‘No wonder you fell in love with the stars.’

Lucius nodded. ‘They still have the power to take me away from who I am and what I’ve become.’

He could think of one other endeavour that might provide a blissful means of escape.

What would he give to see her, just once, naked as a goddess, kissed by the rosy glow of daybreak or twilight, her golden curls loose in a wanton cascade?

His title? Without question.

His fortune? Readily.

His soul? Perhaps even that.

About the Author

In the process of tracing her Canadian family to their origins in eighteenth-century Britain, DEBORAH HALE learned a great deal about the period and uncovered plenty of true-life inspiration for her historical romance novels! Deborah lives with her very own hero and their four fast-growing children in Nova Scotia—a province steeped in history and romance!

Deborah invites you to become better acquainted with her by visiting her personal website, www.deborahhale.com, or chatting with her in the Harlequin Mills & Boon online communities.

Novels by the same author:

A GENTLEMAN OF SUBSTANCE

THE WEDDING WAGER

MY LORD PROTECTOR

CARPETBAGGER’S WIFE

THE ELUSIVE BRIDE

BORDER BRIDE

LADY LYTE’S LITTLE SECRET

THE BRIDE SHIP

A WINTER NIGHT’S TALE

(part of A Regency Christmas)

MARRIED: THE VIRGIN WIDOW*

BOUGHT: THE PENNILESS LADY*

WANTED: MAIL-ORDER MISTRESS*

HIS COMPROMISED COUNTESS

HIGHLAND ROGUE

And in Mills & Boon ® Undone! eBooks:

SEDUCED: THE SCANDALOUS VIRGIN*

* Gentlemen of Fortune

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Beauty and the Baron
Deborah Hale

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Tracy Farrell, who has given me the most wonderful editorial support from the moment I joined Harlequin Mills & Boon® Historicals. If I’m able to live up to her faith in me I know I’ll last long and go far in this business.

And in memory of my adored grandfather, John MacDonald, who remains cherished in my heart and still speaks to me when I listen for his voice.

Chapter One

Northamptonshire, England, 1818

“Who shut the curtains on such a lovely day?” Angela Lacewood darted into the drawing room at Netherstowe, her bonnet pulled back off her head and a pair of thick gloves in one hand. “It’s like a tomb in here!”

She’d been working out in the garden, basking in the lavish sunshine of late May when the butler had summoned her to receive an unexpected visitor. Why anyone would be paying a call at Netherstowe when the family was traveling abroad, Angela could not guess. Nor did she much care, to be truthful.

She would deal with them as quickly as possible, then reclaim her privacy.

As she crossed the darkened room to open the curtains, her eyes not yet accustomed to the dimness of indoors, a deep masculine voice reached out of the shadows, like a foot to trip her up.

“Leave the curtains be! I shut them and I wish them kept that way until I go.”

Startled by the brusque order, Angela dropped her gloves and took a stumbling step too near her aunt’s favorite footstool. Her foot caught on the low hurdle and she pitched to the floor.

Or would have done, had not a powerful pair of arms unfolded out of the darkness to catch her.

“I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” The voice clearly belonged to the same person as the arms, for it wafted into her left ear from so intimate a distance it might almost have been a kiss. But could that voice—smooth, rich and beguiling—be the same gruff one that had frightened her into a humiliating stumble?

Perhaps they did have one thing in common, after all, she decided. Both made her heart flutter and her breath hasten…for quite different reasons.

“W-who are you, sir, and why have you come to Netherstowe?” The questions had scarcely tumbled from her lips when Angela guessed the answer to the first. Her pulse raced faster still, though from fright…or something else, she could not be certain.

The visitor set her on her feet again, but not before she felt the moist caress of his breath against her bare throat. For an instant she sensed a hint of reluctance to let her go. Or was it her own reluctance to break from her first time being held in a man’s arms?

Even if that man were the devil himself.

“Lord Lucius Daventry, Miss Lacewood.” He executed a stiff bow over her hand. “At your service.”

Not the devil perhaps, but as close as she was likely to encounter deep in the sleepy countryside of Northamptonshire. Even so isolated from London society, Angela knew her guest had been dubbed “Lord Lucifer” by wags of the ton. Lately, the village folk had begun to use that name—though never in his lordship’s hearing.

“I beg pardon for startling you, and for taking liberties with your domestic arrangements.” He gestured toward the window. “My eye is sensitive to bright light.”

Could that be the reason he seldom ventured abroad by day? Gossip ascribed far more sinister motives to his lordship’s nocturnal habits.

Her own vision had adjusted to the room’s dimness enough for Angela to make out the sharp shadow of a curious demimask that gave Lucius Daventry a diabolical appearance to match his reputation. A large patch of black leather concealed half of his upper face, from cheekbone to temple, with a narrow slit to expose his left eye.

Was it only his eye that could no longer abide the light? she wondered. Or was it his pride as well? Before Waterloo, his lordship had been hailed as the handsomest beau in Britain. Though she’d had little experience on which to base a comparison, Angela had thought that reputation scarcely did him justice.

“To what do I owe the honor of your call, sir? Lord and Lady Bulwick and my cousins departed a fortnight ago for their tour of the Continent. I do not expect them back for some months.”

Hard as she tried to purge the sweet ring of satisfaction from her voice, Angela could not. Weeks and weeks of lovely spring and summer with the whole house to herself and nobody to criticize or patronize her. That was as near heaven as she was apt to get for some years.

“And my brother is away at school,” she added as a hasty afterthought.

Usually Miles was foremost in her mind, but today she’d consciously turned her thoughts in other directions. It did no good to fret about her brother’s future when she had no means to help him.

Lord Daventry shook his head. “It is you I’ve come to see, Miss Lacewood.”

“Me? Whatever for?” Too late Angela tried to bottle up her unmannerly question by pressing her fingers to her lips. Really, though, she’d asked the man his business twice, already. And twice he had failed to enlighten her.

Nor did he this time.

“May we sit?” he asked, instead.

“Of course.” As Angela sank onto her aunt’s favorite chair, her tardy manners caught up with her. “Would you care for some refreshment, my lord? You must excuse me for being such a poor hostess. I’ve never had company of my own to entertain before.”

“Nothing, thank you.” His lordship chose a seat some distance from her, and more deeply in shadow. “This is not exactly a social call.”

The man was beginning to vex her. First interrupting her jolly afternoon in the garden, then giving her a fright, and finally stirring up all kinds of bewildering feelings she had no desire to experience.

“If not a social call, then, what exactly is it, sir?”

Aunt Hester would have had a fit of the vapors to hear her addressing a gentleman of wealth and title in such a tone, but Lord Daventry did not lose his cool aplomb.

Angela wondered if he ever did.

“All in good time, Miss Lacewood, if you will be so patient as to indulge me. For my grandfather’s sake,” he added, in a tone that betrayed more emotion than he had shown since ordering her to keep the curtains closed.

“Your grandfather?” Angela surged up from her seat. “Is something the matter with the earl?”

Her guest motioned for her to resume her seat. “The two of you have become great friends these past few years, have you not?”

Did the man ever answer a direct question when one was put to him? Angela wondered. Perhaps she should demonstrate how to accomplish such a feat.

“I cannot answer for your grandfather, but I am fonder of him than of anyone…except my brother.”

The dear Earl of Welland had a knack for making her feel clever and graceful and capable—all the things Angela had given up hoping she would ever be.

“Be assured, Miss Lacewood, my grandfather also holds you in the highest regard. It was good of you to visit him so often while I was…absent.”

On the Continent, serving under the revered Duke of Wellington. Was Lord Daventry aware how much she knew of his service in the cavalry? All his letters she’d read aloud to the earl, marveling at the adventures of which he’d made light with wry, self-deprecating wit.

“I did hate the thought of him over there in that big house,” she said, “with no company but the servants.”

“My grandfather is rather a pet project of yours, is he not? I gather you have a number of other such persons in the parish.”

Though her caller did not raise his ripe, resonant voice or sharpen his tone, Angela felt a subtle sting in his remark. Did he imagine she’d implied some criticism of him for putting his service to king and country ahead of filial duty to the grandfather who had raised him?

“There are others besides your grandfather in need of a little cheer, sir, which I do my best to provide since I have not the means to dispense more practical comforts.” How often Angela had regretted that lack. “Loneliness takes no account of rank or wealth.” Against her inclination, her tone sharpened. “But if by project you mean to suggest I condescend to my friends or think well of myself for what little service I do them, I hope you are mistaken.”

Why was she bothering to justify her motives to this arrogant man? Her penchant for nurturing what Aunt Hester called “Angela’s strays” had long been considered a joke by the family. Even she did not fully understand what compelled her to care about people for whom no one else spared a thought.

Could it be because so few thoughts had ever been spared for her that she felt such kinship with the neglected?

His lordship’s fine wide mouth lifted for an instant in the ghost of a smile. “Come, Miss Lacewood. I vow, you’re as prickly as a hedgehog. I meant no slight on your kindness, truly. You have far better right to think well of yourself on that account than others who pride themselves upon the happy accident of birth or beauty, which they’ve done nothing to merit.”

It was a bald sort of compliment, neither lavish nor lyrical. Angela thought she detected within it a backhanded rebuke of himself. Yet, the very frugal nature of his praise pleased her, somehow. If it had been a whit more extravagant, she might have supposed he meant to mock her.

“If I seem prickly, sir, it is because I find myself quite out of my depth.” She fumbled to untie the ribbons of her bonnet. “You have arrived out of the blue to call on me, who never receives guests. You say this is no social visit, yet rather than reveal its purpose, you question my friendship with your grandfather. I feel as though I’m engaged in a game of blindman’s bluff.”

Lord Daventry clasped his large, long-fingered hands together and rested his chin upon them. “Some consider blindman’s bluff a diverting pastime, Miss Lacewood.”

“Not those who must always play the blindman.” She had good reason to know.

To her astonishment, his lordship laughed.

Once, Angela had run her hand over a sable collar her cousin Clemmie had received as a Christmas gift. She’d never forgotten the lush texture of it. His lordship’s laughter reminded her of that fur—rich and deep, with a provocative whisper of darkness lurking beneath.

“Touché, Miss Lacewood! I begin to see why Grandfather cherishes your acquaintance so.”

Cherish. Surely she’d heard that word before. Angela knew what it meant…in an abstract fashion. Hearing it spoken by Lucius Daventry, caressed by his tongue and lips, was to hear it for the first time as Nature had intended it to be uttered.

A chill, part dread, part reluctant anticipation, quivered through her, for suddenly she glimpsed the reason behind Lord Lucifer’s visit. Like his namesake had to other mortals throughout the ages, he had come to make her a bargain.

And to steal her soul.

He was making a botch of it.

The knowledge put Lucius Daventry in a vile temper, though he flattered himself that he hid the fact from Miss Lacewood, the way he hid most of his emotions. Few things vexed him worse than performing poorly at any task he set himself. This one more than most, for so much depended upon his success.

The young lady wanted to know why he’d come. The longer he delayed telling her, the less likely she would be to oblige his request. And he must win her cooperation.

If only he could secure his own!

Lucius Daventry was not accustomed to being of two minds about anything. He’d always prided himself on setting high goals, then committing all his energies to achieving them…until today.

Miss Lacewood was the problem. He had come to Netherstowe expecting to find the poor little pudding of a child he remembered, grown into stout, dowdy womanhood. Such a creature would surely have been eager to accept his offer without placing his heart in jeopardy.

