Praise for the incomparable Rosemary Rogers

“A passion-filled, globe-spanning affair…”

—Publishers Weekly on Scoundrel’s Honor

“[A] perfect beach book.”

—Publishers Weekly on Bound by Love

“Sizzling sensuality, seduction and danger…

come together with a powerful, skillfully told

love story…vintage Rosemary Rogers.”

—RT Book Reviews on Scandalous Deception

“From the high roads of England to the French

countryside, this is a classic sexy, adventure romance…

Rogers continues to play on the timeless themes of the

genre, providing a wonderful, albeit nostalgic, read.

You can go home again.”

—RT Book Reviews on A Daring Passion

“The queen of historical romance.”

—New York Times Book Review

“Rogers’ legion of readers will be delighted to find that

her latest historical romance features the same brand of

arrogant, bold, and sexy hero; stubborn, beautiful, and

unconventional heroine; and passionate plot that first

made this genre wildly popular in the early 1980s.”

—Booklist on Sapphire

“Her novels are filled with adventure, excitement,

and always wildly tempestuous romance.”

—Fort Worth Star-Telegram

Bride for a Night
Rosemary Rogers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my family, my loyal readers.

Thank you for always being there!

BRIDE for a NIGHT

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER ONE

SLOANE SQUARE WAS not the finest neighborhood in London, but it was respectable and comfortably situated next to the more fashionable areas. As a rule it was occupied by members of the ton who clung to the fringes of society, or those who preferred to avoid the bustle that spilled throughout Mayfair.

And then there was Mr. Silas Dobson.

Claiming the largest mansion on a corner lot, Mr. Dobson was what was delicately known as an “upstart.” Or for those less kindly disposed, as an ill-bred mushroom who reeked of the shop despite his fortune.

He might eventually have been forgiven for his unwelcome intrusion among his betters had Silas been willing to fade quietly into the background and accept that he would always be inferior to those born into the aristocracy.

Silas, however, was not the sort of man to fade into any background.

As large as an ox, with a barrel chest and meaty face that was ruddy from the sun, he was as loud and crass as any of the hundreds of men who worked in his numerous warehouses spread throughout the city. Even worse, he made no apology for the fact he had crawled out of the gutters to make his fortune in trade. The youngest of twelve children, he had started as a dockhand before beginning to invest in high-risk cargos and eventually purchasing a number of properties that were rented out at an exorbitant fee to various shipping companies.

He was a bully without manners who had managed to insult nearly every resident in Sloane Square at least a dozen times over the past ten years.

And while he wasn’t stupid enough to believe he could ever pass as a gentleman, he was willing to use his obscene wealth to foist his only child onto society.

An impudence that did nothing to endear him to members of the ton.

Of course, their ruffled feathers were somewhat eased by the knowledge that, for all of Dobson’s wealth and bluster, he couldn’t make his tiny dab of a daughter a success.

Oh, she was pretty enough with large emerald eyes set in a perfect oval face with a delicate nose and full, rose-kissed lips. But there was something quite…earthy in her gypsy curves and unruly raven curls.

It was, however, her awkward lack of charm that ensured that she would remain a wallflower.

After all, there were always those gentlemen of breeding who were notoriously short of funds. Being a member of nobility was an expensive business, especially if one was a younger sibling without the benefit of large estates to offset the cost of being fashionable.

With a dowry well over a hundred thousand pounds, Talia should have been snatched off the marriage mart her first season, even with a boorish father who promised to be a yoke of embarrassment around the neck of his prospective son-in-law.

But, when a man added in the fact that the female was a dreaded bluestocking who could barely be induced to speak a word in public, let alone dazzle a gentleman with practiced flirtations, it all combined to leave her a source of amused pity, someone who was avoided like the plague.

Society members took pleasure in Talia’s failure. They smugly assured themselves it would be a blow to the odious Mr. Dobson and an example to other encroachers who thought they could buy a place among the aristocracy.

They might not have been so smug had they known Silas Dobson as well as his daughter did.

The son of a mere butcher did not acquire a small financial empire unless he possessed the unbridled determination to overcome any obstacle. No matter what the sacrifice.

Well aware of Silas Dobson’s ruthless willpower, Talia shuddered at the sound of her father’s bellow as it echoed through the vaulted rooms of the elegant house.

“Talia. Talia, answer me. Damned, where is the child?”

There was the muffled sound of servants rushing to provide the master of the house with the information he desired, and with a sigh Talia set aside the book on China she had been studying and cast a rueful glance about her temporary haven of peace.

Arched windows overlooked the sunken rose garden and a marble fountain that sparkled in the late May sunlight. Heavy shelves filled with leather-bound books lined the walls, and the coved ceiling high above was painted with an image of Apollo in his chariot. At one end a walnut desk was set near the carved marble fireplace that was flanked by two leather chairs. And the floor was covered by an Oriental carpet that glowed with rich crimson and sapphire.

It was a beautiful library.

Rising from one of the chairs, Talia smoothed her hands down the teal skirt of her simple muslin gown, wishing she had changed into one of the fine silk dresses that her father preferred.

Not that he would ever be pleased with her appearance, she wryly acknowledged.

Silas’s disappointment in not having a son and heir was only surpassed by his disappointment in possessing a daughter who looked more like a gypsy than one of the elegant blonde debutantes who graced the London ballrooms.

Braced for her father’s entrance, Talia managed not to flinch as he rammed open the door to the library and regarded her with an impatient glower.

“I might have known I would find you wasting your day hiding among these damnable books.” His disapproving gaze took in her plain gown and lack of jewelry. “Why did I spend a fortune on your finery if not to be out preening yourself like the other silly chits?”

“I never asked you to spend your money on my clothing,” she softly reminded him.

He snorted. “Oh, aye, I suppose you would as soon go about looking like a charwoman and have all of society think me too clutch-fisted to properly provide for my only child? A fine thing that would be.”

“That is not what I meant.”

With heavy steps, Silas moved beside the desk, his face more ruddy than usual, as if the white cravat tied around his thick neck was choking him.

Talia felt a flutter of unease. Her father only allowed his valet to wrestle him into that particular tailored gray jacket and burgundy striped waistcoat when he intended to mingle among society rather than devoting his day to his business. A rare occurrence that typically ended with her father in a foul mood and various aristocrats threatening to rid the world of Silas Dobson’s existence.

“Is it not enough that you embarrass me with your clumsy manner and dim-witted stammering?” he growled, pouring himself a generous amount of brandy from a crystal decanter.

She lowered her head, a familiar sense of failure settling in the pit of her stomach.

“I have tried my best.”

“Oh, aye, and that’s why you’re alone on this fine day while your fancy friends are attending an alfresco luncheon in Wimbledon?”

Her heart dipped in familiar disappointment. “They are not my friends, and I could hardly attend a luncheon for which I did not receive an invitation.”

“You mean to say you were slighted?” her father rasped. “By God, Lord Morrilton will hear of this.”

“No, father.” Talia lifted her head in horror. It was bad enough to be ignored when she was forced to attend the events to which she was invited. She could not bear to be a source of resentment. “I warned you, but you would not listen. You cannot purchase me a place in society, no matter how much money you spend.”

The anger suddenly faded from her father’s face to be replaced by a smug smile.

“Now that is where you are wide of the mark.”

She stilled. “What do you mean?”

“I have just returned from a most satisfying meeting with Mr. Harry Richardson, younger brother to the Earl of Ashcombe.”

Talia recognized the name, of course.

A handsome gentleman with brown hair and pale eyes, he possessed a reckless charm and a talent for shocking society with his outrageous pranks and notorious passion for gambling. He was also infamous for being deeply in debt.

Watching from the fringes, Talia had secretly concluded that the gentleman’s wild behavior had been a result of being so closely related to Lord Ashcombe.

Unlike his younger brother, Ashcombe was more than passably handsome. In fact, he was…breathtaking.

His hair was the palest gold that shimmered like satin in candlelight, and his lean features were so perfectly carved that he appeared more like a god than a mere man. His cheekbones were high and sharply chiseled, his nose was narrow and boldly arrogant, and his lips surprisingly full. His eyes…

A delicate shiver raced through Talia.

His eyes were a pale silver rimmed with black. They could glitter with cold intelligence or flare with terrifying fury. And his lean body was hard with the muscles of a natural athlete.

He was grace and power and cunning all combined together, and while he rarely made an appearance at the various gatherings, he was all but worshipped by society.

How could Harry not feel as if he were forever in the shadow of such a man? It seemed perfectly natural he would rebel in whatever manner possible.

Aware that her father was waiting for a response, Talia cleared her throat. “Did you?”

“Well, don’t sit there gaping like a trout.” The older man gave a wave of one meaty hand. “Ring for that hatchet-faced butler and tell him to bring up a bottle of that fancy French swill that cost me a bloody fortune.”

Feeling a chill of premonition feather down her spine, Talia absently tugged on the bell rope near the fireplace, her gaze never leaving the self-satisfied sneer on her father’s face.

“Father, what have you done?”

“I have purchased you a place in that stiff-rumped society, just as I said I would.” His smile widened. “One they can’t ignore.”

Talia sank onto the edge of the nearest chair, a growing sense of horror flooding through her.

“Dear lord,” she breathed.

“You can thank me, not the Almighty. He could never have performed the miracle I achieved over a boiled beefsteak and a bottle of burgundy.”

She licked her lips, trying to quell the rising panic. Perhaps it was not as bad as she feared.

Please God, do not let it be as bad as I fear.

“I assume you were at your club?”

“I was.” Silas grimaced. “Bastards. It is nothing less than barefaced highway robbery to demand that I pay a fee just to rub elbows with the tedious idiots who believe themselves above us honest folk.”

“If you find them so repulsive, then I cannot imagine why you bothered to join the club.”

“For you, you pea goose. Your mother, God rest her soul, wanted to see you respectably established and that’s what I intend to do. Not that you make it an easy matter.” Her father ran a dismissive gaze over the curls escaping from the neat bun at the nape of her neck, then at the dust that marred her skirt from climbing among the bookshelves. “I hired the most expensive governess and a dozen other instructors who promised to polish you for society, and what did I get for my money? A lump without the least appreciation for all I have sacrificed.”

Talia flinched, unable to deny her father’s accusations. He had paid an enormous sum of money in the attempt to mold her into a lady of quality. It was not his fault that she lacked the talents expected of a debutante.

She could not play the pianoforte. She could not paint or do needlepoint. She had learned the steps to the various dances, but she couldn’t seem to perform them without tripping over her own feet. And she had never been able to capture the art of flirtation.

All of these failures might have been excused had she possessed the sense to be born beautiful.

She knotted her fingers in her lap. “I do appreciate your efforts, Father, but I truly believe Mother would have wished for my happiness.”

“You know nothing,” her father snapped. “You are a silly chit who has spent too much time with your head stuck in a book. I warned that governess not to allow you to read that dodgy poetry. It’s rotted your brains.” He paused to glare at her in warning. “Thankfully, I know what is best for you.”

“And what is that?”

“Marriage to Mr. Harry Richardson.”

The room briefly went black, but Talia grimly battled back the urge to faint.

Swooning would do nothing to sway her father. Perhaps nothing would. But she had to try.

“No,” she whispered softly. “Please, no.”

Silas scowled at the tears that glittered in her eyes. “What the devil is the matter with you?”

Talia surged to her feet. “I cannot marry a stranger.”

“What do you mean, a stranger? You’ve been introduced, haven’t you?”

“Introduced, yes,” Talia agreed, willing to bet her considerable fortune that Harry Richardson could not pick her out in a crowd. Certainly he had never bothered to take notice of her since their brief introduction during her first season. “But we have exchanged barely half a dozen words.”

“Bah, people do not wed because of ballroom chit chat. A man seeks a female to provide him with a pack of brats…?.”

“Father.”

Silas snorted, his eyes narrowed. “Don’t be giving me your missish airs. I know enough of the world to call a spade a spade. A man has one need of a wife, while a female needs a man who can provide her with a home and a bit of pin money to keep her happy.”

The panic once again flared through Talia, and she sucked in a deep breath, pressing a hand to her thundering heart.

Dear Lord, she had to stop this madness.

“Then I fear you have made a poor choice,” she managed to murmur. “From what I’ve heard, Mr. Richardson is a reckless gambler and a…” Her words faltered.

“Aye?” her father prompted.

She turned to pace across the carpet, unwilling to admit that she often used her position as a forgotten wallflower to eavesdrop on the latest gossip. It made it difficult to explain how she was aware that Harry Richardson was a lecher who kept a string of beautiful and extremely expensive mistresses.

“And a gentleman incapable of providing either a home or pin money for his wife,” she instead pointed out.

Silas shrugged, obviously willing to overlook his potential son-in-law’s numerous faults so long as he could provide the necessary pedigree for his grandsons.

“Which is why I have informed him that I will be using a portion of your dowry to purchase a suitable house in Mayfair as well as to set aside an allowance for you.” He deliberately paused. “There, now you can’t be saying I haven’t done my best by you.” Best?

