he’s out of the country.” A moment passed. “Then again, he may have got it and ignored it. There’s just no way of knowing.”

He appeared to consider that carefully. “If that’s the case, then I’m sure he had his reasons.”

Emma felt a twinge of guilt. She was starting to get the feeling that John’s friendship with the earl was closer than he’d indicated. She tried to lighten things up with a laugh. “Do you always play devil’s advocate?”

He smiled again, and she was relieved that the tension seemed to be broken. “Only when the poor devil isn’t able to defend himself. Listen, Emma, let me see what I can do about arranging some time at Sheldale House,” he said, then added, more to himself, “Though I don’t see how you could stay there.”

“Stay there?” Such a thought had never even occurred to her. “No, no, I don’t want to stay there, I just want to hunt around the grounds.”

“It’s holiday season,” he said, taking a sip of his wine. “It won’t be easy to find accommodations on Guernsey itself.”

“I’ll pitch a tent outside the estate, I don’t mind.”

He studied her for a minute, then said, “You’re very determined.”

Self-conscious, she tilted her head toward the window. “I am where this is concerned.” Outside, the sun was dipping behind the buildings into dusk, providing little light to compete with the candles in the small bistro. It was intoxicating.

“Determination is an admirable trait.”

“Unless you call it pushy.”

He kept his eyes on her. “You’re not pushy.”

The waitress reappeared, and set their plates down. Emma cut off a small morsel of the filet, dipped it in the bearnaise, and popped it into her mouth. “Wow, this is incredible. It’s been ages since I’ve had French food.”

“Get used to it,” he said with a cryptic smile.

She wiped her mouth and laughed. “On my budget, are you kidding?”

“There’s a lot of French food in Guernsey.”

“You mean…?” She swallowed hard.

He nodded. “Somehow I’m going to get you to Sheldale so you can do your research.”

It was too good to be true. “You really think you can get permission for me to go?”

“I think so.”

“Oh, John!” If there hadn’t been a table full of plates, wine and beef between them, she would have hugged him. “You will come with me, won’t you?”

His eyes widened and she could have sworn he said, “Now that would be taking a hell of a chance.”

“I beg your pardon?” she asked.

He sipped his wine, then swiped the napkin across his mouth. “I said, that would be a good chance to get to know you better.”

“So you’ll come?”

A corner of his mouth twisted upwards, and he shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it. But you don’t need me there.”

“Yes, I do.” She smiled. “It would be so much fun. Come on, won’t you even consider it?”

“I’ll—” He nodded, as if trying to convince someone other than her. “I’ll check my schedule, but I can’t make any guarantees. Though maybe it would be best if I was there.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Best?”

“I mean I know my way around the island a little bit. It might make it a little easier for you.”

She smiled. “I’d love it.”

“Okay, then.” He took a long, deliberate breath and let it out slowly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Chapter Three

After that, the conversation flowed easily. Emma was touched by John’s enthusiasm to show her his country, to do ordinary British things: finding fish and chips served in paper, riding the train across the countryside, perhaps even going to some of the touristy landmarks, such as Madame Tussaud’s wax museum and Kew Gardens.

When they finally left the restaurant, it was after eleven. The hours had slipped by like minutes. “What a night,” John commented, as they stepped out into the evening air.

“It’s beautiful,” Emma agreed. The sky was a dark, translucent purple and only a few wisps of cloud scudded across the face of the moon. The temperature had cooled to warm and balmy. But it wasn’t just the weather that she was happy about, it was the company. She’d looked forward to meeting John for so long that disappointment had seemed practically inevitable.

But she hadn’t been disappointed. In fact, Emma would call her feelings for John love at first sight, if she believed in that—which of course she didn’t.

“I’ll call about Sheldale in the morning,” he said, and put his hand on her elbow to guide her across the street.

“I really appreciate it,” Emma said, surprised at the thrill she felt at his light touch on her arm.

“I only wish I’d done it sooner,” he said, with what sounded like regret. He let go of her arm.

It suddenly felt cold where his hand had been. She dragged her attention back to the conversation. “Stop it, now, John. There’s no way you could have known. I certainly don’t want you feeling guilty about it.”

He gave a concessionary shrug. “All right. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.” As he looked for the car key, a shiny black taxicab trundled past, followed by a red double-decker bus.

Emma drank in the atmosphere. “Remember, I don’t have a phone in my room, so you have to make sure they go and get me or take the time to take a message.”

“No phone in your room?” He opened the car door for her, his gallantry a marked contrast to the tiny cheap car. “Are you serious?”

“Surely this concept isn’t new to you?” she said with a smile. “A lot of the small hotels and B and Bs don’t have phones in the rooms. Or do you only stay at the Ritz?”