Instead he’d found the dumpy little caterpillar transformed into an exquisite Regency butterfly. When she’d fallen into his arms, Miss Lacewood had reminded him of how long it had been since he’d held anything so soft and fragrant. Her tantalizing beauty and her charitable nature posed a grave threat to his lordship’s hard-won peace. Though it shamed Lucius to admit it, even to himself, the lady frightened him worse than a unit of French cavalry at full charge.

For the sake of his grandfather, Lucius was prepared to brave his worst fears. Though perhaps he might not have to…

“No doubt there are gentlemen much younger than my grandfather who also value your acquaintance, Miss Lacewood. I hope you will pardon my curiosity for inquiring if there is any one in particular paying you his addresses?”

For a moment she made no reply. Lucius wondered if he had trespassed too far on her privacy.

When it came, her answer held none of the indignation he’d armed himself to repel. Instead, Miss Lacewood spoke in a tone of gentle reproach that slid beneath his defences.

“Must you mock me, sir?”

“Indeed, I do not!” Lucius sprang from his chair, retreating to the deepest shadows of the drawing room, where he paced in the restless manner of a wild beast caged. “Why would you suppose I mock you?”

“Why would you suppose I might have an admirer?”

Pulling off her bonnet, Miss Lacewood set it on the footstool that had launched her into his arms. Then, she rose from her chair and withdrew to the opposite side of the room, where a few stray sunbeams had pierced small gaps in the closed curtains. One lit on the crown of her head, like the magic wand of a fairy godmother, gilding her tawny tumble of curls.

The answer to her question was so manifestly obvious Lucius could only stand dumb and gaze.

If he’d had to choose a single word to sum up her appearance, it would have been generous. Eyes large and luminous, the warm brown of a yearling fawn dappled with golden sunshine. Lips so lush they fairly demanded to be kissed. Features with a rounded softness that put him in mind of peaches ripe for the plucking.

Her beauty cast a spell over him, lulling to sleep the stern guard he had set to govern his tongue.

A bemused whisper of his true thoughts escaped. “I only wonder that you do not have a hundred.”

Her eyes fixed on him then and something stirred in their russet depths, a power that made him fear for his cherished self-control. “I would say you flatter me, sir, but I do not think you are much given to flattery. Unless there is something you want from me?”

Her wariness called to his own, whispering vain promises of sympathy. Promises Lucius knew he dared not trust.

“I do want something from you, Miss Lacewood.”

He had roused the slumbering censor. No further word, inflection, gesture or look of his must convey to this woman any more or less than he wished to convey. The thoughts that sang like cold steel in his mind and the emotions that seethed in his heart must be his alone to know.

“I want something, and I am willing to compensate you handsomely for it.”

“Indeed?” She tensed. “I suspected as much. What is it you desire?”

Her alarm was so palpable his lordship’s nostrils flared as though greedy to catch the subtle redolence of it. Try as she might to hide behind a mask of bravado, she feared him.

What woman wouldn’t?

Better fear than pity. Since Waterloo, that had become Lucius Daventry’s creed.

“Let us first speak of what I will give you in exchange.”

“As you wish.” Miss Lacewood took a step nearer the window. Perhaps she planned to blind him by ripping the curtains open if he menaced her. “I must warn you, though. My situation may be modest, but so are my needs. I doubt you have anything with which to tempt me.”

I wish I could say the same of you. The words prickled on his tongue like lemon juice, demanding he spit them out. By an act of will, Lucius managed to swallow them, only to find they had a seductively sweet flavor.

“Judge for yourself, my dear.” The latter word had a toothsome taste as well. If he did not exercise some restraint soon, he might become a glutton for such dainties. “I believe your brother wishes to take up a commission in the cavalry.”

A tremor ran through Angela Lacewood such as his lordship had seen soldiers give when they tasted cold steel in the belly. She managed to answer with a steady voice, however, which Lucius could not help but admire.

“Your information is correct, sir. Ever since he was a young lad, Miles has longed to return to India, as an officer in our father’s old regiment.”

“Commissions are costly.” Lucius leaned against the back of the chair on which he’d been seated earlier. “As is the proper kit to outfit an officer bound for India.”

“So I have discovered, sir.”

“Lord Bulwick will not support your brother’s ambition?” Lucius knew the answer well enough. He asked merely to enhance the value of his offer in Miss Lacewood’s eyes.

“His lordship is only a relation by marriage.” Clearly Miss Lacewood was parroting back the answer her entreaties to her uncle had received. “He feels He has fulfilled his obligations by taking my brother and me into his household after our parents died. He wishes Miles to find a post in the city.”

Lucius nodded. He’d expected no better from the odious Lord Bulwick. “I would purchase a commission for your brother and see that he is suitably outfitted for it.”

“And what would you expect from me in return?” Angela Lacewood squared her shoulders.

Lucius found himself wishing he could see those shoulders bare and admire their contours, for he had no doubt they would equal her graceful neck in beauty.

How might Miss Lacewood react if he approached her with slow, deliberate steps, then raised his hands to push down the brief sleeves of her gown?

Swoon dead away perhaps? Run screaming? It was a dangerous weakness for him to entertain such fancies.

Dangerous? Perhaps. But he had once courted Lady Danger and been seduced by her lethal charms.

“I would ask only one favor of you, my dear.” Emerging from behind his fortress of furniture, the baron approached Miss Lacewood with slow, deliberate steps. “A trifle, really.”

Some subtle cant of her posture and a rapid sideways glance told Lucius the young lady wanted to retreat from his steady advance. Yet, she managed to hold her ground. “One man’s trifle is another man’s treasure.”

“So it is.” Lucius halted his advance.

There was not much distance between them now. If he held out his hand and she held out hers, they might touch.

“Your words are most apt in this case,” he added. “What I require from you will cost only a little time and less effort on your part. But it will bring a treasure’s worth of pleasure to someone else.”

“To you?”

“No.” At one time it might have, but those days were past.

“To whom then?”

“Perhaps you will guess when I tell you what I want.”

“I shall be glad to hear…at last.”

Balancing on the balls of his feet, Lucius sank slowly to his knees. It was a ridiculous and unnecessary bit of ritual, but he felt compelled to it all the same. “Miss Lacewood, I am asking you to become my fiancée.”

The lady did not move, speak or even blink. She stood there like a golden statue, staring down at him.

Her eyes were alive, though. Alive with wariness and aversion and other things the baron could not so easily identify. It took every crumb of his considerable will to hold her gaze in his, issuing her a mute challenge to accept his offer.

At last she drew a deep breath and wet her bountiful lips with a dart of her tongue that made Lucius ache with sensations he struggled to ignore.

“I am sensible of the honor you do me by proposing, my lord.” She shook her head. “But I cannot marry you.”

Lucius heard himself laugh for the second time in half an hour. It must be some sort of record. For a moment all the cares that weighed on him eased.

“I understand, Miss Lacewood.” As slowly as he had sunk to the floor, the baron rose again until he looked down into her eyes. “But, you see, that is not what I am asking.”

Chapter Two

Angela could not decide whether she was sorry or relieved that she’d left her gloves back on the footstool with her bonnet. If she’d been holding them in her hand when Lord Daventry had baited her with yet another riddle, the urge to strike him with them might have been too fierce a temptation for her to resist.

He was playing blindman’s bluff with her! Keeping her in the dark about his intentions and his feelings. Swooping in close to tease her with a tiny kernel of information calculated to set her lurching after him. Then dancing out of her reach once again, while she groped a fistful of air.

“Did you wake up this morning, sir, and say to yourself, ‘This looks like a marvelous day to go vex my neighbor!’?”

His lordship laughed again, clearly oblivious to his increasing danger of being throttled. “If that notion had entered my mind, I can assure you, Miss Lacewood, you’d be at the very bottom of my list of potential victims. Forgive me for not being more plainspoken. My years spent in polite society did little to foster that commendable ability.”

He sounded genuinely contrite in a wry sort of way. His green eyes, previously hard, cool and impenetrable as jade, had softened until they beckoned her like the garden on a dewy summer morning at sunrise.

Against her will, Angela felt herself relent. “I should have known better than to presume you were proposing marriage to someone like me, my lord.”

“On the contrary.” A harsh note crept into his hypnotic voice. “Someone like me would not presume to propose marriage to you, Miss Lacewood.”

“But you said…?”

“I asked you to be my fiancée, not my wife. And before you accuse me of vexing you intentionally again, I beg to point out that one need not follow the other as a matter of course.”

Ninety-nine times out of a hundred it did, though, unless a couple wished to bring scandal on themselves and their families.

Once upon a time, Angela had indulged in childish fancies of marrying a man like Lucius Daventry—titled, wealthy and so very handsome. A sort of fairy-tale prince to whisk her away from Netherstowe, where she often felt of little more consequence than a scullery maid.

Since then, she’d experienced enough of the world to realize how unlikely it was that any man would offer for a dowerless, unaccomplished country girl who had never ventured out in society. She’d also come to understand that marriage might not be the refuge she’d once imagined it to be. For those reasons, she’d resigned herself to a life of placid spinsterhood, making herself sufficiently useful to her relations that they would not grudge her bed and board.

While sunshine, fresh air, music and friendship were still free for the taking, she would be content. If only Lord Daventry had not come with his unorthodox proposal to stir up the embers of her silly girlhood longing for some-thing more.

“Intentional or not, I fear you are confusing me again, sir.” Not only with his words, either.

Never before had she felt herself so aggravated by a person one moment, then so powerfully drawn to him the next. Really, it was enough to drive a girl straight to…the pantry! How she would love to soothe her wrought-up feelings with a thick slice of pound cake, so rich as to be nearly indigestible.

“Whatever you want from me, Lord Daventry, I seem unable to grasp it.” Her mouth watered so much at the thought of cake that she had to swallow before continuing. “No doubt there are plenty of other young ladies who’d be delighted to oblige you.”

Her guest parted his lips to speak, but Angela cut him off. “I bid you good-day, my lord. Remember me warmly to your grandfather.”

She pivoted on the toe of her slipper to dash off. Before she could stir a step, his lordship caught her hand to detain her. A curious sensation rippled up her arm—hot and cold at the same time. Rather like her bewildering reaction to the baron himself.

Before she had a chance to withdraw her hand from his, Lucius Daventry blurted out the words she had prevented him from speaking a moment before. “Please, Miss Lacewood, stay and hear me out. I need your help. My grandfather is dying.”

His words struck Angela a harsh backhand blow. She flinched from it at the same instant her knees grew weak. If his lordship had not held her hand in such a tight grip, she might have wilted to the floor.

“Dying?” She raised her free hand to her brow in a vain effort to stem the chaotic whirl of thoughts in her mind. “That can’t be. When I visited Helmhurst yesterday he looked better than I’ve seen him in some time.”

But the earl was not a young man. And he’d been mildly ailing for as long as Angela could remember. “I must go to him at once!”

Another notion reared up from the tempest of her thoughts.

“Why did you not tell me straight away?” Wrenching her hand back from Lord Daventry’s, she was surprised to find the warm air of the sitting room chilly against her skin where he had touched. “It was most unfeeling of you, subjecting me to a litany of paradoxes while keeping me in ignorance of your grandfather’s condition!”

The baron clenched his jaw tight, but some subtle shift of his brow betrayed the injury her reproach had inflicted upon him.

Stifling a qualm of guilt that squirmed in her belly, Angela turned away from him. She must get to Helmhurst, and her dear friend the earl, as soon as possible.