Talia abruptly turned to meet her father’s belligerent glare, anger burning through her at the ridiculous words. It was bad enough that Silas was willing to sacrifice her to satisfy his frustrated lust for social acceptance. But to hide behind the pretense that his only thought was for her was beyond the pale.

“Why would you choose a younger son? I thought you were determined that I should wed a title?”

“After three seasons of waiting for you to bring even one gentleman up to snuff, I accepted I had set my sights too high.” He drained the last of his brandy, his gaze sliding from her too-pale face to study the tips of his boots. “Just like when I wished to sell that chestnut nag this past spring. A man has to bear the occasional loss when he’s bartering.”

She flinched. Her father was always willing to trample her pride as well as her feelings to force her to do his bidding, but he was rarely so cruel.

“I’m not a nag to be bartered.”

His jaw tightened with determination. “Nay, you are a young lady who has a great deal too many sensibilities considering you’re close to being put on the shelf.”

“Would that be such a tragedy?” she asked softly.

“Don’t be daft, Talia,” he barked, lifting his gaze with an expression of impatience. “I have not acquired a fortune only to have it end up in the hands of some nitwitted nephew when I cock up my toes.” Stepping from the desk, he stabbed a finger toward her. “You will do your duty and provide me with a grandson who will be the flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood. He will attend Oxford and, in time, become a member of parliament. Perhaps he will even become prime minister.” A smile of smug anticipation curled his lips. “Not bad for the son of a butcher.”

“I am surprised that you do not demand a throne,” she muttered before she could cut off the words.

“I might have if you hadn’t proven to be such a disappointment.” Silas turned to stomp toward the door, clearly finished with the conversation. He had made his decision and now he expected Talia to meekly obey his command. “The wedding will be held the end of June.”

“Father—”

“And Talia, you will make certain that it is the social event of the season,” he said, overriding her soft plea and glancing over his shoulder to offer a warning glower. “Or you will pack your bags and join your Aunt Penelope in Yorkshire.”

Talia’s stomach clenched at her father’s stark threat.

Penelope Dobson was her father’s eldest sister. A bitter spinster who devoted her life to her incessant prayers and causing others misery.

After her mother’s death, Talia had spent nearly a year in her aunt’s decrepit cottage, treated little better than an unpaid servant and rarely allowed to leave her cramped rooms. That might have been bearable if the horrid woman had not taken pleasure in striking Talia with a horsewhip for the tiniest infraction of her rigid rules.

Her father was well aware that she would toss herself in the Thames before she would once again be imprisoned in Yorkshire.

Heaven help her.

CHAPTER TWO

MUCH TO TALIA’S astonishment, her wedding day dawned with a glorious sunrise that painted the cloudless sky in shades of pink and gold. It promised to be a perfect summer day. She had expected a gray, dismal morning that would have matched the impending sense of doom that had haunted her for weeks.

Even more astonishing, she appeared almost pretty in her ivory silk gown overlaid with silver gauze and sprinkled with diamonds along the low-cut bodice and the hem that stopped just above her ivory satin slippers. Her dark curls were carefully arranged in a complicated knot on top of her head and held in place by a large diamond tiara that matched the heavy necklace draped around her neck and shimmering earrings.

Gifts from her father, of course.

He was determined that her wedding would be the talk of the season, impervious to Talia’s pleas that a lavish wedding would be in poor taste considering that all of society knew that the bridegroom had been purchased with Talia’s vast dowry.

So far as Silas Dobson was concerned, discretion was for those who could not afford to toss about their money in gaudy displays of extravagance.

Reluctantly accepting that the earth was not going to open up and swallow her whole, Talia silently entered the glossy black carriage and allowed herself to be driven to the small church where the private ceremony was to take place. After the ceremony they were scheduled to return to Sloane Square for an elegant wedding breakfast with two hundred guests.

It was only when she was standing at the altar that the disaster she had been anticipating the entire day at last struck.

The rector was attired in his finest robes with a somber expression on his round face. Talia’s father was standing at her side wearing his finest black jacket and silver waistcoat. And on the other side was Talia’s only friend, Hannah Lansing, the daughter of a baronet who shared Talia’s miserable fate as a wallflower.

But there was one notable absence.

Mr. Harry Richardson was nowhere to be found.

For nearly two hours they waited for the missing bridegroom to make his appearance, while the increasingly bleak silence that had filled the church echoed in Talia’s heart.

She felt…numb. As if the humiliation of being abandoned at the altar was happening to some other unfortunate lady.

It was a sensation that refused to be dismissed even when her father had stormed from the church, swearing that the bastard would suffer for having made a fool of Silas Dobson. And when she had been forced to return to the house and announce to the two hundred avid, twittering guests that the wedding had been regrettably postponed.

Or now, as she sat in her private sitting room decorated in soothing shades of lavender and ivory.

Perched on the edge of the window seat that overlooked the rose garden filled with guests still reveling at being in attendance at the greatest scandal of the season, Talia understood she should feel something.

Anger, humiliation, heartbreak…

Anything but the awful emptiness.

Absently she watched as Hannah paced across the Persian carpet, the swish of her rose satin gown the only sound to break the thick silence. The poor girl was clearly at a loss as to how to handle the awkward situation.

“I am certain there must have been an accident,” Hannah at last muttered, her round face flushed and her frizz of brown curls escaping from silver combs.

Talia shrugged, unable to stir an interest in why Harry had failed to appear at his own wedding.

“Are you?” she asked, her voice dull.

“Yes, indeed.” Hannah’s dark eyes held a sympathy she couldn’t entirely disguise. “No doubt the carriage overturned and Mr. Richardson and his family were knocked unconscious.”

“Perhaps.”

“Oh.” Hannah pressed a hand to her plump breasts. “Not that I would wish for the passengers to be injured.”

“No. Of course not.”

“But it would explain…”

“Explain why I was left at the altar?”

Hannah grimaced in embarrassment. “Yes.”

An uncomfortable silence filled the sitting room, and with an effort, Talia searched her mind for a means to be rid of her companion.

It was not that she didn’t appreciate Hannah’s attempts to offer comfort, but for the moment she desperately wished to be alone.

Clearing her throat, she glanced toward the door. “Has my father returned?”

“Do you wish me to discover if he is here?”

“If it is no trouble.”

Hannah gratefully latched onto the small task, obviously pleased to be of service.

“Not at all. And I shall bring you a tea tray.”

Talia shuddered at the mere thought of food. “I am not hungry.”

“Perhaps not, but you are very pale.” Hannah’s soft brown gaze lingered on Talia’s face with obvious concern. “You should try to eat something.”

“If you insist.” Talia managed a smile. “You’re very kind.”

“Nonsense. I am your friend.”

Hannah left the room and softly closed the door behind her. Talia heaved a sigh of relief. Later she would appreciate Hannah’s staunch loyalty. After all, the young lady could easily have used her position in the center of the brewing scandal to elevate her status among the gossipmongers still cluttering the rose garden.

Instead she had stayed at Talia’s side, anxious to provide comfort.

It was not her fault that Talia was incapable of weeping and wailing and wringing her hands like a proper bride who had just been publicly jilted.

With a frown, Talia reached to push the window open, hoping for a breeze to stir the air. The room felt…stifling. Too late, she realized that two of the unwelcome guests had strayed from the banquet tables and were currently standing just below her window.

“Good heavens, Lucille, you appear quite flustered,” one of the ladies was exclaiming.

“Have you heard the latest?” the second woman demanded.

Talia froze on the point of sliding shut the window.

It was absurd. What did she care what rumors were swirling about society? The gossip could be no more humiliating than the truth.

Still, she found herself unable to curb the destructive urge to know what was being said.

“Tell me,” the first woman breathed, her voice vaguely familiar.

“Lord Eddings is said to have been with the missing bridegroom last eve at some horrid gambling establishment.”

“That is hardly news. It is Harry’s fondness for the cards that forced him to become engaged to Dowdy Dobson in the first place.”

Talia’s hands clenched in her lap. Dowdy Dobson. It was an insult she had endured since her first season.

“Yes, well, last eve he was heavily in his cups and he confessed that he never intended to wed the vulgar chit.”

“Never?” There was a malicious giggle. “But why become engaged at all? Surely it was not just a cruel hoax?”

“According to Eddings, the naughty boy insisted on a portion of the dowry to purchase a suitable townhouse he discovered in Mayfair.” There was a dramatic pause. “Instead he intends to take his windfall and disappear.”

The first woman sucked in a scandalized breath. “Good…heavens.”

“Precisely.”

Talia knew she should have been equally scandalized.

Despite the fact that Harry had all but ignored her since the announcement of their engagement, he had appeared resigned to the notion of taking a wife. Certainly she’d had no warning that he intended to deceive her father into handing over a small fortune and using it to flee from London.

And from her.

“A daring scheme, but Harry cannot possibly imagine that he can hide from a man such as Silas Dobson,” the first lady said, her tone edged with revulsion at the mention of Talia’s father. “The brute no doubt has a dozen cutthroats on his payroll.”

“True enough.”

“Besides, think of the scandal. Lord Ashcombe will have his head on a platter.” Would he?

Talia was not nearly so confident.

From the whispers that had circulated throughout society, the earl had washed his hands of his younger brother when he had announced his intention to wed the daughter of Silas Dobson.

“Not if Harry escapes to the Continent,” the unknown Lucille insisted.

“In the midst of a war?”

The woman’s sudden laugh drifted on the breeze. “Obviously the danger of being shot by a Napoleon is preferable to marrying Dowdy Dobson.”

“And who could blame him?” her companion swiftly agreed. “Still, he cannot intend to remain exiled forever?”

“Certainly not. In a year or so the scandal will have faded and Harry will make his glorious return.”

“And be welcomed as the prodigal son?” There was the sound of a fan being snapped open. “You have a very odd notion of the earl if you believe he will forgive and forget. The man terrifies me.”

“He may be terrifying, but he is so wickedly handsome.” Her soft sigh was filled with the feminine appreciation shared by most women. “Such a pity he has so little interest in society.”

“Well, at least polite society.”

“I would be as improper as he desires if only he would glance in my direction.”

The two shared a giggle. “Shocking, my dear.”

“Oh, there is Katherine. We must tell her what you have discovered.”

There was a rustle of silk as the two women slowly moved away, their conversation muted but still clear enough for Talia to follow.

“Do you know, I almost have it in my heart to pity poor Miss Dobson.”

Talia grimaced. Despite her words, there was a decided lack of pity in the woman’s tone. In fact, it sounded remarkably akin to gloating.

“Yes,” her companion purred. “One thing is for certain, she dare not show her face in society again.”

“She should never have forced her way among her betters to begin with.” Talia detected a sniff of smug disapproval. “Nothing good ever comes of getting above your station.”

Despite the heat, Talia shivered.

She remained safely cocooned in her odd sense of detachment for the moment, but she wasn’t stupid. Eventually the protective shell surrounding her heart would shatter, and she would be laid bare to the endless disgrace of a woman scorned.

She couldn’t even console herself with the thought that her father would have the decency to allow her to withdraw from society until the scandal had passed.

No. Silas Dobson would never comprehend the notion of a dignified retreat. He would insist that she face her tormentors regardless of the pain and embarrassment it might cause her.

She was brooding on her bleak future when the door was opened, and Hannah crossed the threshold carrying a large silver tray.

“Here we are then,” she said in the overly bright tones that people used in a sickroom. “I have brought a small dish of poached trout in cream sauce and fresh asparagus, as well as a few strawberries.”

“Yes, thank you,” Talia softly interrupted, her stomach rebelling at the smell of fish.

Perhaps sensing Talia’s distress, Hannah moved toward the low cherrywood table near the white marble fireplace.

“I’ll just leave it here, shall I?”

Talia managed a weak smile of gratitude. “Did you locate my father?”

“No. It is…” Hannah broke off her words, gnawing on her bottom lip. “What?”

“I was told that Mr. Dobson has not been seen since he left the church.”

Talia shrugged. Her father was stubborn enough to search for Harry Richardson until hell froze over.

“I see.”

Hannah cleared her throat. “No doubt he will soon be returning.”

“No doubt he will,” a dark, sinfully dangerous voice drawled from the open doorway. “Mr. Dobson is rather like a cockroach that scuttles about the shadows and is impossible to be rid of.”

Talia went rigid with horror, as she easily recognized the voice. How could she not? As much as it might embarrass her to admit, there was no denying that she had used her position among the shadows to spy upon the Earl of Ashcombe like a lovelorn schoolgirl.

He had fascinated her with his golden beauty and predatory grace. He was like a cougar she had seen illustrated in a book. Sleek and elegantly lethal.

And of course, his aloof manner of treating society with barely concealed disdain had pleased her battered pride. He obviously had no more regard for the frivolous fools than Talia did.