“Almost never,” he said, with a straight face.

She got into the car. “Well, the Sunnington Hotel is not exactly luxury, but it’s very quaint. I like it.”

He got in his side of the car and looked thoughtful as they small-talked on the short drive back to her hotel.

When they got there, he parked—a little awkwardly—and got out to walk her to the door.

“I had such a good time tonight,” Emma said, as they approached the door. “Thank you so much.”

“Thank you,” he said earnestly. “You cannot even imagine what tonight has meant to me.” He took a step toward her.

For one shuddering moment, they stood face-to-face, looking into each other’s eyes. The thought that she should step back, both physically and emotionally, occurred to Emma on some level, but she couldn’t move.

With a small smile, he reached out and pulled her into his arms. Against her better judgement, she melted against him, delighting in the feel of his arms around her. She should have told herself to stop, but she couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

“I’ve wanted to do this all night.” He lowered his mouth onto hers. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty. He moved expertly, parting her lips with his and deepening the kiss to one that made the bones in her legs turn to rubber.

She languished in his embrace, allowing the pleasure to rush over her in dizzying waves. Every sense came to life as she felt him, tasted him, and inhaled the light, spicy scent of his aftershave. It was the last sense she had before succumbing completely to the delight of his kiss.

Just as she was about to lose herself completely in the kiss, he pulled back, leaving her slightly dizzy and wanting more.

“I’d better go now,” he said, a bit quickly. It was almost brusque. He must have realized it because his expression softened and he added, “I’ll call you first thing in the morning.”

“O-okay,” she said uneasily. What had just happened? She wasn’t sure if it was right or wrong, but it had certainly felt good. Why had he stopped? Perhaps he’d remembered the favor she’d asked and was now feeling put out by it. “Are you sure it’s not too much trouble?”

“Not at all. Honestly.” He glanced down, then looked back at her. “About that—just now. I apologize for being so forward.”

“No…that…don’t worry about it.” She bit down on her lower lip. This awkwardness was the perfect illustration of why they shouldn’t get romantically involved. Their friendship was too valuable to lose to this kind of bumbling chitchat. “Okay, well, good night.”

He looked at her for one steady moment. “Good night, Emma.” He turned toward the car.

“John,” she called after him, before she had time to think what she was doing.

After a moment’s pause, he turned back. “Yes?”

That hesitation froze her. She searched her mind for something to say, something that might smooth over the discomfort they were both feeling and put them back on familiar territory. “Drive carefully,” was all she could come up with.

He gave a wave of acknowledgment and jumped into the car, pulling out into the street almost the minute the ignition turned over.

Forty minutes later, Emma lay in the dark solitude of her room, shifting on the hard bed. She knew she shouldn’t be fantasizing romantically about John, but the pImages** kept coming into her head regardless. The memory of that shivering moment when she looked into his eyes, and then his kiss… She tossed and turned, unable to doze for her pounding heart. She could have run a marathon sooner than fall asleep.

When she had begun planning her trip, she truly hadn’t thought there might be any kind of romance in the offing for her and John. She still didn’t. But that kiss—while part of her had wanted it all evening—had thrown a wrench in the works. So was the way she was dwelling on it now.

She was probably being swept away by the glamour of being in a foreign country, that was all. And the fact that a man as handsome as a movie star had pulled her into his arms and kissed her passionately. Under any circumstances, she might have found that difficult to resist, but this was John, and what she had with him was more important than anything.

It was simply a temporary lapse of judgment she’d suffered from. Now that she had her wits about her, she knew she wasn’t willing to give up the friendship she had with John for a whirlwind romance, no matter how intoxicating it might be. Besides, even if by some wild fluke he wanted to pursue a romantic relationship with her, it wasn’t as though it could ever work out. They lived in two different countries, on two different continents. The best they could hope for would be a momentary flame that would fizzle out as soon as they were apart, leaving nothing but a small trail of smoke where their closeness had once been.

Although, there was something strained about their closeness too. For two years she’d read his letters and written to him, without even a hint of self-consciousness. There hadn’t seemed to be any self-consciousness on his part either, but tonight he’d been more serious than she’d expected. More somber. Maybe it was just the newness of meeting him in person, but all evening she’d had the nagging sense that his guard was up. Which put her guard up and probably made her a lot less fun than he would have hoped. Which made for a question between them that no one had answered. What was wrong? Was he disappointed that she wasn’t what he expected her to be?

Or was it jet lag on her part, making her imagine things that weren’t there? That had to be it.

Her thoughts quieted, leaving only one small voice which had been there all the time but which had gone unheard. As she drifted into sleep, she heard the voice loud and clear. It wasn’t paranoia, it wasn’t cynicism… Something important was not right here.

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