She had scarcely taken a step toward the door before Lord Daventry loomed in front of her. “I cannot let you go, Miss Lacewood.”

“You had better.” she tried to duck around him, but he caught her in his arms.

“Let go of me this instant!” she cried, ignoring her ridiculous desire to linger in his hold, which felt oddly like an embrace.

“I cannot let you go,” he repeated, “until you have calmed down. My grandfather is in no immediate danger, and I do not want him to guess what his doctors have told me.”

Angela eased her token struggle to free herself, yet her breath came fast and shallow, as though she had wrestled against him with all her might. “How can you say the earl is dying one minute, then claim he is in no danger the next?”

“No immediate danger,” Lord Daventry corrected her. His respiration seemed to have picked up tempo, too. “You should pay more careful heed to my words, Miss Lacewood. Though my grandfather does not appear in any worse health than usual, his doctors assure me he has, at most, three months to live.”

A bank of dark, tearful clouds suddenly shadowed the coming summer that had stretched ahead of Angela with such promise only moments ago.

Lord Daventry relaxed his grip on her.

“I do not want that time blighted for him in any way by the knowledge of how grave his condition is. If you wish to see him again, I must have your word that you will honor my wishes.”

She wanted to feel some sympathy for the baron, but he made it impossible. Planting her hands against the breast of his well-tailored coat, Angela pushed herself out of his grasp, despising the passing flicker of disappointment she felt when he let her go with so little resistance.

“If the earl knows nothing of this, you may rest assured I would not speak of it to him, even without your bidding.”

“You need not say a word to betray everything, Miss Lacewood. Your face is an open book for anyone curious enough to read it, your eyes even more so.”

A cold wave of dismay washed over Angela.

Was Lord Daventry telling the truth or only baiting her again? And if the former, might he decipher the contrary, far too intense feelings he provoked in her?

Lucius Daventry’s emotions had been a seething stew bubbling in a tightly lidded pot. Angela Lacewood had jarred that lid more than once during their interview—each time venting a scalding blast of steam. For all Lucius hated anyone unsettling his composure, he had to admit those momentary discharges of pressure had probably kept him from exploding.

Now if only the searing imprint of Miss Lacewood in his arms did not make his body burst into flames!

She lowered her gaze, perhaps to protect herself from his searching scrutiny. “I am able to put on a cheerful face when I wish, sir, and your grandfather’s sight is not what it once was. I would never do anything to cause him distress.”

“I believe that, my dear.”

The last word slipped past Lord Daventry’s censor. He hastened on, hoping she would not pay it any heed. If he succeeded in convincing her to help him, which seemed unlikely at present, he would have to accustom himself to uttering such endearments.

A spasm of alarm gripped his heart at that thought.

“What I need to know is how far you would be willing to dissemble in order to make my grandfather happy in his last months?”

The words stung his throat as he expelled them. It had taken him several long nights staring into the cold, dark beauty of the starry sky to cultivate his present stoic acceptance of the situation. Perhaps his ruse with Miss Lacewood would provide a welcome distraction for him in the weeks to come.

If only he could convince her to help him.

Her eyes widened and her gaze flew back to meet his. A flicker of triumph in their golden brown depths told Lucius she had finally reconciled all the contradictions of his strange proposal.

“You want to pretend we’re getting married, to please the earl?”

“Just so. Grandfather has been remarkably unsubtle in his quest to bring us together.”

The glimmer of a smile bewitched her lips for an instant. Evidently the earl had been making a nuisance of himself matchmaking with Miss Lacewood, too.

“There is nothing else he wants so much in this life,” Lucius continued. “Until now I have turned a deaf ear to his constant litany of your virtues, for I have no intention of marrying. Not even for my grandfather’s sake.”

The young lady could not disguise her relief. “But you would become engaged to me?”

Lucius nodded. “With the understanding that you will break the engagement once…it has served its purpose. In exchange for your cooperation, I will assist your brother in gaining the commission he desires.”

She stared at him in silence for a moment. Despite his earlier protestations, Lucius could not divine what she was thinking or how she might respond.

“I require no such inducement from you, my lord,” she said at last. “If I choose to do what you ask, it will be because I also wish to make the earl happy.”

“Nevertheless, Miss Lacewood, I would insist.” Lucius declined to insult the young lady by telling her it would be a kind of insurance, to guarantee that she’d break the engagement once it had outlived its usefulness.

After all, it was a woman’s prerogative to change her mind in matters of this nature. A mild local scandal might result, but little more. When a gentleman jilted a lady, on the other hand, it became the tattle of the ton—likely to end up in the law courts or, worse yet, the newspapers.

If what his grandfather had told him about Angela Lacewood were true, Lucius doubted she would betray him by insisting they go ahead with a marriage he did not want. A nobleman with a comfortable fortune could never be too careful, though. He would feel less uneasy about the whole enterprise if he had some influence he could exercise over her when the time came.

“Now that you understand my intentions, Miss Lacewood, is it possible you might oblige me?”

As he awaited her answer, it seemed to Lucius that all of his internal organs had contracted into one tight, heavy ball such as might blast from the mouth of a cannon. Finding that his palms had begun to sweat, he thrust his arms behind his back.

“It is…possible, my lord,” she said at last.

Lucius expelled the breath he had not realized he’d been holding.

“But I will need more information upon which to base my decision,” she hastened to add. “What would this engagement of ours entail, exactly?”

“How in blazes should I know!” Lucius flared.

This whole business had wound him far too tight. His struggle to project an unruffled facade had not helped.

“Whatever it takes to make grandfather believe we mean to get married, I suppose.” He was vexed with himself for failing to plan beyond this interview, which had not gone at all as he’d expected.

“Would we have to go out in society together?” Miss Lacewood looked as though she were wringing her hands. At second glance, Lucius realized she was twisting a slender ring on her little finger. “I mean, such society as one finds in this quiet corner of the country?”

Since he wasn’t certain what answer she wanted, Lucius gave her the one he preferred. “I don’t see why we should have to. I seldom get invited anywhere these days and almost always decline when I do. I don’t expect that to change simply because I’ve acquired a fiancée.”

A certain stiffness in her posture seemed to ease. Had she approved of his unsociable answer? Perhaps they might get along well enough after all.

“Would I be allowed to visit Helmhurst even more frequently than I do now?” This time there could be no question what she wanted to hear.

Though the notion of sharing the last few precious months of his grandfather’s company with another person did not appeal to him, Lucius made himself nod. “As much as you wish.”

Miss Lacewood made no effort to hide her bittersweet satisfaction with his answer.

It was beginning to look as though he might just succeed in winning her cooperation. The prospect made Lucius light-headed and off balance.

“Anything else?” he asked. The corners of his mouth arched upward and he could do nothing to stop them.

She greeted his question with a blush so intense Lucius could see it in spite of the dim light in the room.

“Kiss?”

The tremulous murmur of her query hit him like a hard, unexpected blow to the belly. Lucius ordered himself not to stare at Miss Lacewood’s wide, full lips. Under no circumstances should he imagine what it might be like to kiss her. Or speculate whether she’d been kissed by another man.

All at once, Lucius fancied he could hear bugles in the distance sounding retreat.

“I should never have come here.” He wheeled about and strode for the sitting room door, snatching up his cloak and wide-brimmed felt hat from the back of a chair where he had left them.

“This was a ludicrous idea—quite unworkable. I’m sorry to have troubled you, Miss Lacewood. I will see myself out.”

As he marched toward the entry hall, Lucius flung his cloak around his shoulders and jammed his hat on, pulling the broad brim low to shade his face.

Behind him he heard footsteps hurrying to catch up.

“Please, Lord Daventry, will you wait a moment?”

Lucius did not slacken his pace, though he fancied he could hear the Iron Duke bellowing, “The little baggage has you on the run, eh, Daventry? Stand and take it like a man, why don’t you.”

When he reached the front door, Lucius wheeled to face his pursuer.

Clearly Miss Lacewood had not anticipated this, for she failed to curb her headlong chase. As he pivoted toward her, she barreled into him. If the door had not been at his back, they might have crashed onto the floor of the entry hall in a tangled heap. Instead, Lucius felt his arms rise to enfold her for the third time that afternoon.

Her wild tumble of curls tickled his nose. They smelled as fresh and sweet as the garden from whence she’d been summoned by his call. If sunbeams could have substance and texture, surely they would feel like Miss Lacewood’s golden tresses.

She raised her face to his, and for one mad, fleeting instant Lucius wanted to give her the kiss she’d asked about. The kiss her lips had been made for.

But before he had the chance, words gushed from between those provocatively parted lips. “I’m sorry!”

It brought him back to his senses with the cold shock of ice water.

“I’m so sorry I bumped into you.” She sounded thoroughly rattled. “And I’m sorry if I embarrassed you with my question.”

She lifted her hand to his face.

Lucius flinched at the soft, pitying caress of her gentle fingers.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated in a whisper as her hand strayed closer to his mask, making the mangled flesh beneath it burn.

Though part of him longed to thrust her away with all his strength, Lucius exercised every crumb of his considerable restraint to detach Angela Lacewood from him.

“That, my dear, is precisely the problem.”

Sorry? Angela fumed as she watched Lord Daventry ride away, the wide brim of his hat pulled low to his brow and his dark cloak billowing behind him. She was sorry, to be sure.

Sorry that insufferable man had come calling with his distressing news, his bewildering proposal and his abrupt departure! Yet it was only when he had disappeared altogether from sight that she marched back into the house.

For the first time in her life, Angela slammed the heavy front door of Netherstowe behind her. She had never been given to venting her feelings. Indeed, she’d spent most of her life trying to avoid strong emotions of any kind. They served no purpose but to cause a variety of unpleasant physical sensations—racing heart, breathlessness, bilious stomach, headaches.

In the past hour, Lord Daventry had whipped her emotions to such a pitch it was a wonder she hadn’t broken out head to toe in bright red spots!

From below stairs wafted the comforting aroma of freshly baked gingerbread. Angela gulped a deep, soothing breath of it and immediately felt her agitation begin to ease. Determined to put Lord Daventry out of her mind, she followed the mouthwatering smell down to the kitchen.

There, true to her nose, she discovered two large pans of gingerbread cooling on the counter, permeating the air with their spicy sweetness. The cook, a tiny scrap of a woman, was endeavouring to wrestle a large roasting pan into the oven.

“Here, Tibby, let me help.” Angela scrambled to bear some of the pan’s considerable weight. “What’s for supper?”

“A roast of mutton and batter pudding,” replied Mrs. Tibbs as she shut the oven door. She pushed a few lank strands of grizzled hair back up under her cap. “It’ll be a while yet. Do you fancy a cup of tea and morsel of gingerbread to stay your stomach until then, my pet?”

Angela nodded readily as she pictured Lucius Daventry buried beneath a sweet, stodgy mountain of gingerbread, seed cake and lemon tarts. She fetched cups and saucers, while Tibby cut her a morsel of warm gingerbread that would have satisfied a starving field laborer.

“I hear tell Lord Lucifer ventured out in broad daylight to call on you,” said Tibby a few moments later, as she poured the tea. “I told Hoskins he ought to have stood guard by the sitting room door to see that no harm came to you. He just laughed, the old fool. Won’t hear a word against his lordship.”

“While you never have a good word to say about him,” Angela reminded the cook, as if she needed to. In an effort to distract Tibby from the subject, she added, “This gingerbread is heavenly! Just what I needed after working up a sharp appetite in the garden.”