Now, however, it was not breathless excitement she felt as she turned to regard the stunningly handsome face and the frigid silver gaze.

Instead it was a chill of foreboding that trickled down her spine.

CHAPTER THREE

GABRIEL, THE SIXTH Earl of Ashcombe, made no apology for being a cynical bastard.

His cynicism had been hard earned.

After inheriting his father’s title at the tender age of eighteen, he had shouldered the burdens of several vast estates, hundreds of servants and a mother who refused to leave her bed for weeks at a time.

And then there was Harry.

Six years younger than Gabriel, his brother had always been outrageously spoiled by Lady Ashcombe. Gabriel had done what he could to mitigate the damage, but he was often away at school, and when he did return to Carrick Park, his ancestral home in Devonshire, he’d been expected to devote his time to his father, learning the complex duties of being an earl.

As a result, Harry had been allowed to indulge his worst impulses. He’d been sent down from school for cheating on his exams, he’d gambled away his generous allowance, and he had fought at least two duels. All before traveling to London.

Since his arrival in the city, his wild excesses had become even worse. Gambling and whoring and risking his neck on every ludicrous dare that might be uttered in his hearing.

Gabriel had tried to impose a few limitations, only to be constantly undermined by his mother. In desperation he’d at last warned the countess that he would have her beloved Harry banished to Carrick Park if the boy didn’t learn to live within his allowance.

Christ. He had suspected that Harry would plead, lie and even cheat if necessary to avoid being forced from London, but it had never occurred to him that he would become engaged to an upstart female who could only bring shame to the family.

His mother, of course, had taken to her bed with the vapors, demanding that Gabriel do something to rescue her darling son from the clutches of the evil Dobson chit. Gabriel, however, had grimly refused to interfere. If his brother wanted to toss away his future by wedding a female who was a social embarrassment—and worse, related to Silas Dobson—then Gabriel washed his hands of him.

A grim smile touched his lips as he stepped into the private salon. He should have known Harry would find a means of saving his own damned hide while leaving Gabriel to clean up his mess.

Shrouded in the icy composure he had honed over the years, he cast a quick glance around the room, absently noting a plump female with brown hair before turning his attention to the female perched on the window seat.

Miss Talia Dobson.

Gabriel was braced for the frustrated rage that clenched his heart. Any man would be ready to commit murder at having been so neatly trapped. But what he did not expect was the odd sense of recognition that stirred in the pit of his stomach. As if during his rare social appearances he had actually taken notice of Miss Dobson’s silky black hair that was forever slipping from its pins and the eyes that shimmered like emeralds in the afternoon sunlight. That he’d contemplated how soft the ivory skin would feel beneath his fingertips and the precise manner her inviting curves would fit against him.

The mere thought only intensified his anger.

The female might have played the timid wallflower to perfection, but the past hour had proved that she was as greedy and conniving as her boorish father.

“Oh…” The unfamiliar female fluttered in the center of the room that was surprisingly decorated with the simple elegance that he preferred. Unlike the public rooms that had been a garish combination of lacquer furnishings covered in a crimson velvet. “My lord.”

He waved a dismissive hand, not bothering to glance in her direction.

“You may leave us.”

“But…”

“I am not in the habit of repeating myself.”

“Yes, my lord.” He heard her faint gasp swiftly followed by the sound of the plump female hurrying to obey his command.

His gaze never shifted from Miss Dobson regarding him with an expression of frozen shock. Rather like a mouse watching a hungry cat suddenly approach.

Did the wench think he would accept being blackmailed?

If so, she was in for a bitter disappointment.

By the end of this meeting, Miss Talia Dobson would regret ever having dared to force him into this unbearable situation.

As if sensing his dangerous fury, Talia leaned backward, unwittingly pressing open the window behind her.

“If you are considering a tragic leap to bring an end to this farce, I would suggest that you wait until the guests have taken their leave,” he mocked, folding his arms over his blue jacket that he had matched with an ivory waistcoat and buff breeches. He had intended to spend the day at Tattersall’s in the hopes of acquiring a new pair of bays to pull his carriage. A convenient means to avoid his mother’s hysterical ranting at his refusal to prevent Harry’s imminent wedding. When Dobson had so rudely intruded into his townhouse, he had not considered the necessity of changing into more formal attire. “This travesty of a wedding has caused quite enough gossip.”

She blinked, shaking her head. Almost as if hoping that he was an unwelcome vision she could make disappear.

“Lord Ashcombe, why are you here?”

“I believe you are well aware what has brought me here.”

Her brows drew together. “Is there word of your brother? Has there been an accident?”

He narrowed his gaze, not at all amused by her pretense of bewilderment.

“Please don’t play coy with me, Miss Dobson. I have already spoken with your father.” His lip curled in disdain. “A shockingly unpleasant experience, I confess.”

Talia jerked to her feet, her hand pressed to her enticing bosom.

“My father?”

Gabriel clenched his hands at his sides. Could a woman deliberately drain her face of all color?

“I will admit you play the role of wounded martyr quite convincingly,” he said in biting tones. “My jaded heart might be touched if I was not aware that you and your father are shameless charlatans who will use any tactic, no matter how vile, to acquire a place among society.”

“I am aware you disapprove of your brother taking me as his wife.”

His sharp burst of laughter echoed through the room. “Not nearly so much as I disapprove taking you as my own wife.”

“I…” She swayed, and for a moment Gabriel thought she might sink into a predictable swoon. Then, with a visible effort, she sucked in a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Your wife?” She shook her head in denial. “Is this a jest?”

“I do not jest about the next Countess of Ashcombe.”

“Dear God.”

“Prayers will not help you now, my dear.”

“Please,” she said softly. “I do not understand.”

Gabriel fiercely told himself he would not be swayed by a pair of wounded emerald eyes.

Damnation. The woman was as great a fraud as her bastard of a father.

Was she not?

“Determined to act the innocent?” he rasped. “Very well. After an hour spent enduring your father’s crass insults and his boorish bullying it has become obvious I have been neatly cornered. I might have admired his cunning if I weren’t the poor sod being coerced into marrying a female who could only hope to force a man down the aisle.”

Long moments passed, the silence broken by the tick of the ormolu clock on the mantel and the distant twitter of lingering guests.

“This makes no sense,” Talia said at last. “I am to wed Harry.”

“In his typical fashion, my brother considered nothing beyond his selfish need to indulge his every desire. And, when it came time to pay the piper, he disappeared, leaving me to take responsibility yet again.”

“But…” She licked her dry lips. “Surely you must have some notion of where he has gone?”

“I have several notions, but it no longer matters where he is hiding, does it?” He didn’t bother to disguise his bitterness.

She wrung her hands, her face tight with unexpected desperation.

“I suppose there is no means to disguise the fact he did not arrive at the church this morning, but if he could be found and compelled to return to London…”

“You would wed him after he abandoned you at the altar?” he snapped, oddly annoyed by her insistence to have Harry as her bridegroom.

Did the female have feelings for his wastrel of a brother?

Or was this just another clever ruse?

Neither explanation gave him pleasure.

“It is what my father desires,” she muttered.

“Perhaps he did before he had the means to capture an earl. Now I can assure you he has no intention of settling on a mere younger son.”

She appeared to struggle to follow his harsh words, a pulse fluttering at the base of her throat like a tiny bird caught in a cage.

Heat pierced through him at the thought of pressing his lips to that tender spot. Would she taste as sweet as she promised? Or was that yet another deception?

Thankfully unaware of his treacherous longings, Talia regarded him with a furrowed brow.

“I am aware that my father has acquired influence among some members of society, but how could he possibly force you to marry me?”

“Sordid blackmail.”

“Blackmail?”

“He has threatened to sue my brother for breach of promise, ensuring that my family name would be kept on the front pages of every scandal rag in England for months, if not years.”

She flinched at his harsh explanation, her ashen face suddenly flooded scarlet.

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” he said, sneering. “Your father is well aware I will pay any price, no matter how obscene, to protect my mother from becoming a public spectacle.”

“I…” She gave a helpless lift of her hands. “I am sorry.”

Barely aware he was moving, Gabriel prowled to stand directly before her, breathing deeply of her warm scent. Lilac, he noted absently, combined with an earthy perfume that was uniquely her own.

“Are you?” he growled.

“Yes.” She shivered beneath his brooding gaze. “I know it is difficult to believe, but I am just as appalled as you by this farce of a marriage.”

“I do not find it difficult, Miss Dobson, I find it impossible,” he countered, assuring himself that his stab of ire was at her continued charade and not at her horror at the thought of marrying him. “I am all too familiar with women like you.”

“Women like me?”

“Vulgar females who are willing to use whatever tactics necessary to acquire a husband.” He deliberately lowered his gaze to take in the soft curves modestly hidden beneath her silver gown. Had she been bold enough to display her charming wares she might have had more success on the marriage mart. “Of course, their tactics are usually more—”

“Attractive?” she said, an unexpected hint of bitterness shimmering in the emerald eyes.

“Polished,” he corrected.

“Forgive me for being a disappointment. It seems to be my lot in life,” she said, her voice so low he could barely catch the words. “But in my defense, I never desired a husband enough to polish my tactics.”

He frowned. So, there was a hint of spirit beneath that mousey demeanor.

“That would be a good deal more convincing if you had not offered my brother an embarrassing sum of money to take you as his bride, even knowing he had no desire to be tied to you.”

“It was my father—” She bit off her words, giving a resigned shake of her head. “What does it matter?”

“It does not.” He grasped her chin, peering deep into the eyes that held such remarkable innocence. “Even if I were idiotic enough to accept you are nothing more than a victim of your father’s machinations, it does not make the thought of having you as my bride any less unpalatable.”

He felt her quiver, her thick tangle of lashes lowering to hide the pain that flared through her eyes. Gabriel gritted his teeth against the sensation that was perilously close to regret tugging at his heart.

Dammit. He had nothing to regret.

“You have made your point, my lord,” she said. “Why are you here?”

“Obviously we must discuss our…” He struggled to force out the word. “Wedding.”

“Why?” She hunched a shoulder. “It is obvious that you and my father are capable of planning my future without bothering to consult me.”

His grasp tightened on her chin. “Do not press my temper, Miss Dobson. Not today.”

Her lips thinned but with a resigned obedience. She pulled free of his grasp and waved a hand toward a nearby chair.

“Will you have a seat?”

“No, this will not take long.”

She gave a slow nod, her face pale but composed. “Very well.”

“On Monday I will request a Special License from the Archbishop of Canterbury. He is a personal friend, so there should be no difficulty.”

Her lips twisted. “Of course not.”

“The ceremony will be held in the private chapel at my townhouse,” he continued. “I will arrange for the rector as well as two servants to serve as witnesses.”

It took her a moment to comprehend the meaning of his words. At last her eyes widened. “My father…”

“Is not invited.” His expression warned he would not compromise. “Nor will you include any other guests.”

“Do you intend to keep our marriage a secret?”

“A futile wish, unfortunately, but I am determined that it will not become a ridiculous farce.” He glanced toward the window where he could view the guests still taking full pleasure in the current scandal. “For the next week you will remain silent and away from society. You may also warn your father that any boasting that he has captured an earl as his son-in-law will greatly displease me.”

Her expression remained suitably chastened, but she couldn’t disguise the pulse that hammered at the base of her throat. Inwardly she was no doubt seething with the urge to slap him.

“And after the ceremony?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Am I to remain hidden from society?”

“Not hidden, but you will be enjoying an extended visit to my estate in Devonshire.”

She blinked at his frigid explanation. “I am to be banished to the country?”

“If my terms of marriage do not suit you, Miss Dobson, then perhaps you should devote the next few days to convincing your father to blackmail some other fool into becoming your husband.”

With an abrupt movement she turned on her heel, staring down at her unwelcome guests with a haunted expression.

“If I had the ability to sway my father I would never have been forced to wed your brother and we would not be in this mess.”

Gabriel stiffened in anger as another twinge of pity threatened to undermine his resolve.

Bloody hell. Was it not hideous enough to be coerced into marrying Silas Dobson’s daughter without offering her the opportunity to play him a fool?

“Then it would seem that we must both resign ourselves to the inevitable,” he bit out, turning on his heel to head toward the door.

“So it would seem,” she whispered behind him.

Halting on the threshold, Gabriel glanced over his shoulder.

“Oh, Miss Dobson.”

“Yes?”

“I would prefer you refrain from smothering yourself in such a gaudy display of jewels.” He flicked a disdainful glance toward the massive diamonds draped around her neck. “The Countess of Ashcombe does not need to make an exhibit of herself.”

His parting shot delivered, Gabriel continued out of the room and down the hall, wondering why the devil he didn’t feel the least satisfied.

TALIA WAS IN the laundry room sorting through the linens that needed to be mended when her father’s butler appeared in the doorway.

As always, she was struck by the sight of the slender, gray-haired servant attired in an immaculate black uniform. He carried himself with a regal dignity that his employer could never hope to emulate.