Never would she admit, least of all to a notorious tattle like Tibby, that it was not her hours digging in the garden but his lordship’s unexpected call that had sent her scurrying for the kitchen.

“What did Lord Lucifer want with you?” The cook peered over the rim of her teacup at Angela, her small black eyes glittering with curiosity.

“I wish you wouldn’t call him that,” Angela protested. She should have known Tibby would not be diverted easily from her favorite subject of gossip. This quiet corner of Northamptonshire provided few quite so piquant. “The poor man was wounded in the service of his country. We should take pity on him, rather than pay heed to all that ridiculous talk about deviltry.”

She had never quite managed to reconcile the dutiful grandson of the earl’s fulsome accounts or the brave but sardonic cavalry officer of his own letters with the sinister reputation Lord Daventry had acquired since retiring to Helmhurst.

Their meeting this afternoon had only perplexed her further.

“Humph! You wouldn’t call it ridiculous if you’d ever met him walking abroad after dark.” Tibby shivered. “Mrs. Hackenley vows he put a curse on their well and the Babbits had two swine disappear without a trace.”

Angela’s mouthful of tea sprayed out over her gingerbread in a fine mist. “Tibby! Surely you aren’t accusing the heir to an earldom of being a common pig thief, on top of everything else?”

The cook raised her sharp, thin shoulders almost to her ears. “I don’t say he is, and I don’t say he ain’t.”

Her eyes narrowed to mere slits and her voice dropped to an eerie whisper. “But I hear tell pigs’ blood and entrails is used for…sacrifices.”

The back of Angela’s neck rose in gooseflesh, but something compelled her to scoff, “Nonsense! His lordship doesn’t go out much in the daytime, because his eyes are sensitive to strong light.”

Tibby digested that scrap of information. “You still haven’t told me what he wanted with you.”

If she didn’t tell Tibby something, it would probably be all over the neighborhood by tomorrow morning that Lord Daventry had been recruiting her to join his coven, or something equally daft. Though Angela herself had sensed a dark, even dangerous, side to the man, she knew he could not be as evil as ignorant gossip painted him.

“Did I not mention it?” She tossed the words off in the most casual tone she could feign. “His lordship came to ask for my hand.”

Tibby’s pointy little chin fell, leaving her mouth agape. Her eyes looked in grave danger of popping out of their sockets and rolling across the table.

Angela struggled to keep a sober face as she ate more of her somewhat soggy gingerbread. The mellow sweetness on her tongue and the warm weight of it in her stomach were providing their accustomed comfort. Or perhaps it was Tibby’s excessive suspicion of Lord Daventry that made her own earlier misgivings about the man seem so foolish.

Whatever the reason, Angela found herself becoming more favorably disposed toward Lucius Daventry by the minute.

“Lord-a-mercy!” The cook crossed her flat bosom. “What did he say when you refused him? I heard him stomping off, then the door slam shut. He hasn’t put a curse on Netherstowe, has he?”

“Calm yourself, Tibby.” Angela washed down the last of her gingerbread with a mouthful of tea. “His lordship didn’t say a word about a curse.”

Mrs. Tibbs blew out a shuddering breath.

Some unlikely impulse of devilment made Angela ask, “What makes you so certain I refused him?”

“You can’t mean to wed such a creature?”

“Why ever not?” Was she trying to convince Tibby…or herself? “It isn’t as though I have my pick of suitors. I haven’t a penny in the world. I’m not clever or accomplished or beautiful. This could be my only chance to have a home of my own.”

Why was she talking as if Lord Daventry had offered her a real marriage? Angela wondered. Certainly she dared not tell Tibby the truth and risk word finding its way back to the earl.

“Not beautiful?” sputtered the cook. “Do you never look in a glass, girl? You’re clever enough to suit most men, and you’ve the kindest heart in the world. If her ladyship would only take you to London or Brighton as she ought, you’d soon have your pick of swains.”

Angela shook her head, “You’re too partial. I know my own shortcomings well enough.” Her aunt and cousins had made her well aware of them over the years. “I’m sure there are plenty of young ladies who’d be delighted to tolerate Lord Daventry’s eccentricities for the chance to be mistress of Helmhurst.”

“More fools, them,” muttered Tibby.

“I think his lordship would make an ideal sort of husband. Sleeping most of the day, then wandering abroad at night.”

Angela’s conscience warned her she should not tease poor Tibby, who’d been a better substitute mother to her than Aunt Hester ever had. Yet, she had never been able to keep herself from defending anyone under attack. Not even if that one was the powerful Lord Daventry and the attack nothing more than silly gossip.

“Don’t fret yourself, Tibby. I didn’t accept him. In any case, I’m not altogether certain he still wants me. I must have offended him somehow, for he said proposing to me had been a ludicrous idea. That’s when he stomped off.”

What had provoked him so? Angela wondered. She’d only asked if their sham engagement would involve the odd kiss. Did he consider the possibility so very unpleasant?

“Well, that’s all right then.” Tibby dismissed the whole matter with a wave of her hand. “As long as there’s no curse, and you didn’t accept him. Now tell me everything he said.”

Angela scarcely heard Tibby over the sudden uproar of her own thoughts. Had Lord Daventry assumed her question indicated distaste on her part for the possibility of kissing him, because of his reputation…or his injuries?

She shot to her feet. “I must speak with him, at once.”

“No, you mustn’t!” cried Tibby. “You said he’d changed his mind. You don’t want to risk offending him worse, do you?”

“I’ll be back in time for dinner,” Angela called over her shoulder.

As she dashed up the stairs, Tibby called after her, “Don’t do anything foolish, now, because you feel sorry for him. You’ve too soft a heart for your own good!”

A soft heart? Angela popped back into the sitting room to retrieve her bonnet and gloves. She hadn’t shown Lucius Daventry much sympathy this afternoon.

Just because he hid his hurts behind a facade of cool irony did not mean he felt them less keenly or deserved less compassion than others who freely bared their wounds. She of all people should know that.

If only she could convince Lord Daventry to give her another chance.

Chapter Three

Damn his fool pride! Lucius chided himself as he strove to ignore the hopeful light in his grandfather’s eyes.

“Carruthers tells me you went out riding this afternoon.” the earl glanced up from his book. “In the direction of Netherstowe.”

Lucius glared at the ancient valet who stood behind his grandfather’s chair. “Plenty of places lie east of here besides Netherstowe.”

“True.” The faint specter of a smile passed across the earl’s face as he cocked one gray brow. “But that is where you went, isn’t it?”

“What if I did?” Lucius turned to stare out one of the tall narrow windows of Helmhurst’s library. A thick bank of clouds had blown in from the west, shrouding the sun’s earlier brilliant glare. “Perhaps I was curious to discover whether Miss Lacewood bore any resemblance to the paragon you’ve been touting so continuously.”

He’d discovered that Angela Lacewood bore a strong resemblance to the sunshine from which he shrank—too warm and bright for a creature of the night to bear.

“And what was your verdict, my boy?” Beneath the mild, polite-sounding inquiry, Lucius detected a gloating note in his grandfather’s voice.

He meant to dismiss the young lady with some wry quip, only to hear himself murmur, “You scarcely did her justice.”

“I beg your pardon?” said the earl, though Lucius suspected he had heard.

Turning back toward his grandfather, Lucius spoke louder, exaggerating his words. “Pleasant enough, I suppose, if one’s tastes are that way inclined.”

The earl closed his book. “And yours are not?”

Lucius knew his grandfather well enough to read the subtle signs of disappointment on those wrinkled patrician features.

“Once, perhaps.” Moving toward the old man’s chair, Lucius shot Carruthers a look that bid him leave the two of them alone.

“Ring if you need anything, my lord,” muttered the valet as he shuffled out of the library.

Lucius settled himself onto the footstool by the earl’s favorite chair. How many hours of his boyhood had he spent on that footstool, while his grandfather had read to him?

A raw place in his heart gave a twinge. Too soon his grandfather would be gone and he would be all alone in the world. By his own choice, but alone just the same.

“I suppose you won’t leave off asking until I tell you about it.” A rueful sigh escaped from Lucius. “The truth is, I went over to Netherstowe to propose to your delightful Miss Lacewood.”

Perhaps if he admitted what had occurred—an expurgated version of events, at least—it would lay the earl’s matchmaking schemes to rest once and for all. Then Lucius would proceed to do everything else in his power to make his grandfather’s last months happy.

“Well done, dear boy!” The earl’s face remained impassive, yet it lit with a joyful radiance that Lucius regretted he would soon have to snuff out. “You’ll never repent your choice, I promise you. My young friend is a rare jewel.”

Lucius did not tell his grandfather that he already repented his interview with Angela Lacewood. She had provoked a vague sense of discontent within him, one he could not afford to entertain.

“She has certainly improved since I saw her last.” Lucius knew he must disabuse his grandfather of the ridiculous notion that Miss Lacewood had accepted him, but he could not bring himself to do it straight away. “She used to remind me of a plump brown rabbit with her round face and long teeth.”

“Winsome little creatures, rabbits,” said the earl. “Soft. Timid.”

“Not quite as helpless as they look, though.” Lucius remembered having one as a pet in his younger years. “Those back legs can deliver a nasty scratch if you’re not careful how you pick them up.”

The earl gave a soft, wheezy chuckle. “Even the meekest of creatures must defend itself when cornered.”

He reached out and patted his grandson’s hand. “Turned you down, did she? Well, never mind. I proposed to your grandmother four times before she got tired of refusing me. Fortunately we Daventry men are a patient lot.”

Lucius glanced up at the portrait of his grandmother that hung above the library mantelpiece. Though not strictly beautiful, she’d had a certain glow the artist had managed to capture.

“You had so little time with her,” Lucius mused aloud. “Did you ever wish you’d married a lady with a more robust constitution?”

For a moment, he wondered if the earl would answer so intimate a question. They had never been given to speaking of such matters. Lucius could not suppress a sense of gratitude to Angela Lacewood for having opened a door that had previously been closed between them.

“At first,” the earl admitted. “But less and less as the years passed. Certain people burrow themselves deep into one’s heart, and their going leaves a greater void on that account. Better a heart riddled with such holes, I think, than one perfectly intact…untouched.”

His grandfather made it sound so simple. Lucius knew better.

When a man’s heart was in danger of becoming nothing but a collection of holes, wasn’t he obliged to protect the tattered remnants he had left?

“About Miss Lacewood, Grandfather…”

He’d better have out with it—admit he’d fled like a coward before Angela Lacewood had a chance to refuse him a second time. Somehow he must make his grandfather understand that he could not go begging her repeatedly.

Before he could finish what he’d started to say, a discreet knock sounded on the library door and the earl’s valet peered in. “Miss Lacewood to see you, my lords.”

The earl set his book aside and rose to his feet rather unsteadily. “Bring her in, Carruthers, by all means. The dear girl hardly needs to stand on ceremony after all these years.”

Angela Lacewood breezed into the library, looking a trifle windblown but all the more attractive for it. “I hope you don’t mind my arriving out of the blue, my lord, but this seems to be a day for unexpected visits.”

When she held out her hand to him, the earl raised her fingers to his lips. “The only thing more pleasant than anticipating a regular visit from you, my dear, is receiving a surprise one.”

As she lavished the earl with a fond smile of dazzling intensity, Miss Lacewood cast Lucius a fleeting glance in which he perceived sorrow, valiantly restrained. So she did have some skill in masking her emotions, as she’d claimed.

Lucius was grateful that her pretense of felicity appeared to convince the earl.

Carruthers fetched her a chair and set it close to his master’s. When she thanked him with greater warmth than so small a service merited, the desiccated old stick beamed from ear to ear as he tottered back out of the library.

To his bafflement, Lucius felt a sharp, savage little twist deep in his gut. Surely it could not be anything so absurd as…envy?

“Do sit down, my dear.” The earl indicated the chair his valet had brought for her. “You sound a trifle winded.”

Angela had run most of the way from Netherstowe, yet it was only when she’d caught sight of Lucius Daventry again that she had found herself unaccountably breathless.

“Thank you, my lord.” She lowered herself onto the seat, as the earl settled back into his favorite chair. “You’re always such an attentive host.”

Lord Daventry did not resume his seat on the footstool from which he had risen so abruptly when she’d entered the room. Instead he skulked some distance away with his hands clasped behind his back, regarding her with an expression of thinly veiled wariness.

Clearly her unexpected arrival had put him on his guard, the way his appearance at Netherstowe had put Angela on hers. Forgetting for a moment her intent to show the man some compassion, she wondered how he liked this taste of his own medicine.

Perhaps he feared she might break down and tell the earl of his doctor’s dire prediction. If so, Lord Daventry had vastly underestimated her.

The next words out of his mouth disabused Angela of that notion. “Shall I give the two of you some privacy to enjoy your visit?”

Though the stiffness of his question irritated her, she saw past it and silently chided herself. Lord Daventry had been enjoying a quiet, private moment with his beloved grandfather, which she had interrupted. How many more such moments might they have in the coming weeks?

“Please don’t go, my lord!”

“No indeed,” insisted the earl in a voice that must have once been rich and resonant like his grandson’s but which now put Angela in mind of threadbare satin. “It is not as though Miss Lacewood has come courting me. I should be the one to withdraw and give the two of you a private moment.”

He shook his head and gave a soft chuckle. “But I don’t intend to.”

Angela fought a losing battle against the stinging blush that crept into her cheeks. At the same time, a yawning emptiness gaped within her, one that she sensed was but a foretaste of the bottomless void her dear friend’s passing would create in her life.

“I leave subtlety to the young,” said the earl. “You have time for it. At my age, I fear one must be indelicately frank if one expects to achieve one’s aims.”

He wagged his forefinger at Angela. “So no maidenly evasion about what brought you to Helmhurst, my dear. I hope you won’t hold it against my grandson that he told me he proposed to you.”

“Grandfather!” barked Lord Daventry.

The earl dismissed his grandson’s protest with a slight wave of his hand. “Carruthers and I extracted the confession under torture, of that you may be certain.”

For some reason the dry quip made Angela’s eyes prickle with tears she dared not shed.

Perhaps Lord Daventry sensed her distress, for he provided her a reasonable cover. “Please, Grandfather, you are embarrassing Miss Lacewood.”

She raised a hand to shield her brow, which gave her the moment she needed to compose herself.

“Is that so, my dear?” The earl sounded both surprised and contrite. “Well, you must pardon me as an old friend and an old fool. You know I’d never willingly do anything to distress you.”

Angela reached for his hand. She would not see the earl’s final months marred by the least shadow that was within her power to dispel.

“I’ve never doubted your kind intentions toward me, sir.” She hoped he would attribute any slight moisture in her eyes to excessive modesty. “It’s just that this has all taken me so greatly by surprise. I had no idea Lord Daventry knew of my existence, let alone that he entertained…tender feelings for me.”

She stole a glance in the baron’s direction only to find his gaze averted. His demeanor appeared as imperturbable as ever, yet it reminded Angela of the smooth surface of simmering water just prior to boiling.

She almost fancied she could hear his thoughts—Tender feelings, indeed!

Somehow, believing she had flustered him, even a little, restored a bit of her composure, which he had so thoroughly rattled.

The earl seemed to enjoy sporting with his grandson, too. “You may depend upon it that I have made my grandson favorably aware of your existence, dear child.”

“I hope you have not sung my praises so loud that Lord Daventry finds I cannot live up to your account of me.”

“On the contrary,” replied the earl with obvious relish. “He said I failed to do you justice.”

“Really, Grandfather!” cried Lord Daventry, confirming Angela’s suspicion about the simmering water. “If you mean to go on like this, then perhaps one of us should make himself scarce.”

“Nonsense.” The earl showed no sign of repentance. “What is wrong with relaying a word of praise to a young lady so vastly deserving of it.”

He turned to Angela. “No wonder you refused him, my dear, with that attitude. I expect his marriage proposal had all the romantic trappings of a legal writ.”

“Enough of this.” Lord Daventry stalked toward the library door. “I shall leave the pair of you to abuse me to your hearts’ content.”

A sickening tide of shame propelled Angela out of her chair to come between Lucius Daventry and his means of escape. “Please, my lord, don’t go.”

Though she knew her next words would probably vex him, she could not fathom why. Not that it mattered, for she could not bite them back. “I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to torment you, truly.”

“Speak for yourself, girl.” The earl leaned farther back in his chair, resting his chin against his clasped hands. “I have been chaffing my grandson like this since he was half his present size. He’s never taken an ounce of umbrage until today, which may betray his partiality for you.”

Angela cast the earl a look of pretended severity. “I think you had better stop it before you change his opinion of me.”

She raised her eyes to Lord Daventry. “Shall we punish your grandfather by going away to talk in private?”

The corners of the baron’s firm lips raised ever so slightly. “It would serve him right, the old meddler.”

“Away with you, then.” The earl made a great show of picking up a book from the small table beside his chair. “Be warned, though, I am apt to sulk.”

He was only teasing, Angela knew, but since this was all meant to be for his benefit, she did not want the earl to miss a moment of their performance.

“In that case—” She addressed herself to Lord Daventry “—I came to tell you that I hope you did not mistake my hesitation in accepting your proposal as a sign that I meant to refuse. From what your grandfather has said, I fear you have.”

“I could scarcely blame you,” the baron replied. “My grandfather is right—it was badly done on my part and far too precipitous. I…apologize.”

“Does that mean you wish to withdraw your offer?” she asked, not entirely certain how she hoped he would answer.

Before Lord Daventry could reply, the earl spoke up. “Not unless he wishes me to hurl this book at his head.”

Perhaps the baron heard the gleeful ring in his grandfather’s voice, for his compelling green gaze searched hers, wordlessly inquiring if she could tolerate the two of them going on like this for…as long as necessary.

He had said her face was an open book. Now Angela hoped he could read her unspoken response, for suddenly she knew what answer she wanted from him.

“My offer stands, Miss Lacewood.” He held out his hand to her. “And not because I entertain any fear of my grandfather braining me with his volume of Rasselas.”

When she placed her hand in his, Lord Daventry bowed over it, grazing her fingers with his lips. The chaste gesture made Angela feel as if she were a saucer brimming with syllabub—frothy and intoxicating.

“In that case, Lord Daventry, I accept.” Before she realized what she was doing, Angela raised his hand to her lips to seal their bargain.

“Marvelous!” The earl applauded their convincing performance.

That was all it had been, Angela told herself, a command performance to entertain and edify a very special audience.

During the coming weeks, she must take care to remember that, and not fall under the perilous illusion that Lord Lucifer was capable of caring for her.

Or she for him.

The sensation of Angela Lacewood’s divine lips grazing the back of his fingers brought all manner of provocative, unwelcome memories whispering through Lucius. In his younger years, when his looks had made women swoon, he’d been something of a rakehell, gorging himself on a banquet of pleasures afforded by his wealth, his title and his handsome countenance.

Since the war, and the disfigurement that made women swoon for the opposite reason, he had become as devoted a celibate as he had once been a libertine. Until just now, Lucius Daventry had not realized how little he’d missed the shallow diversions of his youth.

But, his lovely, new fiancée threatened to rouse the sleeping hunger within him, damn her!

The earl held out his hands to Lucius and Angela. “I believe this calls for a toast!”

Lucius made every effort not to drop Miss Lacewood’s hand too abruptly, while battling an equally fierce inclination to kiss it again.

Toast, indeed! They could toast his peace of mind like a crumpet over the glowing coals of his rekindled lust.

“Tell Carruthers to fetch us a bottle of our best champagne from the cellar,” the earl ordered Lucius. “On second thought, have him hunt up three or four so the servants may also drink to your happiness.”

The gleam of delight in his grandfather’s eyes countered the reservations that gnawed at Lucius. Three months would pass by far too quickly. Besides, what was a gift worth without a little sacrifice?

“You don’t want to set the cook drunk, and have her burn our dinner,” he said as he set off to relay the earl’s instructions.

“Drink half a dozen toasts and we’ll never notice.” The earl beckoned Miss Lacewood toward him.

Lucius hesitated at the library door long enough to see her stoop and ask, “May I call you Grandfather from now on?”

The earl pulled her into his embrace, “My dearest girl, nothing could make me happier!”

As Lucius watched them together, a foolish, wistful ache settled deep in his belly. With dogged effort, he reinforced his flagging composure and hurried off to order the wine.

He returned to the library a few minutes later to hear his grandfather ask Miss Lacewood, “How soon shall we set the date? June is always a pleasant month for weddings.”

Set a date? A bottomless sensation engulfed Lucius, as though the library’s parquet floor had suddenly opened up beneath his feet.

Before he could stammer out something that might have exposed their ruse to the earl, as well as making himself sound a complete ass, Miss Lacewood came to his rescue.

“We dare not make plans until my aunt and uncle return from the Continent. In fact, I probably shouldn’t have accepted Lord Daventry’s proposal without their permission.”

Lucius privately applauded her quick thinking.

“Old Bulwick?” scoffed the earl, who bettered his neighbor’s age by at least two decades. “Nonsense! You’ve reached years of discretion?”

“Decidedly on the shelf,” Miss Lacewood admitted. “I don’t doubt my aunt and uncle will be delighted to see me make such a fine match, at last. However, they can be somewhat…jealous of their privileges.”

“Yes, yes,” the earl grumbled. “Since you’ll be remaining in the neighborhood, I suppose we ought not to offend your relations by wedding you off in their absence.”

Carruthers appeared just then, bearing a tray with three tall slender glasses and a bottle of champagne. With a murmur of thanks, Lucius set about uncorking and pouring the wine.

Once in possession of his glass, the earl raised it toward Miss Lacewood in a salute. “Let us drink to the most beautiful addition to the Daventry family in many a year—my dear Angela. I hope I may take the liberty of calling you by your name, since you propose to call me Grandfather.”

She nodded, lowering her gaze while a self-conscious little smile hovered on her lips.

“To Angela.” Lucius raised his glass, adding his voice to his grandfather’s. Her name sparkled on his tongue with an intoxicating sweetness that rivaled the champagne.

The earl sipped his wine and gave an approving nod.

“Anxious as I am to see you settled, perhaps a long betrothal is not a bad thing in your case. The two of you need some time to become better acquainted before you marry.”

Before Lucius could voice his agreement, the earl added, “Of course, I know why you’ve gone and gotten yourselves engaged in the first place.”

Lucius felt his jaw go slack as his fiancée sputtered her champagne.

Chapter Four

Champagne dancing its way down her throat was one of the sweetest luxuries Angela had ever enjoyed. Champagne surging back up, its innocent little bubbles scouring the back of her throat and nose, was another matter entirely!