The irony of the situation was not lost on Silas Dobson, who found it a source of coarse amusement to taunt his prim and proper butler. Anderson, on the other hand, was careful to keep his own opinion hidden behind his facade of frigid efficiency.

Hardly surprising. For all of her father’s faults, he was a shrewd businessman who was willing to pay his employees a generous salary that instilled far more loyalty than any amount of personal charm.

Impatiently brushing a stray curl from her forehead, Talia regarded the servant with a faint frown. It was rare for Anderson to enter what he considered the female domain.

“Yes?”

“The Earl of Ashcombe has called,” Anderson informed her in formal tones. “Shall I say you are receiving?”

The bed sheet slipped from her nerveless fingers as she surged to her feet. Lord Ashcombe? Here?

Despite the fact the man had been her fiancé for nearly a week, Talia’s mind struggled to accept that he had actually come to call upon her. No doubt because she had spent the past days assuring herself that the Earl of Ashcombe had no more intention of making her his bride than his younger brother had.

In truth, she had expected every morning to awaken to the announcement in the London Times that Lord Ashcombe had cancelled the absurd wedding, even if it did mean further scandal for his family.

So why was he here?

Had he come in person to cancel the wedding? And if so, why would he bother? It would surely have been easier for all of them if he had sent a message to avoid this unpleasant encounter.

Acutely aware of the silence that had abruptly filled the laundry room, Talia nervously cleared her throat.

“Did you inform him that my father is not at home?”

Anderson dipped his head. “He specifically requested to speak with you, Miss Dobson.”

“I see.” With no choice, Talia tugged off the apron that covered her sprigged muslin gown. “Please show him to the parlor.”

The butler offered a stiff bow. “Very good.”

The servant was stepping through the door when she realized that she had nearly forgotten her duties as a hostess. Odd, considering that they had been drilled into her by her numerous governesses over the years.

Of course, she rarely had an opportunity to display them, had she?

Who would desire to visit Silas Dobson or his awkward daughter? So far as London was concerned they were blights on civilized society.

“Oh, Anderson.”

“Yes?”

“Could you request Mrs. Knight to prepare a tray of refreshments?”

“Certainly.”

Although the butler’s gaunt face remained impassive, there was a suggestion of approval in his faint nod before he disappeared down the short hall.

Talia paused long enough to wash her hands and straighten the sapphire ribbon that was threaded beneath the empire style bodice. Then, she reluctantly followed in the butler’s path.

Her heart was thundering and her palms sweating by the time she reached the formal parlor, but she did not allow herself to pause as she stepped into the room heavily decorated with lacquer furnishings and crimson velvet. The slightest hesitation would allow her cowardice to take hold, and she would be fleeing to her room in terror.

The idea of flight remained a distinct possibility as her gaze landed on the tall, golden-haired man who always managed to make her heart leap with a dreadful excitement.

This morning he was attired in a pale blue jacket and silver waistcoat that was fitted to his body with flawless lines. Standing confidently near the ornately carved chimneypiece, his elegant style only emphasized the gaudy opulence of the gilded ceiling and massive Chinese vases that were arranged about the carpet.

He stiffened at her entrance, his expression unreadable as his gaze ran an unnervingly intimate inspection over her disheveled appearance.

Talia flushed, acutely aware that the lace of her gown was worn and her simple braid was better fitted for a servant than a lady of breeding. She had no notion that the steam from the laundry room had made the thin gown mold provocatively to her feminine curves. Or that the glossy curls that had strayed from her braid only emphasized her earthy beauty that would tempt any man, particularly one jaded by the frigid perfection of most society ladies.

And she most certainly would never have considered that any man could be imagining her spread on a bed of wildflowers as he ripped away her worn dress to reveal the smooth purity of her ivory skin.

She only knew that his unflinching survey made her feel hot and flustered in a manner she did not understand.

Licking her dry lips, she offered a clumsy curtsy. “My lord, I fear I was not expecting you.”

Almost as if her words had jerked him from an unwelcome spell, Lord Ashcombe stepped from the fireplace, a sardonic expression hardening his handsome features.

“I surely do not need an appointment to call upon my fiancée?” he mocked.

Her flush deepened. “Of course not, but I was not prepared to receive visitors. If you do not mind waiting I will change…”

“But I do mind.” He cut short her babbling. “I am a very busy man, Talia.” His lips twisted in a self-derisive smile. “Besides, we both know I was not driven here by the overwhelming urge to catch a glimpse of my beautiful bride-to-be.”

She flinched, wounded by his scorn despite her determination to remain immune to his taunts.

“There is no need to be insulting,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “If you have come to cancel the wedding, then I would appreciate you completing the task so I can return to my duties.”

“What the devil?” His brows snapped together, shocked by her words. “You believe I have come here to cancel the wedding?”

“Why else?”

Something dangerous glittered in the silver eyes. “Has your father decided to end his threat to sue my brother?”

“I…” She gave a shake of her head. “My father has not discussed his intentions with me.”

“And you have no reason to suspect that he has lost his desire to acquire an earl as his son-in-law?”

She hunched a shoulder. “No.”

The prickling threat that had filled the air eased as Gabriel gave an impatient wave of his hand.

“Then, barring a miracle, it would appear the marriage will take place as scheduled.”

She clasped her hands together as she sought to comprehend his odd mood. What was the matter with him? He seemed almost…angered by her mention of canceling the wedding.

Or perhaps he was simply angry that she had reminded him of the distasteful event.

Yes, that was much more likely.

“May I ask why you have come?”

He gave a shake of his head before reaching for the stack of papers he had left on the mantel. With a sharp motion he shoved them into Talia’s hand.

“These must be signed by your father before our wedding.”

She glanced at the official-looking parchment in bewilderment. “What are they?”

“Legal documents that ensure I am protected.”

“Protected?” She frowned, lifting her head to meet his unwavering gaze. “From me?”

“From you, and more important, from Silas Dobson.”

“What threat could we possibly pose to the Earl of Ashcombe?”

He shrugged. “They are clearly described in the documents.”

She returned her attention to the papers clutched in her fingers, a nasty sense of dread settling in the center of her heart.

Silence filled the stuffy parlor as she attempted to unravel the legal nonsense. It took only a few paragraphs to wish she had not made the effort.

Mortification made her gasp at the cold, methodical dissection of what should be a loving union.

It was not the insistence that her dowry would be under her husband’s control, or that she was offered no more than a small allowance to cover her household expenses. Or even that she was to be given nothing in the event of the dissolution of their marriage. Those she had assumed from the beginning of their devil’s bargain.

But to know that Lord Ashcombe had discussed her most private behavior with a complete stranger made her sick to her stomach.

“You believe I would be unfaithful?” she rasped, raising her head to stab him with an offended glare.

He shrugged with an arrogance that made her long to slap his handsome face.

“I believe your morals are questionable at best and I will not be cuckolded in my own home.”

She clenched her hands. Unfeeling bastard.

“And am I allowed to insist upon a similar pledge of fidelity?”

His smile was without humor. “Of course not.”

“Surely that would only be fair?”

Without warning he strolled forward, his hand cupping her chin in a touch that scalded her sensitive skin.

“I do not intend to be fair, my dear,” he murmured, the silver gaze studying her pale face with an alarming intensity. “I am in the position to dictate the rules of our marriage, not you.”

“And your rules include the right to parade about town with your mistresses while I am expected to remain at home and play the role of the dutiful wife?”

She shivered as the heat of his body easily penetrated her thin gown. Dear heavens, she had so often dreamed of this man holding her in his arms as they danced across a ballroom, but harmless fantasies did not prepare a poor maiden for the reality of his overpowering presence.

“What do you think?” he growled.

She lowered her lashes, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing how painful she found the thought of him with another woman.

“I think you will do whatever possible to humiliate me.”

He lowered his head until she felt the brush of his warm breath on her cheek.

“Would you prefer that I remain at home with you, pretending to be a devoted husband?”

She hastily pulled from his touch, as horrified as she was baffled by the quivering sensations that fluttered through her at the brush of his hard body against her.

“I would never ask the impossible,” she muttered, “but it would be a pleasant change…”

“Pleasant change?” he prompted, as her too-revealing words stumbled to a halt.

She wrapped her arms around her waist, as if they could protect her.

“A pleasant change not to be the source of amusement when I enter a ballroom,” she forced herself to continue.

He studied her broodingly. “Is that why you insist on becoming my bride?” he demanded. “Do you believe your position as the Countess of Ashcombe will offer you approval among society?”

She made a smothered sound of frustration. “I have told you, I have no desire to marry anyone, let alone a gentleman who holds me in such obvious contempt.”

A muscle in his jaw knotted. “Do you blame me?”

Guilt pierced her at his reminder that he was as much a victim to this hideous fate as she.

Perhaps even more so.

What had he done beyond attempting to protect his family? Now he was trapped with a woman whom he would never, ever have chosen as his bride.

“No,” she breathed. “No, I do not hold you to blame.”

He appeared caught off guard by her soft agreement, then his face tightened with annoyance.

“You will see that your father receives the papers?”

“Not until I finish reading the terms of my imprisonment,” she muttered with a grimace.

He frowned. “What did you say?”

“I think I should at least comprehend what is expected of me as a wife,” she said with a shrug. “Otherwise I am likely to be even more of a disappointment.”

The silver eyes narrowed. “You will not be a disappointment, my dear.”

“No?” A humorless smile curved her lips. “How can you be so certain?”

“Quite simply because I will not allow it.”

With his arrogant threat delivered, Lord Ashcombe performed a graceful bow and turned to leave Talia standing alone in the parlor, the hateful papers still clutched in her hand.

LORD ASHCOMBE’S townhouse was as oppressively elegant as Talia had feared.

Built along grand lines in the midst of Grosvenor Square, it was constructed of pale stone and had seven bays with brick archways that led into an alcove hiding the double oak doors. Banks of imposing windows overlooked the street, and alighting from her carriage, Talia had the unnerving sensation that there were dozens of hidden eyes trained upon her.

Her unease was not lessened as she was led through a white tiled foyer and up a sweeping marble staircase to the back of the house where the gothic chapel was located. She might not have been raised as an aristocrat, but she had spent enough hours in the library to recognize the stunning masterpieces that lined the paneled walls of the long gallery and the impressive Italianate ceiling in the formal salon that was painted with miniature scenes from Greek mythology. Certainly she had no difficulty in recognizing the priceless Venetian chandelier that hung just outside the chapel.

It all served to remind her that Lord Ashcombe’s title was not simply a mark of his social standing. It was more important an inheritance that came with overwhelming responsibility. Not only to his vast number of tenants and servants who depended upon him for employment, but to his family and the dignity of his position as the current earl.

For all her father’s wealth, she was unprepared to enter a world where a person was judged on their ancestry and the purity of their bloodlines. Even if she weren’t an awkward wallflower, she would never be capable of bringing pride to her role as Countess of Ashcombe.

These dark thoughts might have made Talia crumble into a ball of terror if she had not still been protected by the numbing sense of shock that had managed to survive their last humiliating encounter.

Certainly she would never have been able to walk down the short aisle to stand beside Lord Ashcombe waiting at the scrolled wooden altar.

As it was she stiffly marched past the worn pews, only briefly glancing at the vaulted ceiling and the exquisite stained-glass window before shifting her attention toward the man who was to become her husband.

Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of his golden hair shimmering in the light from the silver candelabrum and the arrogant features that were so perfectly carved they did not seem quite real. His lean body was attired in a black jacket that clung with loving care to his broad shoulders and black breeches that seemed more appropriate for a funeral than a wedding. And his silver eyes—

They held the ruthless power of a predator.

He had never appeared more godlike, and despite her layers of protection she shivered in fear.

Gabriel made no move to touch her as she halted at his side. In fact, he did not glance in her direction during the brief ceremony. Not even at its close when they signed the marriage certificate and shared a glass of sherry with the visibly curious rector and the rigidly composed butler, as well as a woman who Talia assumed must be the housekeeper.

Then, with an imperious nod of his head, Ashcombe gestured her to leave the chapel, following behind her with obvious impatience.

Distantly Talia was aware that her entire life had just been irrevocably altered. She was no longer Dowdy Dobson, the painfully shy daughter of a mere merchant. She was the Countess of Ashcombe.

Not that her elevated status offered her any comfort, she ruefully accepted.

How many years had she longed to be rid of her father’s oppressive rule? Even after it had become obvious that she was never going to attract a bevy of eager suitors, she had continued to dream that a kind, decent gentleman would appear to whisk her away. A man who would treat her with dignity and respect.

But now her hopes were forever crushed.

She had just traded one tyrant for another.

As if to ensure she understood her submissive role as his bride, Gabriel cast a dismissive gaze over her demure attire. Her rose gown was threaded with silk ribbons around the high waist, and a single strand of pearls circled her neck.