When she heard the earl declare that he knew the true reason behind her engagement to his grandson, she could not stifle a gasp, which set her choking on her wine. Her eyes watered and she struggled to catch her breath between bouts of violent coughing.

She managed to hold on to her champagne flute long enough for a steadier hand to take it from her. A moment later she felt Lord Daventry gently tapping her on the back.

“Are you all right, Angela?” he asked. “Can I get anything for you?”

If she’d been able to reply, she might have told him it did no good posing questions to someone who was coughing too hard to speak. All the same, the warm concern of his tone eased her enough that she was able to catch her breath again. Before long, she had her coughing under control.

“Poor child!” The earl sounded flustered. “I hope you didn’t think I was implying any sinister motive to your betrothal. I only meant that I know you’ve both undertaken it to please me, in which you have heartily succeeded, I assure you.”

Angela felt doubly foolish. She should have known the earl was not referring to his doctors’ grim predictions. Now her excessive reaction to his remark might rouse his suspicions.

Fortunately, a lifetime of practice smoothing over her many blunders came to Angela’s rescue. “It had nothing to do with anything you said, my lord, truly. This was the first time I’d drunk champagne, that’s all. The bubbles tickled the back of my throat.”

“First taste of champagne?” The earl shook his head at his grandson. “And Bulwick fancies himself a gentleman?”

The hand with which Lord Daventry had been patting Angela’s back came to rest there for a moment, in what he might have meant as a comradely gesture of approval for her quick thinking.

Her reaction to his innocent touch was anything but innocent. A dark, ravenous energy stirred within her and began to rove through her flesh. Her thoughts swarmed with longsup-pressed curiosity about the mysterious rites of lovers.

To her vast relief, those immodest fancies did not blaze on her face for the gentlemen to see.

“Sip slowly, my dear, if you are not used to it,” the earl advised her in a most solicitous tone before taking a drink himself.

Lord Daventry left Angela’s side to refill her glass. His brief touch had made her hunger for more. When he returned with her champagne she made a deliberate effort to brush her fingers against his when he handed the flute to her.

Was it possible he felt something of the strange force he had excited in her? she wondered as he lifted his gaze to hers and held it for a taut, expectant instant.

The earl’s voice broke in on their fleeting private moment. “Perhaps I should be ashamed of myself for meddling in your lives.” He regarded Angela and his grandson with transparent satisfaction. “But I’m not. This modern notion of love matches is folly if you ask me. Let a young man choose his own mistress, I say, but let him be guided by his elders in the choice of a wife.”

“You needn’t preach to me, Grandfather. I quite agree.” As Lord Daventry retreated to the mantel with his own champagne, he tossed the remark off in such a casual tone that Angela decided she must have imagined the potent flicker of awareness between them.

Hoping to quench her own futile preoccupation with his lordship, Angela savored a deep draft of her wine, and then another.

“Wise boy,” the earl commended his grandson. “It occurs to me that if I must postpone the happy occupation of planning a wedding, we might at least celebrate your betrothal properly.”

“Forgive me.” Lord Daventry lifted his glass, from which he’d scarcely taken a drink. “I thought that’s what we’re doing.”

Either the earl did not hear, or he chose to ignore his grandson’s comment.

“A ball!” he cried, then immediately toasted his idea with another drink. “I’ve become an awful old recluse these past few years, turning down invitations and never going out anywhere. It’s time I rectified that by hosting a gathering.”

A ball? For her? Under ordinary circumstances the prospect would have filled Angela with alarm. At the moment it sounded a perfectly jolly idea. She suspected that might be due to the glass of champagne she’d emptied so quickly, but she didn’t care.

A ball. The very word conjured up visions from fairy stories, for Angela had no firsthand experience to counter them.

Invitations to her cousins, Clemence and Camilla, had never included her. Aunt Hester thought the local Assembly Hall quite beneath the notice of her household, so Angela had never been allowed to go there. Uncle sometimes hosted house parties at which there might be a little dancing. But they were nothing compared to a real ball at a great house like Helmhurst.

With herself as the guest of honor.

“A ball?” Lord Daventry’s voice slashed through her soap bubble and rainbow daydreams. “Have you taken leave of your senses, Grandfather?”

That miserable man! Angela’s lower lip thrust out. He wouldn’t let her have any fun at all out of this engagement, would he?

Before the earl could reply, Angela took up her cudgels on his behalf. “Where are your manners, Lucius Daventry? That’s no way to speak to your grandfather. And what’s wrong with a ball, if I may ask? You make it sound like some sort of debauchery.”

She had just enough discretion left to keep from calling him Lord Lucifer to his face, or suggesting that a night of debauchery might accord well with his wicked reputation.

What if Tibby was right about Lord Lucifer after all? Angela wondered as she met his baleful glare. What if he did put curses on people?

Good Lord! Lucius cursed under his breath. A single glass of champagne and the silly chit was foxed.

He could barely refrain from groaning, especially when his grandfather appeared to endorse the young lady’s tipsy talk.

“Angela’s quite right, my boy.” The earl lobbed his words back at Lucius. “In the first place, I taught you better manners than that, and in the second, I believe this engagement of yours is the perfect excuse for a little festivity.”

All his old friends…and enemies strutting about his quiet sanctuary, staring at his masked face, whispering to one another about what had happened to him. Poor Daventry. Such a shame. And he used to be so handsome—the toast of the ton.

Why didn’t the old man just order one of his limbs amputated for amusement? Lucius wondered. Perhaps his helpful fiancée could wield the surgeon’s saw, damn her!

Angela rose from her chair and walked toward Lucius with a weaving gait that looked graceful but precarious.

“If a ball to celebrate our engagement will amuse your grandfather, isn’t that reason enough for us to agree?” Her large liquid eyes and lopsided smile beseeched him in a manner he found difficult to resist. “After all, wasn’t that the whole point of—?”

He had to silence the fuddled little fool before she blurted out everything. Perhaps because he’d thought more about kissing in the past several hours than he had in the previous three years, Lucius seized on the one means to quiet his fiancée that would least arouse his grandfather’s suspicions.

Catching Angela’s hand, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her as if he meant it. That would teach the little goose to mind her tongue!

He had not forgotten how to kiss a woman, Lucius was gratified to discover, as he claimed Angela’s delectable lips. What he had forgotten, or tried to forget, was how it felt to kiss a woman.

Unless this one was somehow different from all the others.

The aftertaste of champagne he imbibed from her had the most delicate bouquet, with heightened sweetness and sparkle. His head began to spin as though he’d guzzled an entire bottle. He finally parted from her as reluctantly as a drunkard from his favorite bottle.

His kiss had the effect he’d hoped in temporarily robbing Angela of speech. Lucius had not anticipated that it might have a similar effect upon him.

Meanwhile, the earl continued to sit with his back to them, sipping his champagne and turning a deaf ear to whatever minor liberties the newly betrothed couple might be taking.

“D-did it ever occur to you,” Lucius asked, when he had finally regained command of his vocal organs, “that I might prefer to keep my engagement a private matter?”

Though he addressed his grandfather, Lucius shot Angela a look that he hoped would penetrate her tipsy haze and the dumbstruck outrage of his sudden kiss.

The more public their engagement, the more difficult it would be to break when the time came. Not that Lucius cared much on his own account, but the scandal might ruin Angela’s chances of contracting a proper marriage later on.

Why did the prospect of her wedding someone else bring such a sour taste to his mouth?

“Privacy is one thing, my dear boy,” replied the earl, “but this smacks of something furtive. Surely you don’t wish to encourage any ridiculous tattle that you’re ashamed of this connection?”

“Of course not!”

Lucius stalked over to the side table where the champagne bottle rested. He needed another drink. He also needed to put some distance between himself and Angela, lest the urge to kiss her again should overpower him.

“I doubt anyone will think such a thing simply because you fail to host a ball. It’s well-known I’ve retired from society.”

The earl gazed heavenward. “That has fueled enough unsavory gossip to tarnish our family name for a generation. I, for one, am anxious to lay such malicious talk to rest. A lavish celebration of your betrothal to a sweet, beautiful young lady like Angela should go a long way to rehabilitate your reputation.”

For such a frail old stick, his grandfather had a will of iron, Lucius mused with a mixture of annoyance and admiration. The earl would not be balked. He would keep answering every objection Lucius threw up, raising the matter tomorrow and the next day and the next until he wore his grandson down.

It didn’t help that his grandfather had recruited an ally in Angela Lacewood. From halfway across the large room, her wistful, coaxing gaze found Lucius with the power and precision of a well-aimed artillery barrage.

Surely she didn’t believe he would be ashamed to wed a beauty like her?

Lucius bolted another drink of champagne. He had one last scrap of ammunition. Though it was of a powerful calibre, particularly against Angela’s soft heart, pride made him shrink from deploying it.

“Do either of you understand what you’re asking of me? To spend an evening under the glare of chandeliers?”

The looks on both their faces told him he need not mention the glare of so many curious stares.

“Apologies, my boy,” the earl murmured. “I hadn’t considered that.”

His grandfather looked so disappointed Lucius rather wished he’d held his tongue. As Angela had been about to say before he’d stopped her with his kiss, the whole point of their sham engagement was to make the earl’s last months happy. Compared with what he’d already undertaken in that cause, what was one little ball?

“I know!” cried Angela. “What if we don’t hold it indoors under all those bright lights?”

Once again she approached him with unsteady steps. Was she not afraid he might kiss her again?

“Helmhurst has some of the most charming grounds in the country. Why don’t we hold the ball outside, under the stars?” As the soft shine of starlight shimmered in her eyes, Lucius knew he was lost.

“By Jove!” The earl clapped his hands like a child delighted with a new plaything. “What a clever idea, my dear!”

“That champagne has put lots of clever ideas in my head.” Angela held Lucius in her gaze. “Could we not make this outdoor ball a masquerade, as well?”

A masquerade? What could he say to that? His appearance might not draw a single curious glance among a throng of masked guests.

“If you are both so resolved upon it—” Lucius looked from his grandfather to Angela “—I suppose I have no choice but to surrender. A ball you want, then a ball you shall have. So novel and magnificent a ball it will give the ton something pleasant to gossip about for a change.”

“Do you mean it?” Angela looked ready to throw her arms around him, but at the last moment she curbed her tipsy elation in favor of grasping his hand instead. “Thank you!”

Lucius almost succeeded in convincing himself that he approved of her tardy display of discretion.

Was it the champagne making her throw caution to the winds? Angela wondered in a curiously detached sort of way as she clung to Lucius Daventry’s hand. Or was it the unsettling effect his presence continued to work upon her?

So much about his stance and manner demanded she keep her distance. Yet, some contrary force, of which he seemed unaware, called to her. As potent as it was puzzling, that force left her with no choice but to respond.

If his lordship had intended the swift, heart-stopping kiss he’d thrust upon her to punish her for opposing him, or frighten her into being more compliant in future, he had made a grave miscalculation. From the moment he’d left her clinging to the mantelpiece to keep from melting to the floor, she’d begun to wonder how she might provoke him into another one.

When he’d executed a sudden about-face, agreeing to host a ball for her, Angela had wanted very much to kiss him.

But she couldn’t, no matter how much champagne she had in her belly. For many years she had made the mistake of trying to give affection where it was not wanted. Bitter experience had cured her of that tendency.

“I knew you’d come around, my boy.” The earl could not have sounded better pleased if his grandson had agreed to the ball straightaway.