“Mrs. Manning will show you to your chambers,” he informed her icily, a gesture of his hand bringing forward the plump woman with gray hair tidily knotted at the back of her head. Her black gown was as spotless as the townhouse, and her movements brisk. The housekeeper, just as Talia had suspected. “Let her know if you prefer a dinner tray in your private salon or if you desire to eat in the dining room.”

“You will not be joining me?” The question tumbled from her lips before she could check them.

“I have business I must attend to.”

Acutely aware of the housekeeper’s presence, Talia felt her face flame with color. Was it necessary to shame her by abandoning her before the ink had dried upon their license?

“What of your mother?”

“Her ladyship is visiting her sister in Kent.”

Safely tucked away from her ill-bred daughter-in-law. “I…see.”

The silver eyes briefly darkened as he gazed down at her, but his expression remained aloof.

“You are welcome to explore the house and gardens, but you will not leave the grounds.”

“Am I to be a prisoner here?”

“Only until tomorrow.” A humorless smile curved his lips. “Do not bother to unpack, my dear. You leave for Devonshire at first light.”

Without bothering to wait for her reaction, Gabriel brushed past her and disappeared down a long corridor.

An unexpected stab of misery managed to pierce the protective fog.

She felt…lost in the vast, imposing house. As if she was an imposter who was bound to be humiliated when she was at last exposed.

Which was, no doubt, exactly what her husband desired.

She was thankfully distracted as the housekeeper waved a plump hand toward the nearby stairs.

“This way, my lady.”

My lady. Talia hid a sudden grimace.

She wished to heavens she was back in her father’s library, forgotten among the dusty books.

Instead she forced a sad smile and headed for the stairs. “Thank you, Mrs. Manning.”

She allowed herself to be escorted to a charming suite that was decorated with rich blue satin wallcovers that matched the curtains and upholstery on the rosewood furniture. Along one wall a series of windows overlooked the formal gardens and the distant mews, while through the doorway she could catch sight of an equally luxurious bedroom.

“It is not the largest apartment,” Mrs. Manning said kindly, “but I thought you might prefer a view of the garden.”

“It is lovely,” Talia murmured, her breath catching at the sight of the exquisite bouquets of roses that were set on the carved marble chimneypiece. Turning, she laid a hand on her companion’s arm, well aware that her husband was not responsible for the considerate gesture. “I adore fresh flowers. Thank you.”

The housekeeper cleared her throat, as if embarrassed by Talia’s display of gratitude.

“It seemed appropriate for your wedding day.”

Talia strolled toward the lovely view of the gardens, not surprised by the marble grotto that was larger than her aunt’s cottage in Yorkshire.

“I am certain you are aware that I am not a typical bride. The earl has hardly made an effort to disguise the fact I am an unwanted intruder.”

“It is no fault of your own, my lady,” the servant surprisingly claimed. Was it possible Mrs. Manning felt a measure of sympathy for the earl’s discarded bride? “His lordship is merely disappointed in Master Harry and his behavior toward you.”

Talia was not so easily fooled, but she appreciated the woman’s kind attempt.

“I was under the impression that Lord Ashcombe was equally averse to having me as a sister-in-law. I would have assumed that he was pleased to have me jilted.” She grimaced. “At least until my father coerced him into honoring Mr. Richardson’s promise.”

“As to that, I suppose you shall soon enough discover that his lordship and Master Harry have a…” The housekeeper paused, searching for the appropriate word. “Thorny relationship.”

Despite her earlier promise to treat her husband with the same disdainful lack of interest as he had displayed toward her, Talia couldn’t prevent her curiosity.

“I did suspect as much.” She turned, watching as the servant fussed with the silver teapot set on a pier table. “It would not be easy to be a younger son.”

“A good sight too easy, if you ask me,” the woman muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

For a moment the woman hesitated. Was she debating the wisdom of sharing family gossip? Then, obviously deciding that Talia was destined to discover the Ashcombe secrets, she straightened and squarely met Talia’s curious gaze.

“The previous earl died near ten years ago, leaving his lordship to assume the title, as well as to take responsibility for his grieving mother and younger brother.”

Ten years ago? Talia blinked in astonishment. She had no idea.

“He must have been very young.”

“A week past his eighteenth birthday. Just a lad.”

“Good heavens.”

“Not that his lordship ever complained.” Mrs. Manning heaved a sigh. “He returned from school and shouldered his father’s duties while his mother remained in mourning and Master Harry began to fall into one scrape after another.”

Against her will, Talia felt a stab of sympathy for the arrogant brute.

“There was no one to assist him?”

“The earl is not one to share his responsibility.”

“Not particularly surprising,” Talia said in dry tones.

Even before their farce of a wedding, Talia had sensed Gabriel’s air of isolation.

At the time, she had imagined that his seeming need to distance himself from others had given them something in common. Now, of course, she knew that it was merely an arrogant need to control those around him.

Just like her father.

Mrs. Manning heaved another soulful sigh. “A pity really.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Perhaps if Master Harry had been expected to take his fair share of duties he would not have…”

“Left me at the altar?”

“Yes.” The housekeeper’s plump lips tightened with disapproval. “His lordship did attempt to put a halt to his brother’s excesses, but Lady Ashcombe always was one to indulge him. If the earl refused to pay his brother’s debts, then Master Harry would simply apply to his mother.”

Talia frowned, rather taken back by the servant’s revealing words. Even if she was now a member of the family, it was not often a servant was willing to openly gossip about her employers.

Not when the merest breach of confidence could see her tossed onto the streets.

Then Talia was struck by a sudden realization.

Mrs. Manning was clearly devoted to Gabriel. And while she might sincerely disapprove of his treatment of Talia, it was obvious she felt compelled to excuse his cruel manner.

Perhaps she was even ridiculous enough to hope that a truce between Gabriel and his new bride could eventually be called.

Talia swallowed a sigh.

A futile hope, but Talia did not have the heart to inform the kindly woman that her beloved Gabriel was a coldhearted bastard who believed his wife no better than a rank title-hunter who had used her father to bully him into marriage.

“That must have been frustrating for Lord Ashcombe,” she instead agreed.

“Needless to say.” The older woman frowned. “In fact, six months ago he at last…”

“Yes?”

“He insisted that her ladyship not interfere in his attempt to force Master Harry to live within his allowance.”

“Ah.” Talia’s lips twisted. “That explains why he accepted my father’s offer.”

There was a brief hesitation. “Yes.”

“And why Lord Ashcombe is so angry. He thought to teach his brother a lesson only to once again be the one to suffer the consequences.” Talia pressed a hand to her aching heart. “It is no wonder he hates me.”

Mrs. Manning shook her head. “He is angry for the moment, but once he has accepted that you are to be his countess, I am certain that all will be well.”

Talia swallowed a hysterical urge to laugh. She was quite certain nothing would be well again.

“I wish I possessed your confidence,” she said dryly.

Perhaps sensing Talia’s disbelief, the housekeeper stepped forward, her expression troubled.

“His lordship can be a hard man in many ways,” she admitted. “When he took the title at such a tender age there were any number of unscrupulous individuals who thought to take advantage of his inexperience, including several gentlemen who had claimed to be his friend. He had no choice but to learn how to protect himself and his family from those who would exploit his naïveté. But he has a good heart and he is fiercely loyal to those he considers his responsibility.”

Talia shied from the temptation to pity the boy who had lost his innocence at such a young age. The Earl of Ashcombe was determined to crush what little was left of her spirit. The moment she thought of him as anything but the enemy she would be lost.

“Responsibility?” She latched onto the revealing word. “What of those he loves?”

The housekeeper grimaced. “I fear he has become convinced that such an emotion is a weakness.” She deliberately paused, meeting Talia’s gaze. “A wise woman would remind him of the joy to be found in sharing his heart with another.”

CHAPTER FOUR

GABRIEL HAD NO formal plans for his wedding day. Nothing beyond ensuring that his new bride understood she was an unwelcome intruder in his home.

Something he had achieved with admirable results if her stricken expression at his abrupt departure had been anything to go by.

But once away from his townhouse, he discovered himself turning his restless horse toward the outskirts of London, refusing to admit he was disturbed by the lingering image of Talia’s pale face and wounded eyes.

What did it matter if she had looked like a forlorn waif as he had walked away from her? Or that she was spending her wedding day alone in an unfamiliar house? She was the one who had been willing to trade her soul for a title. She could damned well learn just how empty her victory was doomed to be.

Determined to dismiss Talia and the travesty of a wedding from his mind, he traveled through narrow lanes and at last into the countryside. He paused to watch a brilliantly painted wagon pass that was loaded with a bear locked in a cage and allowed himself to be distracted by the sight of two burly men wrestling in the middle of a village green.

But as he stopped in a small posting inn to slake his hunger with a simple meal of venison stew and freshly baked bread, his thoughts returned to his neglected bride.

Draining his third glass of ale, Gabriel shoved away from the small table set in the middle of the private parlor and strolled to glance out the window overlooking the stable yard. He barely noted the grooms bustling about their business or the stray dogs who skulked among the shadows, lured by the scents drifting from the kitchen. Instead his mind was filled with a pair of emerald green eyes and a tender, rosebud mouth.

Dammit.

He was in this godforsaken inn to forget the deceitful witch, not to be haunted by the vulnerability he had briefly glimpsed in her eyes or to dwell on the temptation of her lush curves. In a few hours she would be whisked off to Devonshire, and he could pretend that the wedding was nothing more than a horrid nightmare.

Draining yet another mug of ale, Gabriel found himself recalling precisely how the rose silk of Talia’s gown had skimmed her curves and the way her string of pearls had gleamed against her ivory skin.

Was she seated in the formal dining room, savoring her new position as Countess of Ashcombe in isolated glory? Or was she hidden in her rooms, already regretting the choice to force him down the aisle?

Either image should have disgusted him.

Instead his blood heated at the thought of removing her soft rose gown and devoting the entire night to exploring the satin skin beneath.

And why should he not?

The question teased at his crumbling resolve.

It was his wedding night, was it not?

And since it was increasingly obvious that he couldn’t rid her from his mind, why should he be driven from his home and forced to endure the dubious comforts of this damnable inn? He should be in his own chambers, enjoying his own fire and fine brandy. And when he decided the time was ripe, he would enjoy the pleasure of his warm, delectable wife.

After all, he would be a fool not to take advantage of the one and only benefit of their unholy union.

And besides, the voice of the devil whispered in his ear, they weren’t truly married until they consummated their vows.

He would not put it past the nasty Dobson to insist on proof his daughter had been stripped of her innocence.

Watching the sun slide slowly toward the distant horizon, Gabriel at last slammed his empty mug on the table and headed for the nearby door.

Enough, by God.

Talia would soon be on her way to Devonshire. Until she was gone, there was no reason he should not sate the unwelcome desire she had stirred to life.

Refusing to consider the knowledge that for the first time since taking on the heavy duties of Earl of Ashcombe he was tossing aside his commonsense on a mere whim, Gabriel left the posting inn and headed back to London with fervid speed.

For all his haste, however, night had fully descended by the time he reached the city. He cursed at the elegant carriages that jammed the cobblestone streets and the hordes of drunken bucks who spilled along the walkways. It seemed that all of society had descended upon Mayfair, making it all but impossible to reach his townhouse.

At last he entered the alley that led to his private mews and, leaving his horse in the care of a uniformed groom, Gabriel used the back entrance to enter his house and make his way to the upper chambers.

He moved with a silence that ensured he would not disturb the servants. He had no desire to announce his return. These few hours of madness would be forgotten the moment dawn arrived.

Reaching his rooms, he wrestled out of his clothing without the assistance of his valet and pulled on a richly embroidered robe over his already aroused body. Then, ignoring the fact he was behaving more like a common thief than the Earl of Ashcombe, he snuffed out the candles and glided through the dark corridors to the blue chambers.

Silently he pressed open Talia’s door, a smile of anticipation curving his lips at the knowledge she hadn’t turned the lock.

Resignation or invitation?

There was only one way to discover.

Stepping over the threshold, Gabriel closed the door and leaned against the wooden panels, covertly turning the key. At the same moment his gaze skimmed over the pretty rosewood furnishings, his heart slamming against his ribs as a slender form slowly rose from the window seat across the room.

He should have been amused. Or perhaps horrified.

At some point in the evening she had removed the wedding dress and replaced it with a ghastly monstrosity that he assumed was a nightgown. Christ. For a gentleman accustomed to females who understood a man enjoyed being teased and tantalized in the boudoir, he had never seen anything that resembled the yards and yards of white linen that swathed Talia from her chin to her toes. It looked like a funeral shroud. And to make matters worse, there were bows and ruffles and what looked to be a hundred buttons that ran from top to bottom.

How the devil any woman could sleep in the ridiculous garment defied his imagination.

But far from repulsed by her appearance, Gabriel’s fingers twitched with the urge to slowly untangle her from the mounds of linen, slowly unveiling her voluptuous body.

What could be more enticing than unwrapping her as if she were a long-awaited gift?

He would lay her on the bed and explore every inch of her satin skin. First with his hands and then with his lips. And only when she was begging for release would he enter her and quench his aching need.

As if sensing his lecherous thoughts, Talia pressed a trembling hand to her throat. Her dark curls tumbled about her shoulders, and her emerald eyes were wide with shock.

Gabriel felt a momentary hesitation.

Hell, she looked so damned innocent.

“My lord,” she breathed.

Annoyed by the brief stab of conscience, Gabriel grimly reminded himself that this female had been willing to become a sacrificial virgin to the highest title. He had held up his side of the bargain, it was time that she do the same.

A sardonic smile curved his lips as he pushed from the door and glided forward.

“Ah, my obedient bride.”

Talia licked her lips. “What are you doing here?”

“Surely you cannot be surprised?” He circled around her stiff form, his hunter instinct fully aroused. “This is our wedding night.”

“Yes, but…” She trembled as his fingers brushed her cheek. “I did not expect you.”

“Obviously.” He stopped directly before her and lowered his hand to tug at the ribbon of her hideous robe. “Or did you choose this garment in the hopes it would send me fleeing in terror?”

“There is nothing wrong with my robe.” Her husky voice brushed over his skin like a caress. “It is perfectly respectable.”

Untangling the last of the ribbons, Gabriel turned his attention to the endless row of buttons.

“It at least answers one of my questions.”

The sound of her jagged breath was the only indication that she was aware he was disrobing her, and Gabriel couldn’t halt a renegade flare of admiration as she faced him with a fragile dignity. “What question?”

His heart missed a beat as his fingers brushed the soft mound of her breast.

“Whether or not you are a virgin,” he said, his voice oddly thick. “No female of experience would wear a garment that resembles a funeral shroud rather than a gown that enhances her natural…assets.”

Her eyes flashed. “If you have come here to insult me…”

“You know why I am here.”

Her brief display of temper faltered at his stark words. He felt her quiver beneath his hands, her pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.

“But you do not want me as your wife,” she said huskily.

He swallowed his sharp laugh. She truly was naïve if she thought this night had anything to do with wanting her as a wife.

A biting need raced through him, and with a sharp motion he grasped the fabric of her robe and yanked it apart. He heard her gasp of shock as the remaining buttons scattered in a shower of impatience.

“And yet, here you are in my home, the Countess of Ashcombe,” he rasped, his arousal heavy with desire as he parted the torn fabric to at last reveal the soft ivory curves.

Bloody hell. She was as perfect as he had imagined.

He tugged off the offensive robe, his hands lightly skimming over her narrow shoulders and down the delicate line of her collarbone. His blood sizzled as his gaze slid over the breasts that were full and tipped with nipples the color of ripe berries begging for his lips. Slowly, his attention lowered to her narrow waist that flared to feminine hips. Then, as his gaze reached the dark thatch of hair cradled between her legs, his fragile control snapped.

With a growl, he scooped her off her feet and headed across the room to the shadowed bedroom beyond.

“My lord,” she breathed, her eyes wide with a combination of fear and an excitement she could not entirely disguise. “Why are you doing this?”

Gabriel felt a flare of triumph in the knowledge he was not alone in this ruthless awareness. Lowering his head, he claimed her mouth in a possessive kiss.

“I have no choice,” he muttered against her lips.

She shivered beneath his touch, her hands grasping the lapels of his robe. “Have you been drinking?”

“Dutch courage.”

She hissed, as if he’d slapped her. “If I am so repulsive that you need to become drunk to approach me, then why are you doing this?”

Repulsive? He was damn well enchanted.

His gut twisted as he lowered her on the bed. He was arrested by the sight of Talia stretched across the satin cover. In the silvery moonlight she appeared a creature of mist and magic. An elusive wood sprite that had strayed into London and might disappear in a puff of smoke.

He growled low in his throat, his savage hunger nearly overwhelming.

Not that he was about to admit as much to the woman. The thought of her holding power over him was enough to make his teeth clench.

“Because I will not be accused of not having consummated this absurd union,” he growled. “No doubt Silas Dobson intends to arrive on my doorstep in the morning demanding to be shown proof of your deflowering.”

She frowned in wary confusion. “Proof? I…” A sudden heat flooded her cheeks as she realized he was speaking of the ancient tradition of checking the marriage sheets for the spilled blood of her virginity. “Oh.”

The bewildered innocence was all that was needed to complete her sensual spell, and with a muttered curse, Gabriel shrugged out of his robe and joined Talia on the bed, wrapping an arm around her shivering body before she could escape.

“Maidenly blushes,” he whispered, his fingers stroking over her cheek. “Astonishing.”

Her dark curls spread across the blue and ivory cover like a spill of ebony silk, her eyes shimmering like emeralds in the moonlight.

“I assure you that my father is satisfied we are wed,” she said in a breathless rush, her hands fluttering to land against his chest. “He will not be demanding proof.”

Gabriel buried his face in the curve of her neck, breathing deeply of her sweet scent. She smelled of soap and starch and purity.

A wondrously erotic combination.

“You expect me to take your word?” he demanded. “The word of a Dobson?”

“I am no longer a Dobson.”

He jerked back, his commonsense telling him that he should be infuriated by her words, not… Satisfied.

Crushing the disturbing sensation, Gabriel regarded his wife with a brooding intensity. His fingers outlined the trembling softness of her lips.

“It requires more than a signature on a piece of paper to become an Ashcombe.”

Her breath rasped through the room. “My lord.”

“Gabriel.”

She blinked in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

“You will call me Gabriel, not my lord,” he commanded, uncertain why he was determined to hear his name on her lips.

“Gabriel,” she murmured, her eyes wide. “I am not certain this is a sound notion.”

With a groan he lowered his head to stroke his lips over her wide brow before trailing down the line of her delicate nose.

“Neither am I, but I will admit it grows more appealing by the moment.”

She quivered. “Dear heavens.”

“Talia.” He used his thumb to part her lips, allowing himself a too-brief taste of her innocence. “An unusual name. Surely not your father’s choice?”

Her nails dug into the bare skin of his chest but not in protest. Gabriel could feel the race of her heart and catch the scent of her arousal.

She might be inexperienced, but her body was already softening against him in silent invitation.

“I was named for my mother’s mother,” she said, the words distracted as his lips trailed over her cheek, pausing to nuzzle the corner of her mouth.

“A gypsy?”

She tensed at the question. “Does it matter?”

“Not at the moment.” He allowed his hands to explore the smooth curve of her neck before at last moving to cup the glorious weight of one berry-tipped breast. He moaned deep in his throat. Hell, he was on the point of explosion from the mere feel of her. “You are so lush and yet so delicate. Like a Dresden figurine.”

“I am…” Her words trailed away as he gently rolled the tip of her nipple between his fingers.

“Yes?” he prompted, kissing a path down her throat.

“I am uncertain what to do,” she at last managed to confess.

Gabriel swallowed a curse. Trust Silas Dobson to send his daughter off to her wedding bed without giving her a hint what to expect. Bastard.

“Leave matters to me,” he growled against her silken skin, his hand skimming down her back to clutch the curve of her hip. “I am exactly certain what to do.”

Her lips parted, but Gabriel was beyond coherent conversation.

Besides, he had no words to assuage her virginal unease. The only means to allay her fears was to demonstrate the marriage bed could offer more than sacrifice.

Dismissing the taunting voice that assured him his impatience had nothing to do with comforting his bride, and everything to do with the desire that had escalated to an unrelenting need, Gabriel claimed her mouth in a kiss that demanded utter surrender.

She briefly stiffened, floundering beneath his raw hunger. Hardly surprising, he instantly chastised himself. Hadn’t he just told himself that Talia was a timid virgin in need of coaxing? Christ, in another moment he would be tumbling her like a two-bit whore.

The damned female might have trapped him into marriage, but, by God, he intended to have her begging for release before the night was over.

With grim determination he gentled his touch, his hand brushing down her naked thigh while his mouth teased at her lips until they slowly parted. Murmuring soft encouragement, he dipped his tongue into the moist heat of her mouth.

She again stiffened, and he swallowed a hiss of frustration. Surely she could not be frightened of a kiss?

Then, just when he was trying to convince himself to pull back, she gave a tiny sigh of pleasure, and her arms lifted to wrap around his neck.

Pure male satisfaction surged through him at her unspoken surrender.

He hadn’t been deceiving himself. She wanted him.

Continuing to stroke his fingers in a lazy pattern along her thigh, Gabriel nipped at her full lower lip before blazing a path of kisses down her throat and over the curve of her breasts. She tasted of heat and sunshine that reminded him of lazy summer days at his childhood home in Devonshire.

Days before the heavy duties of his title had stolen his untroubled existence.

Her fingers clutched at his hair, her body arching with an unspoken plea.

His cock twitched in anticipation at the feel of her soft curves brushing against him. For all her inexperience she was a natural-born siren.

And for tonight she was his.

Sweeping his mouth downward, Gabriel captured the tip of her hardened nipple between his lips, savoring the sound of her soft gasps. The sweetest music.

“My lord,” she rasped. “Gabriel.”

“Shh,” he whispered, subtly pressing a hand between her thighs. “Trust me.”

She shivered, her hands shifting to run an impatient path down his back.

“You have given me little reason to trust…” Her breath caught as his finger dipped through the moist cleft between her legs. “Oh.”

He laughed softly, circling the hard tip of her nipple with his tongue.

“Your first lesson as a wife is to accept your husband always knows best.”

She muttered something beneath her breath at his smug words, but she was swift to cry out in wonderment as his finger slid with gentle insistence into her welcoming body. Gabriel pulled back to watch her delicate face flush with sensual heat, her thick tangle of lashes lowering and her lips parting as he stroked his finger in a slow, tantalizing tempo.

Christ, he had never seen anything so beautiful.

It was absurd.

He had been pleasured by the most talented courtesans in all of England. Hell, his last mistress had caused riots when she had first appeared on the stage.

So why then was this inexperienced wallflower making him tremble with savage hunger?

Refusing to contemplate the dangerous question, Gabriel instead reclaimed her lips in a kiss of fierce anticipation. A flare of triumph raced through him as she willingly met the thrust of his tongue with her own, her nails biting into his lower back as her body sought relief from her swelling tension.

He had done what he could to ease her maidenly fears. Now he was through with waiting. If he didn’t have her soon, he was fairly certain he would go mad.

With one smooth motion he shifted on top of her body, settling between her legs with a groan of sheer relief. She gave a small gasp, but finding the tiny nub that made her squirm in bliss, Gabriel continued to pleasure her as he situated his cock into the opening of her body and entered her with one slow thrust.

A rasping moan tore from his throat. She was molten heat and exquisite tightness.

A perfect combination.

His heart forgot to beat as he drank deeply of the nectar of her mouth, waiting as Talia adjusted to his intimate invasion. Only when her muscles eased and he felt her hands running an impatient path up his back did he pull back his hips and plunge back into her slick warmth.

Brushing his lips down her cheek, Gabriel nipped at the lobe of her ear, relishing the crisp clean scent of her skin. Until this moment he did not realize how he disliked a female who drenched herself in perfume. Having his senses filled with the delectable woman in his arms, and not a choking cloud of flowers, only intensified his pleasure.

Lost in the urgency of his passion, he struggled to concentrate on the sounds of her soft moans and the rasp of her breath. He would not allow his searing need to overcome his determination for Talia to find her own release.

Burying his face in the curve of her neck, he kept his pace slow and steady, his hands shifting beneath her hips to angle them upward. Her nails bit into his flesh, her body arching as she neared her climax.

“Gabriel,” she groaned. “I cannot…”

“Yes, you can,” he coaxed in thick tones. “I will give you what you need.”

Scattering kisses down her collarbone, he lowered his head to suckle at the tip of her nipple, increasing his pace and urging her legs to wrap around his hips.

Gabriel heard Talia cry out in startled joy, the pulse of her release clutching at his cock. He clenched his teeth, his hips surging until he was buried deep inside her as a shattering climax slammed through him.

Time stopped as he rode out the storm of sensations that assaulted him. Then, with a low groan, he wrapped his arms around her quivering body and rolled to the side, pressing her against his chest.

A silence filled the room, broken only by their heavy breathing as they both struggled to recover from the explosive coupling.

It is time to walk away, a voice whispered in the back of his mind.

He had bedded his wife, ensuring their marriage was consummated and sating the unfathomable desire that had plagued him. Why would he linger?

But even as the thought of leaving passed through his mind, he dismissed it.

The uncomfortable truth was that he was not sated.

Despite the shockingly intense orgasm, he could already feel himself growing hard, and when she wiggled against him in an attempt to untangle herself from his arms, he instinctively tightened his grasp and growled in her ear.

“Do not move.”