Lord Daventry extracted his hand from Angela’s eager grip. “If there’s one lesson I learned under General Wellington, it’s to know when I’m outgunned.”

“Don’t sulk,” said the earl. “You’ll have a splendid time. We all will.”

Before Lord Daventry could phrase a pithy reply, a familiar, discreet knock sounded on the library door and the earl bid his valet to enter.

“The household wishes to thank milords for the champagne and to extend our compliments to Lord Daventry and Miss Lacewood on the happy news of their engagement.” The only sign that Carruthers had partaken of the celebratory refreshment was a rather glassy stare. “Also, milords, Cook begs to inquire whether Miss Lacewood will be staying to dinner.”

“Indeed she will.” Belatedly the earl cast a glance at Angela. “You will, won’t you, my dear? We can discuss the guest list for this ball of ours.”

A wave of dismay broke over Angela as she exchanged fond smiles with her dearest friend. Nothing would induce her to shadow his remaining time with the knowledge of how brief it would be. But the champagne had loosened her tongue and eroded her natural discretion.

She had better not stay to risk a blunder from which Lord Daventry might not be able to rescue her.

“I wish I could.” She shook her head. “But I promised Tibby I’d be home for supper. She’ll worry if I don’t get back soon.”

Seeing the earl’s disappointment, she added, “Tomorrow night, perhaps? Now that I’m to be one of the family, may I invite myself to dinner?”

“From now on, a place will be set for you every evening,” the earl assured her. “Carruthers, order the gig harnessed so Lord Daventry can drive Miss Lacewood back to Netherstowe in time for her dinner.”

“That’s not necessary.” Angela was not certain she could trust herself alone with Lucius Daventry in her present condition. “I’ve been coming and going from Helmhurst on foot for years.”

“Never this late,” the earl countered. “Besides, it looks apt to rain.”

The set of his countenance told Angela he was no more likely to be swayed over this than he had in the matter of the ball.

“Very well, then. Thank you.” She stole a quick glance at Lord Daventry.

Though he had raised no objection and his features betrayed nothing beyond polite resignation, Angela knew he could be no better pleased with the arrangements than she.

Indeed, Lord Daventry’s silence spoke eloquently for him. He uttered scarcely a word as Angela and the earl said their goodbyes and made plans for the next day. With mute courtesy he escorted her to the forecourt, where a trim two-wheeled carriage with a leather canopy awaited them.

The distance between Helmhurst and Netherstowe was much greater by road than crosscoun-try. Lord Daventry appeared ready to maintain his silence the whole way. As they drove along the deserted country road, rain kept up a gentle patter against the canopy, while the horse’s hooves beat a muted rhythm. Dark, weeping clouds dimmed the waning daylight to a level the baron seemed able to tolerate but which Angela found dismal.

Her light, bubbly humor, induced by the champagne, had since soured and gone flat. Lord Daventry’s brooding, stone-faced silence reproached Angela more harshly than words could have done. In Lord Bulwick’s household, displeasure was frequently expressed by not speaking.

Angela’s accustomed response to such wordless censure had always been to make herself as inconspicuous as possible until she was tacitly forgiven, soothing her injured feelings with sweets from Tibby’s pantry. But there was nowhere to hide in the little gig and not so much as a peppermint drop or lemon pastille to comfort her.

A tempest brewed in Angela’s breast until she could no longer contain it. “Go ahead and say what you’re thinking, Lord Daventry!”

Her sudden outburst startled the horse, who tossed its mane and whinnied.

Lucius Daventry kept looking straight ahead at the road. “I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about, Miss Lacewood.”

Angela knew she should not say anything more, but it was such a great relief to vent her feelings that she couldn’t turn back. “If you expect me to believe that, you must think me insufferably stupid, in addition to everything else.”

“Everything else?”

Though she could only see the masked half of his face in profile, Angela could picture his other brow raised.

“You know,” she insisted, “bothersome, unreliable and…about as pleasant to kiss as that horse!”

The flesh of his lean, angular cheek tensed. Could he be fighting back a smile?

Lord Daventry pulled hard on the reins. The horse and gig came to a stop on a lonely strip of road that skirted the base of a tall hill.

The baron looked more than a little menacing as he turned to face her. Suddenly Tibby’s dire warnings about Lord Lucifer did not seem quite so ridiculous.

“Very well, Miss Lacewood. Since you demand to know what I’m thinking and since you seem determined to attribute all manner of disagreeable opinions to me, I am compelled to set the record straight between us.”

Angela braced herself.

Lord Daventry looked so severe. Perhaps he thought even worse of her than she’d suspected. Bad enough imagining someone’s low opinion of her. Were there enough jam buns in the whole county to soothe her crushed feelings once she’d heard the blunt truth from his lordship’s own lips?

“I think you are every bit as meddlesome as my grandfather, in your own way,” the baron began. “And I fear the two of you will use this betrothal to reform a reputation I would prefer to keep. Not to mention turn the life with which I am perfectly content upside down and inside out.”

Compared to what Angela had been expecting, this sounded almost like praise.

She opened her mouth to reply, but Lord Daventry raised his hand. “You ordered me to tell you what I think, Miss Lacewood. Kindly have the courtesy to hear me out.”

So there was more to come. Angela pressed her lips together.

“I think you had better avoid champagne in future unless you wish to commit an indiscretion. And finally, though I have never touched lips with a horse, I believe I can say with some authority that yours are far preferable to kiss.”

As abruptly as he had stopped the gig, Lord Daventry flicked the reins again and turned his attention back to driving. Angela sat beside him, steeled for a blow that had never come.

Perhaps his gruff but temperate words emboldened her. Or perhaps the aftereffects of the champagne continued to loosen her tongue. “You’ve kissed a lot of women, haven’t you?”

“At one time,” he replied after a significant hesitation. “See here, I’m sorry I kissed you, but not because I found it unpleasant. Now, can we talk about something else?”

Did that mean he’d found it pleasant? As pleasant as she had?

They turned into the long lane that wound its way to Netherstowe. Before Angela could think of another topic of conversation, the gig had drawn to a halt before the front entrance.

Lord Daventry climbed out, then came around to Angela’s side of the carriage to help her down. In spite of the rain, they stood there for an awkward moment of parting, forgetting to release each other’s hand.

Angela stared up at the baron, pondering the mysteries guarded by his inscrutable green gaze. “If you ever need to kiss me again…I won’t mind.”

A flash of savage intensity blazed in his eyes just then, like a jagged bolt of lightning across a dark sky. “Let us hope the need will never arise.”

If he had spit in her face, Angela could not have felt more thoroughly mortified. Wrenching her fingers from his grasp, she ran into the house and slammed the door behind her for the second time that day.

Had Lord Daventry thought she was begging him for something he could not give her? Well, she hadn’t been!

Had she?

Angela wished she could be certain.

Chapter Five

“What do you want with me?” Miles Lacewood squinted into the dimly lit study his housemaster had made available to Lucius for this meeting. “And who are you?”

Was it only yesterday he had been posed those same questions by the boy’s sister at Netherstowe? His tightly guarded emotions had been pushed and pulled in so many directions since then, it seemed to Lucius that a fortnight must have passed.

“Lord Daventry of Helmhurst,” he introduced himself, “a neighbor of your uncle’s.”

The boy’s eyes widened. He was a well-made lad, tall for his age, with the same fair coloring as his sister. “What brings you to my school, sir? Nothing’s happened to Angela, has it?”

Not the kind of calamity young Mr. Lacewood anticipated, perhaps.

“Your sister is perfectly well, if that’s what you mean. But something has occurred which will be to her benefit, and to yours, I hope.” As always, Lucius chose his words with care. He did not want to speak of marriage or wedding when he intended neither. “Miss Angela and I became engaged yesterday.”

“You must be joking.” The boy had not meant to give voice to his thought, Lucius could tell, but the shock of the news had forced it out of him.

Young Lacewood had better learn to govern his tongue if he hoped to get on in the army.

“What makes you think I’m in jest?”

“I…that is…” The lad struggled to remedy his blunder. “I wasn’t aware that you and Angela knew each other…so well.”

“For some years, your sister has regularly visited my grandfather at Helmhurst.”

The boy shrugged. “She never mentioned meeting you during those visits.”

The implied misgivings about a connection between him and Angela Lacewood rubbed Lucius the wrong way. “Does your sister tell you about everyone she meets?”

The boy considered his lordship’s question for a long moment. “Evidently not.”

“Enough of this,” snapped Lucius. “I assure you, we are betrothed. You may confirm the fact with your sister whenever you wish.”

He turned his head, as though something in the housemaster’s book-cluttered study had caught his attention. In fact, Miles Lacewood’s frank stare at his mask unsettled Lucius. He sought to shield himself from it as he would have shielded his injured eye from the sun’s relentless glare.

“You are completing your final term here,” he continued. “I understand you would like to join your father’s old regiment once your schooling is finished.”

“The Twenty-Ninth Light Dragoons, sir.” In his eagerness, the boy seemed to forget both his surprise over his sister’s sudden engagement, and his wariness of Lord Daventry. “If only I could persuade Uncle Bulwick to buy me a commission. He’s set on my going into the city, though.”

Miles Lacewood wrinkled his well-shaped nose as if he could smell the drainage ditches of London’s East End.

Lucius wished the lad did not remind him so forcefully of himself in his younger years. “While you’d rather be off in India, riding, playing polo and pigsticking?”

“I know there’s a sight more to it than that, sir.” The boy’s whole face radiated enthusiasm for the soldiering life, just the same. “My father was killed at Laswaree when I was four years old. I still remember how splendid he looked in his uniform and how he used to hoist me up onto this saddle for a ride.”

Lucius envied the boy’s memories of his father. “I sympathize with your eagerness to follow in his footsteps. Growing up, I felt the same way about my father.”

Something compelled him to add, “You know, if our fathers had lived, I believe they might have encouraged us to pursue other paths in life.”

How many officers’ widows, desperate to sanctify their loss, had primed their sons to take up arms as they grew to manhood? Lucius wondered.

His own, certainly. Mrs. Lacewood, too?

“It wouldn’t matter.” The boy shook his head. “Soldiering is all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

“In that case—” Lucius quenched a pang of guilt over what he was about to propose “—I am willing to purchase a commission for you, if you wish it.”

“No!”

The boy’s abrupt turnabout from his earlier show of eagerness caught Lucius by surprise. “Didn’t you just say…?”

“I said I wanted to join my father’s old regiment.” The longing for it ached in Miles Lacewood’s candid brown eyes, which reminded Lucius too much of Angela’s. “I didn’t say I would sell my sister for a commission.”

“Sell your…?” Lucius fancied he could feel the slap of leather against his cheek. “That remark shows a decided want of delicacy, young man!”

“Delicate or not, that’s why Angela agreed to marry you, isn’t it?” The boy took a step toward Lucius, obviously afraid but refusing to be intimidated. “So you would do this for me?”

Lucius swung about to meet the lad’s indignant glare. His pride smarted at the suggestion that no woman would marry him except to gain advantage of fortune, though he had insisted the same thing to himself time and again. Had it been a futile attempt to toughen himself against the day he would hear the indictment from someone else?

“You credit your sister’s concern for your welfare, my boy, but you underestimate both her good sense and her integrity.” Lucius found himself grateful to Angela for making what he was about to say true.

“Whatever her private reasons for accepting my proposal, she refused my offer to buy you a commission. I insisted. Though if you’d prefer to work as a glorified clerk in some airless little office in the city, be my guest.”

“No!” Miles Lacewood cried for the second time in a very few minutes. This time a pleading note had replaced his earlier indignation. “Perhaps I was too hasty. I did not want Angela obligated to you on my account. If you had a sister, I believe you would understand, my lord.”

“I do understand. The attitude does you credit, my boy.” Lucius had seen too many men eager to sacrifice the happiness of their sisters or daughters for their own advantage.

“If you care for Angela and she for you, then I am grateful enough that you have made her an honorable proposal.” The boy flashed a frank, good-natured smile and held out his hand to Lucius. “I’ve always secretly hankered to have a brother.”

So had he. Yet Lucius found himself hesitant to grasp Miles Lacewood’s hand. He could not help feeling it would confirm all those innocent falsehoods the boy seemed anxious to believe.

He did not care for Angela Lacewood, no matter how much she had preoccupied his thoughts in the past twenty-four hours. Neither did the young lady care for him, in spite of her charitable offer to suffer another of his kisses as a means to convince the earl of their mutual devotion. He hadn’t made Miss Lacewood the kind of honorable proposal her brother believed.

She would never have accepted him if he had.

This was not a convenient time for an attack of scruples, Lucius decided as he forced himself to shake hands with Miles Lacewood. “Then let us sit down and talk some more about this commission business.”

The boy considered for a moment. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to talk.”

Lucius Daventry recognized a tone of surrender when he heard it. So far his campaign was progressing according to plan, with one slight but troublesome exception—his inconvenient fascination with Angela Lacewood.

If he was not very careful in future, Lucius feared his beautiful fiancée might begin to wield an undesirable influence over him.

For the first time in years of frequent visits to Helmhurst, Angela found her senses on heightened alert. She scanned the wide gallery, vigilant for any half-opened door or someone lurking behind a piece of statuary. She listened for the faintest footstep or squeaking door hinge behind her.

What foolishness! she chided herself. In the middle of a bright morning, with golden spring sunshine pouring through the tall windows that lined the outer wall of the gallery, she was in no danger of encountering Lucius Daventry.

Just because he had ventured out in daylight yesterday did not mean his lordship meant to break from his customary habits altogether. In the three years since he’d returned home from the war, she had only glimpsed him from a distance once or twice.

All the time she’d been paying her visits to the earl, Lord Daventry had been somewhere on the floor above in a shuttered and curtained room, enjoying his daytime slumber. He was probably asleep upstairs at this very moment.

The thought of it lulled her apprehension of meeting him again so soon after their awkward parting of the previous night. Yet at the same time it stirred a potent awareness of his presence in the house, as well as an unseemly curiosity.

Did his lordship sleep in a nightshirt? Or did he sprawl naked beneath the bedclothes, wrapped in the subtle but provocative musk of sleep? While Angela made her way toward the earl’s library, her imagination hovered over the slumbering form of Lord Lucifer.

“There you are at last, my dear!” cried the earl when she stepped into the room. “I was beginning to fear you’d had second thoughts about marrying my grandson, and had deserted me as a result.”

“Never!” Angela protested. “I overslept this morning, that’s all.”

After a night tossing and turning with second, third and fourth thoughts about the wisdom of accepting Lord Daventry’s offer. Only the fear that backing out so soon would make it too awkward to visit Helmhurst had decided her to proceed with their unorthodox engagement.

“What shall we do today?” she asked brightly, hoping to distract the earl from any further talk of Lord Daventry. “Read? Play chess? Shall I write a letter for you?”

“No, no, no.” The earl planted his hands on the arms of his chair and pushed himself to his feet with some effort. “Have you forgotten, my dear? We have a ball to plan.”

“The ball, of course.”

Angela fetched his walking stick and offered him her elbow for support on the other side. All the while, she tried to summon up the enthusiasm she’d felt for the project last night when the earl had first proposed it.

Perhaps her eagerness had been born of too much champagne.

The earl started for the library door with steps that seemed stronger and steadier than they had in some time. “This is a fine morning to take a stroll around the grounds and talk over our plans.”

The sunshine, fresh air and mild exertion would do him good, Angela reflected. They might sharpen his appetite and make him sleep more soundly. Planning for the ball would give him something to look forward to. Something to occupy his energy without overtaxing it.

The earl’s enthusiasm for this match between her and his grandson was obviously proving a tonic. Could it be that, taken together, they might provide powerful enough medicine to extend his days beyond the physicians’ grim reckoning?

“I take it Lord Daventry will not be joining us?” Angela strove to keep her tone casual as she slanted a glance toward the staircase.

The earl’s valet appeared in the entryway bearing his lordship’s old-fashioned tricorn hat.

“Heavens, no.” The earl donned his hat as they stepped through the open door into the morning’s lavish sunshine. “My grandson is long gone.”

Gone where and for how long? Angela found herself wondering. The earl’s cheerful announcement should have brought her a swift sense of relief, but it didn’t. Instead a queer pang of disappointment twisted her insides. Lord Daventry’s absence mocked her shameful fancy of hovering over him while he slept.

Though she knew any sign of interest from her would only please the earl, Angela resisted betraying her curiosity about his grandson’s whereabouts.

The earl needed no prompting, though. “He was up and away long before I left my bed. Said nothing to the servants about where he was bound, but I’m told he took no luggage, so I expect him home tonight.”

They wandered down the wide path of golden-brown crushed rock that wound through Helmhurst’s formal garden, abloom in a vivid tapestry of spring flowers.

“I don’t care much where he’s gone.” The earl chuckled. “Just so long as he has. I rather like being an old hermit, but the boy is too young for that. He needs something or someone to draw him out again.”

He gave Angela’s arm a fond squeeze. “You are proving to be that someone, my dear. Just as I’d hoped.”

Angela averted her face slightly as if to drink in the manicured perfection of the garden, when in fact she hoped the brim of her bonnet would hide her face from the earl long enough for her bright blush to subside.

“I wish I could take credit for Lord Daventry’s absence, if it pleases you, Grandfather.” How she loved being able to call him that. “But I doubt I had anything to do with it.”

“Nonsense! What else could be responsible? Yesterday, for the first time in three years, my grandson ventured abroad by day. He returned home engaged to you. Today he’s off again. Logic informs us that you must be behind it somehow.”

“Perhaps,” Angela agreed, albeit reluctantly. Better the earl should credit her influence than guess that Lord Daventry might have gone off to further consult with his grandfather’s doctors.

The earl stopped and took a deep breath of the fresh spring air. “You know, I’m not such a blind old fool as to believe the pair of you love each other. But I believe you can, in time.”

He did believe it, too. The certainty radiated from him as if the bright promise of spring sunshine had taken up residence in his heart.

Angela could not bring herself to meet his steadfast gaze. A great lump of unshed tears settled in the back of her throat.

Fortunately, the earl appeared to misunderstand her chagrin. “Don’t think I fault you for accepting his proposal on other grounds, my dear. A woman must think of her future, no matter what sentimental twaddle one hears to the contrary these days.”

“I have no designs upon your grandson’s fortune, sir!” Thank heaven she could say that with a clear conscience.

The earl dismissed the notion with a swish of his walking stick. “Of course not, my dear. I should be the last to think it. But you have enough good sense not to hold his comfortable income against him. As I said last night, I know you accepted for the same reason he proposed—to please an old man who dotes on you both.”

He would drive her to tears yet, drat him!

“Is it such a bad reason?” She could say that much, surely, without blurting out the truth.

“The best in the world, as far as I am concerned.” The earl winked, then immediately turned sober. “Only do leave your heart open for something more, won’t you?”

“I’ll try.” More words, ones she hadn’t meant to give voice, came tumbling out. “If Lord Daventry will let me.”

“Don’t ask his leave.” The earl began to move forward again, with greater strength in his step to match the force of his words. “What a lady does with her heart is her own business.”

She should distract the earl from the whole disconcerting subject of hearts and her relationship with Lord Daventry. Talk about the ball might do it.

Before Angela could come up with any suitably diverting remark, the earl continued. “It may take some doing, but I expect you know that. In spite of his fortune and title, my grandson has not had an easy lot in life, poor fellow. Being raised by a dusty old stick like me, to begin with.”

“You know that’s not true,” Angela insisted. “Why, he’s devoted to you, far beyond what most men are to their fathers.”

The earl looked pleased yet somehow regretful. “You may be right, though that is more to his credit than to mine. At the very least I should have taken better care in his religious education. You don’t give any credence to that silly gossip about my grandson being involved in unholy practices…do you?”

“No!” Angela hoped she sounded more certain than she felt. “Of course not!”

The earl lifted his stick, pointing toward a hill half a mile to the east. “That’s where he goes, I believe, most nights after we’ve had dinner and spent a quiet evening together. After I retire to bed.”

Angela stared toward the hill, the base of which she and Lord Daventry had skirted on the previous evening when he’d driven her home. “H-have you ever asked him what he does there?”

The earl lowered his stick by slow degrees until it hung at a dispirited angle. “Never. I’m not sure I could stomach his answer. And he has never volunteered the information.”

As they walked on a little farther in silence, it seemed to Angela as if the distant hill cast an invisible shadow over the vibrant garden.

At last the earl spoke again. “My grandson has never told me what happened to him at Waterloo, either. That is how it’s always been between us. We are both very fond of each other in our ways, I believe, but so much left unsaid.”

Angela understood, perhaps better than the earl might have realized. Lord Daventry had an air about him that firmly discouraged anyone from trespassing on his privacy. Even when the man had something important he wanted to convey, like his proposal to her, he had gone about it in such a riddling, roundabout manner that she’d almost given up listening.

Surely the earl wasn’t hoping his grandson would take her into his confidence? The very notion set Angela’s heart in a rapid, shallow beat. Like the earl, she wasn’t certain she could bear to hear what Lord Daventry might tell her.

“This is no fit talk for such a fine day,” the earl scolded himself. “We have a ball to plan—remember?”

Those words were as sweet to Angela’s ears as a cup of warm chocolate in Tibby’s kitchen at the end of a hard day.

“So we do.” She glanced around her. “Is it feasible to hold one out of doors, do you think? When I proposed the idea last night, I had rather a lot of champagne in me.”

“Tipsy or sober, it was a brilliant suggestion, my dear.”

They had come to a fork in the path. The earl tugged Angela toward the south lawn.

“What ballroom in the kingdom can compare to this?” He raised his walking stick in a sweeping gesture.

Angela had passed this way many times. A few years ago, when the earl had been stronger, the two of them had often played pall-mall here on summer evenings. Now, looking at the south lawn in a new light, she had to agree it was perfectly suited to what she’d imagined.

The broad, tiled terrace would make an ideal area for dancing, while the lawn itself was so smooth and flat it could easily be set with clusters of small tables and chairs. As for the ornamental trees that ringed the lawn…

The earl pointed toward them. “What would you think of hanging small tin lanterns from the branches?”

“Like fairy lights—marvellous!”

They enjoyed a leisurely walk, planning where the musicians should set up and where the supper buffet should go. They discussed the guest list at length, though most names the earl mentioned Angela only knew by reputation. Suddenly she was pleased on her own account that she’d suggested a masquerade.

All these illustrious guests might be less intimidating dressed up in fanciful costumes. In her own disguise, she might be able to pretend she was someone else. Not some countrified spinster living on the charity of wealthy relations, but a fine lady worthy to be the bride of a baron. If that didn’t work, she could at least hope her mask might hide the worst of her alarm.

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