“My lord…Gabriel…” She tilted back her head, her eyes revealing her stunned bemusement at what had just occurred between them. “Surely we should discuss…”

“No discussion,” he interrupted. Damnation, the last thing he desired was to discuss the cruel irony that the female who had so recently trapped him into marriage was capable of undermining ten years of self-discipline. He wanted to drown in the sweet temptation of her body for the rest of the night and then forget this temporary bout of madness as if it had never happened. “There is only this…” He shoved his fingers into her satin hair, crushing her lips in a devouring kiss. “And this…” He slid his mouth down the line of her jaw and then along the curve of her neck. She whispered a soft moan, her eyes fluttering shut as he continued his downward exploration, using his teeth and tongue to rouse her untutored passion. “And this…” His lips closed around the tip of her nipple and all coherent thought ended.

CHAPTER FIVE

Carrick Park Estate in Devonshire, England

TALIA HAD NOT KNOWN what to expect when she’d left London to travel to Gabriel’s remote estate in Devonshire.

In truth, she had barely given thought to her destination as the carriage had rattled over the cobblestones in the early-morning light. How could she when her thoughts were consumed with Gabriel and the hours she had spent in his arms?

It had all been so…extraordinary.

From the moment he had burst into her private chambers like a madman until he had disappeared without so much as a word just before dawn, it had all seemed like a strange dream that she might wake from at any moment.

He had been so coldly dismissive after the brief ceremony, she had never dreamed he would return with the expectation of sharing a marriage bed. And certainly she could never have anticipated his passion that had swept her away on a tidal wave of pleasure.

So why had he come to her?

Had it truly been out of fear that her father would demand proof of their consummation like some medieval villain? It seemed ridiculous. And besides, his seduction had not felt like a duty.

Even now, a month after arriving at her new home, she still lay in bed at night, recalling each branding kiss and every skillful touch.

Not that his reasons truly mattered, she told herself for the hundredth time, giving a shake of her head as she strolled along the narrow dirt path that led from the thatched cottage to Carrick Park.

For all the hours he had devoted to pleasuring her into mindless abandon, he had been swift enough to walk away from her bed, not even bothering to make an appearance as she was loaded into the carriage and taken from his home.

His message was painfully clear.

She was still his frumpy, ill-bred, unwanted wife who he intended to bury in the country.

The knowledge might very well have been the last blow needed to crush what remained of her fragile spirit, but her arrival in Devonshire had proven to be more a blessing than a punishment.

From the moment she’d set foot at Carrick Park her heart had lightened, and her fear of the future had mysteriously eased.

Perhaps it was her first sight of the grand manor house.

Constructed near the limestone cliff overlooking the English Channel, the house had once been a monastery of pale brown stone. The newer additions blended nicely with the original structure with rows of Elizabethan windows and slanted roofs. Ivy climbed along the front bays, softening the angular lines and allowing the structure to meld with the untamed parkland that surrounded the estate. The same ivy could be found on the rambling stables and outbuildings that were spread beyond the gardens.

It was not as large or as tidily manicured as some country estates, but Talia found herself immediately drawn to the rugged, natural beauty.

It felt like…home.

Far more so than her father’s gaudy house in Sloane Square. Or Gabriel’s frigidly elegant townhouse.

But, more likely it was the unexpected realization that so far away from the incessant criticism of her father and the smoldering fury of her husband, she could breathe freely. She was finally given the opportunity to make decisions for herself, which filled her with a strength she never dreamed possible.

Over the past month she’d slowly managed to earn the trust of the wary servants and tenants who had clearly been leery of meeting the latest Countess of Ashcombe.

They did not care that she was the daughter of Silas Dobson or that her ancestors could not be traced back to the Garden of Eden. For them, all that mattered was her genuine interest in their lives and her willingness to do what was within her power to ease their troubles.

Passing by the small redbrick church with a slate roof and an enclosed porch that framed the entrance, Talia came to a halt at the sight of a slender, dark-haired gentleman. He stepped through the high hedge that separated the church from the vicarage.

A smile curved her lips. Vicar Jack Gerard did not resemble any man of God that Talia had ever met.

He was very young, not more than a few years older than Talia, and so exquisitely handsome that there was little wonder the pews were overflowing on Sunday morning. What woman could resist the perfect male features and velvet brown eyes that held a hint of devilish humor? And while he was careful to wear simple black coats and breeches with a modestly tied cravat, he possessed such an innate sense of style and grace that he made even the finest noblemen appear more like preening peacocks than gentlemen of fashion.

Of course, he would not cast Gabriel in the shade, a treacherous voice whispered in the back of her mind. For all his faults, her breathtakingly handsome husband possessed a dominating presence that commanded attention no matter where he might be.

It was a voice that Talia was swift to dismiss.

Gabriel clearly desired to pretend she did not exist. For her own peace of mind it would be wise for her to do the same.

Grimly turning her thoughts away from Gabriel, Talia studiously concentrated on the approaching vicar. Which allowed her to catch sight of his subtle change of expression when he realized he was not alone.

Was that…dismay?

There seemed no other word to describe his response.

But his momentary reaction was swiftly hidden behind a brilliant smile of welcome, and Talia assured herself that it was nothing more than a trick of the growing dusk.

As if to prove her point, the vicar took her hand and lifted her fingers to his lips, his kiss lingering just a hint too long.

“Good evening, my lady,” he murmured, his low voice edged by an elusive accent.

It was rumored that his parents had fled the French revolution to settle in England, although Talia was painfully aware that gossip rarely held any truth. And so far as Talia was concerned his past did not matter.

From their first meeting he had treated her with a beguiling charm that she had greedily encouraged, allowing his flirtations to ease the wounds of Gabriel’s sharp rejection.

Not to mention the icy lack of welcome from her more aristocratic neighbors who had yet to issue an invitation to their exclusive gatherings.

She already considered him a dear friend.

“Vicar.”

Lifting his head, he slowly inspected her apple-green walking dress edged with silver lace along the scooped bodice. A matching ribbon encircled her waist. Her bonnet was a jaunty yellow that had been dyed to match her half boots that peeked from beneath the hem of her gown.

Until arriving in Devonshire she would never have chosen a dress in such a vivid color, and certainly she would never have dared to reveal so much of her full bosom.

But with the vicar’s gentle encouragement she had sought out the local dressmaker and ordered a complete new wardrobe. She had even started to wear her hair in a casual style that allowed several glossy strands to frame her face.

Now, the sight of the appreciation simmering in his eyes made each tedious hour spent being poked, prodded and measured worthwhile.

“I must say you are appearing particularly fine today,” he said, continuing to hold her fingers in a gentle grip. “That gown suits you.”

She shyly preened beneath the warmth of his gaze. “Do you think so?”

“I do. The shade brings out the emerald of your eyes.” A wicked smile tugged at his lips. “May I indulge my vanity and tell myself that I can take a small measure of credit for your lovely ensemble?”

She chuckled. “You can take full credit, sir.”

“Please, I really must insist that you call me Jack,” he interrupted, giving her fingers a squeeze. “We are friends, are we not?”

She paused, a warning that her husband would not be pleased to discover his new bride speaking so intimately with another man. Even so, she tilted her chin in an unconscious gesture of pride.

Gabriel had given up his right to dictate her behavior when he had driven her from London.

“Jack,” she breathed.

Satisfaction flared through his dark eyes. “Much better. Now, what were you saying?”

“I was admitting that I shall unfortunately never develop a talent for fashion. Which is why I am so thankful for your advice.”

“A foolish business.” He shrugged. “You have far more important talents.”

“You are very kind.”

“No, my dear, I speak with all sincerity,” he assured her. “Your presence at Carrick Park has enriched the entire neighborhood.”

“Jack…”

“Only this morning Mrs. Jordan was singing your praises for having so quickly acquired a suitable doctor.” He overrode her embarrassed protest. “And Mr. Stone is convinced you are an angel for the meals you have provided for his family. And, of course, your plans for the new school have the entire countryside twittering with excitement.”

With a laugh, Talia pressed her hands to her heated cheeks. Her entire life had been filled with criticism and the knowledge she was a disappointment to those who were supposed to love her.

She had no notion how to accept such admiration.

“Enough.”

He took a step closer, releasing her hand so he could cup her chin in his palm.

“I simply wish you to know that your servants and tenants consider you to be one of the finest Countesses of Ashcombe in memory.”

Genuine warmth filled her heart. The realization that she had the power to improve the lives of those who depended upon her had given a sense of purpose to her days. And more than that, it had offered a newfound confidence in herself.

Something she had never expected.

“It is pleasant to think that I am not an utter failure in my position.”

His brows snapped into a frown. “Failure? Why would you say such a thing?”

“How can I not? As you are well aware, I have yet to be welcomed by my more noble neighbors. They are obviously not so pleased by my presence.”

He studied her pale face. “Does that trouble you?”

She grimaced. “The thought of bringing shame to my husband’s family troubles me.”

Without warning Jack grasped her upper arms in a firm grip, his dark eyes blazing.

“Do not,” he growled.

“Vicar…Jack.”

“Forgive me, but I cannot allow you to talk such nonsense,” he barked, not sounding the least apologetic.

Talia regarded him with a measure of surprise, taken off guard by the sudden vehemence in his tone.

“It is not nonsense to be concerned for my position as the Countess of Ashcombe.”

“Surely your position means tending to those in need, which you have done with admirably, rather than wasting your time and resources on impressing those unworthy of your concern?”

Talia frowned, suddenly suspicious that Jack Gerard hid dark depths behind his smooth charm. But she soon shrugged aside her brief moment of disquiet.

What was the matter with her? Jack was a handsome, excessively pleasant gentleman whom she counted a friend.

“I am not so certain my husband would agree with you,” she said, returning her attention to their conversation.

“Then he is a fool.”

“Jack,” she gently chastised.

“My lady…Talia…” He paused, as if searching for the proper words. “I have only been here a short while, but the people tend to confide in me.”

She laughed. It was rare that the church was not filled with eager females seeking a word alone with the handsome vicar.

“Yes, you do have a skill for earning the trust of others, especially if they happen to be the fairer sex,” she teased.

His expression never eased. “Then you will believe me when I tell you that the locals had few kind words for the previous countess.”

Her breath caught at his blunt confession. The sensible part of her knew she should gently turn the conversation in another direction. It was hardly polite to gossip about her mother-in-law with the local vicar. But a larger part of her was consumed with curiosity about the woman who had yet to acknowledge Talia as a member of her family.

“Why?”

“She is like far too many in society.” His voice was edged with disgust. “She cares for nothing beyond her own comforts and her social standing. In less than a month you have managed to spend more time among the tenants than she has in the past thirty years. Certainly she has never taken the effort to learn their names or to discover their needs.” He grimaced. “To be honest, I doubt she is even aware of them as more than additions to the barnyard animals.”

Talia frowned. She had always thought the Countess of Ashcombe a conceited, overly proud woman when she had seen her in London, but it was disturbing to think she had no concern for the poor and vulnerable.

“I do not believe she could be entirely oblivious to those who depend upon her.”

“No?” Jack pointed across the distant fields that provided a perfect view of Carrick Park. The sight was magnificent as the last rays of sunlight brushed the windows in pinks and violets, and the water cascading in the marble fountains sparkled like jewels. “Last winter she insisted that old Lucas be forced from the cottage that had been in his family for two hundred years because it spoiled her view of the church.”

“Surely she did not realize…”

“The poor man begged on his knees to have his home spared, but he was tossed like so much rubbish into his daughter’s care and his cottage was destroyed.” He deliberately held her troubled gaze. “He died less than a fortnight later.”

“I cannot accept she would be so cruel.”

“It was more indifference than cruelty,” he mused. “For aristocrats such as the countess, those without blue blood running through their veins are simply unworthy of their consideration.”

She tugged from his lingering grip, licking her dry lips. She barely noticed that his dark gaze seemed fascinated by the small gesture.

“And what of my…” She still struggled with what to call the man who had taken her as his bride, then stolen her innocence before shipping her off to the country. “Of the earl? The servants and tenants speak of him with great respect.”

“As if they have a choice,” he said dryly.

A sickness settled in the pit of her stomach. She could not explain why, but the thought of Gabriel as yet another worthless aristocrat living off the sweat of his tenants without offering them the assistance and appreciation they deserved made her heart ache with disappointment.

“Oh.”

There was a brief hesitation, then without warning Jack heaved a harsh sigh.

“Forgive me, Talia. I am not being entirely fair.”

She blinked in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“From all I have heard your husband is a decent landlord who has done much to introduce the latest farming techniques to his tenants.”

“But?” she prompted, sensing he was not revealing the full truth.

“I beg your pardon?”

“What are you not telling me?”

He gave a lift of his hands. “The earl tends to be an intimidating figure to most in the neighborhood. Few would dare approach him without invitation. Which means many have continued to suffer.”

A portion of Talia’s distress faded upon hearing Gabriel was merely aloof and not a callous brute. Surely with a bit of encouragement he could earn the trust of those in his care? Not that she intended to be the unfortunate individual making the suggestion, she acknowledged with a tiny shiver.

Nor would her companion. Not if his barely hidden sneer was any indication.

“You disapprove of my husband?” she demanded, wondering if the two men had ever crossed paths.

“I have little use for those who treat their power as a God-given right rather than a duty to others.”

She narrowed her gaze at the intensity in his voice. “Are you a Jacobin?”

His charming smile returned in the blink of an eye. “I am a humble vicar who is devoted to his flock, not a revolutionary.”

“Hmm.” She tilted her head to the side. “Why do I sense there is much you keep hidden?”

Before she could realize his intent, Jack had reached to tug at a stray curl that rested against her cheek.

“I will admit that my estimation of the earl has risen considerably since your arrival at Carrick Park,” he murmured, his dark gaze regarding her with blatant admiration. “I would never have suspected that he possessed the good sense to wed a lady of such value, rather than a typical debutante.”

Talia blushed, vividly aware of the intimate touch of his hand against her cheek.

“You must know that I was not the bride of his choice,” she said in flustered tones.

His thumb brushed her lower lip. “Are you so certain?”

“Of course.” She regarded him in bewildered shock. He could not possibly mean that Gabriel was anything but horrified to be married to Silas Dobson’s daughter. “He barely noted my existence until my father bullied him into marrying me.”

“It is my experience that gentlemen such as Lord Ashcombe rarely allow themselves to be bullied into any situation, let alone into marriage.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You have not yet had the untoward pleasure of meeting my father.”

“I do not doubt he is a man of considerable…”

“Pigheaded stubbornness combined with a brute lack of morals?” she offered wryly.

“Whatever his power, he could never truly take on a wealthy peer of the realm,” he smoothly continued. “He might have given Lord Ashcombe an excuse to take you as his bride, but the earl would never have wed you unless that was what he desired to do.”

Talia’s heart gave a strange leap of excitement before she hastily quelled the ridiculous reaction.

Jack clearly underestimated Gabriel’s pride. He would have wed a savage from the colonies to avoid a nasty scandal. Now he hated her for the sacrifice he had been forced to make. And she did not blame him.

“You are quite mistaken.”

His lips twisted. “Perhaps.”

Giving a shake of her head, Talia parted her lips to continue her protests only to be distracted by the heavy tread of footsteps approaching from the cemetery behind the church.

With a frown she turned to watch two men dressed in rough woolen sailor coats and loose trousers come to an abrupt halt as they noticed her.

A strange chill inched down her spine at the sight of their heavily muscled bodies and their weathered faces that spoke of endless hours toiling in the sun. Still, it was not their rough appearances that made her consider the need to flee for safety, it was instead the unmistakable air of violence that hovered about them.

She took an instinctive step backward, not sure what to expect. Then surprisingly, she felt Jack move to stand protectively at her back, his hand circling her waist.

One of the two men glanced toward the vicar, and Talia tensed, terrified that they were about to be attacked.

Instead there was a taut moment of silence before they gave a respectful dip of their heads and turned to make their way into the church.

Talia gave a baffled shake of her head, not entirely certain what had just happened.

“Good heavens.” She turned to meet Jack’s wary gaze. “Who were those gentlemen?”

“No one who need concern you,” he assured her.

Talia was far from comforted. “Are you certain? They look to be ruffians.”

Jack shrugged. “Ruffians have as much need of spiritual guidance as any other. Even more so.”

“But…”

“It grows late, Talia.” Without warning, Jack leaned down to brush a soft kiss over her cheek. “Return to your home.”

She ignored his forward manner, sensing that he was deliberately attempting to be rid of her. Why?

Did he fear the men might still be a danger to her? Or was there some other reason for his desire to send her on her way?

“You do not wish me to call for the constable?”

“No.” He gave her a small push down the narrow lane. “I will be fine. I will see you tomorrow.”

Talia obediently headed up the pathway, waiting until she turned the sweeping corner that hid her from Jack’s view before she darted into the nearby copse of trees and started to creep back toward the church.

There was something distinctly suspicious about the strangers. And while she admired Jack for his willingness to offer sanctuary to all who came to his church, she could not bear the thought that his kindness would leave him vulnerable to harm.

Or death.

Holding up her skirts to avoid becoming tangled in the thick undergrowth, Talia weaved her way through the trees, ignoring the odd sense of premonition that clutched at her heart. Who would not be unnerved at creeping through the gathering gloom?

Still, for the first time since she’d left London, she was conscious of the scurry of unseen animals among the bushes and the distant cry of an owl that filled the silence. And even more disturbing was the awareness of just how alone she was.

If something happened, who would hear her screams?

She gave a shake of her head. She would not allow Jack to be injured because she was frightened of shadows.

At last reaching the edge of the trees, Talia squared her shoulders and darted across the open yard to the back of the church. She pressed her back against the bricks, her heart lodged in her throat.

From inside the building she could hear the sound of voices, and before she lost her courage, she forced herself to inch toward the open window, sending up a silent prayer that no one would happen by.

How the devil would she explain the Countess of Ashcombe creeping through the dark and eavesdropping upon the local vicar?

She stopped at the edge of the window and tilted her head to peer into the room, easily recognizing the sacristy. How…odd. Why would the vicar take two strange men into a storage room for the church’s most sacred possessions?

The most reasonable explanation would be that the men had forced Jack to the room in the hopes of discovering something of value. The church might be small, but there were several items made of silver as well as a few rare artifacts that a collector would pay a goodly sum to acquire. Which meant she should be dashing toward the nearest cottage to seek assistance.

But as her gaze shifted toward the three men who filled the room, she hesitated.

Jack did not look as if he were being held against his will. In fact, he appeared to be in charge of his companions as one of the men reached beneath his coat to toss a leather satchel at the vicar.

Jack eagerly tugged open the satchel and pulled out a stack of papers.

“These are the most recent maps?” he demanded, unfolding one of the papers and studying it with deep concentration.

The larger of the two men gave a grunt of agreement. “They were copied directly by a clerk at the Home Office.”

Talia stilled. Dear lord. She might know very little of politics, but she was well aware that the Home Office was headquarters to the various leaders who plotted war against Napoleon.

Jack was nodding, his attention still on the map. “And this clerk is certain no one suspects that he duplicated them?”

“Aye.” The stranger made a sound of annoyance. “Cost me a bloody fortune.”

An icy sense of disbelief spread through Talia as she watched Jack shrug, vaguely recognizing this was not the kindly vicar she thought she knew.

The glimpse of ruthless authority she had so readily dismissed earlier was in full evidence as he carefully spread the papers across the narrow table in the center of the room. And his French accent was far more pronounced.

It was as if he had been playing in a masquerade, and now the true man beneath the disguise was exposed.

“Do not fear, you will be well rewarded once I can be certain these are genuine,” Jack muttered.

The smaller stranger leaned over the table with a frown on his ruddy face.

“That ain’t France, is it?”

“Very astute, Monsieur Henderson,” Jack drawled, his tone mocking. “It happens to be Portugal.”

“And why would the Frenchies be wanting a map of Portugal?”

A smile of satisfaction curved Jack’s lips. “Because this tells us precisely where and when Sir Arthur Wellesley intends to land his army. And the battle strategy that he hopes to employ.” He stroked a slender finger over the map. “Most informative.”

Traitor…

The word whispered through her mind as Talia pressed a hand to her mouth. It was all so unbelievable. More like a plot from one of the thrilling novels she kept hidden in the privacy of her bedchamber than reality.

Who could ever suspect that the charming vicar in a remote village in Devonshire was attempting to destroy the British Empire?

The larger of the men folded his arms over his chest as he glared at the various maps spread across the table.

“Looks to me like a bumbling mess, but if you are satisfied, then so be it.”

“I am.” Jack offered a dip of his head. “And the emperor thanks you for your service.”

The man snorted. “I ain’t wantin’ the thanks of bloody Napoleon. I want me money, nothing else.”

“Of course, I…”

Jack came to an abrupt halt, then without warning his head turned toward the window, almost as if he sensed Talia’s presence. It was too late for Talia to duck away, and their shocked gazes locked before something that might have been regret flashed through his dark eyes.

“Mon Dieu,” he breathed, shoving away from the table and heading toward the side door.

Talia gave a small shriek as she gathered her skirts and darted toward the nearby path. There was no thought to where she was headed, only a terrified need to escape.

Of course, it was a futile effort.

Even if she were not hampered by her layers of skirts and petticoats, she was no match for an athletic gentleman in his prime.

She was still in the churchyard when she felt strong arms circling her waist and hauling her squirming body against a hard chest. Then Jack leaned down his head to whisper directly in her ear.

“I truly wish you had heeded my advice, ma petite.”

CHAPTER SIX

THE GENTLEMEN’S CLUB on St. James’s Street was filled with solid English furnishings and well-worn carpets that extended from the dining room to the discreet gaming rooms. On the white plaster walls were a series of oil paintings dedicated to the aristocracy’s love for hunting, and overhead a heavy chandelier glistened in the early sunlight. The entire building smelled of mahogany, leather and tobacco smoke.

A familiar combination that usually soothed Gabriel.

This morning, however, he was on edge as he sat at a table near the front window of the morning room reading the Times. He was annoyingly aware of the servants in black knee-breeches as they scurried to and fro and the numerous gentlemen who were enjoying hushed conversations behind him.

He should have remained at the townhouse, a voice whispered in the back of his mind.

He had a perfectly lovely breakfast room that offered a view of his rose garden, rather than the narrow London street currently spread beneath him, and a cook eager to prepare whatever he desired. And of course, there was the decided benefit of being alone. The gawking gossips were currently studying him with an avid curiosity that made his teeth clench.

Unfortunately, he had devoted the past month to avoiding society. Unless he wished others to suspect he was cowardly hiding from his supposed friends and acquaintances, he had no choice but to force himself to return to his previous routine.

Which included an hour at his club, followed by a trip to his tailor and then on to Tattersall’s to have a look at the horses to be auctioned.

Even if it meant he was to attract precisely the sort of sordid attention he detested.

He tossed aside the unread paper and smoothed his hand down the simply tied cravat that he had matched with a pale blue jacket and ivory waistcoat, his brooding gaze trained on the tip of his glossy boot.

Was it any wonder he was in a foul mood?

And he knew entirely where to lay the blame.

His aggravating wife.

His jaw tightened. Dammit. He had sent her to Devonshire to ensure she understood that she would never again be allowed to manipulate him. He would be the master of their relationship, and she would learn to be an obedient wife or she would suffer the consequences.

But after waiting day after day for a message from his suitably chastised bride, pleading to be allowed to return to London, he found his temper fraying at her stubborn lack of communication.

What the devil was the matter with the chit?

Surely she must be anxious to return to her precious society so she could flaunt her newfound position as the Countess of Ashcombe? For an ambitious female, being trapped in the country should be a fate worse than death.

And yet, his housekeeper had written several letters revealing that Talia had swiftly become a favorite among both his staff and tenants. Indeed, Mrs. Donaldson had gushed with monotonous enthusiasm for the newest Countess of Ashcombe, assuring him that Talia had settled nicely at the estate and revealed no desire whatsoever to return to London.

Or to her husband.

So the question was—what game was his bride playing now?

The more cynical side of him insisted that Talia was merely biding her time in an effort to lure him into complacency, and yet, he could not entirely believe such a simple explanation. His tenants might not be well educated, but they were keen judges of character. They would have sensed if Talia were merely pretending to care.

And yet, she could not possibly be utterly innocent. Could she?

Tapping a slender finger on the side table situated next to his chair, Gabriel grimly admitted that the only means to discover the truth was to travel to Carrick Park. Beneath his watchful gaze Talia would either reveal that she was truly her father’s daughter or she would prove she was as much a victim as Gabriel was to Silas Dobson’s ambitions.

Yes. His vague notion hardened to determination. He obviously had no choice but to leave London for Devonshire. In fact, there was no reason he could not begin the journey today.

Without warning a savage flare of anticipation clutched his stomach. An anticipation that had nothing to do with discovering the truth and everything to do with returning his beautiful bride to his bed.

Christ, he ached for her.

It was ludicrous. He could have his pick of beautiful, willing women. All of them eager to offer him endless hours of pleasure.

But night after night he had slept alone, plagued by the memories of his dark-haired gypsy.

A prickle on the back of his neck shook Gabriel out of his delectable thoughts of Talia spread across his bed, his hands tangled in her dark hair as he thrust deep into her satin heat.

He turned his head, preparing to flay the unwelcome intruder with a few well-chosen words, only to have them die on his lip.

Damn.

His gaze skimmed over the tall gentleman with a large, muscular body who was currently attired in a cinnamon jacket and tan waistcoat, black breeches and glossy boots. The nobleman’s light brown hair was cut shorter than the current fashion and his features were more forceful than handsome. And while his golden-brown eyes often simmered with amusement, they could also send any preening fop who hoped to garner his acquaintance fleeing in fear.

Hugo, Lord Rothwell.

And one of Gabriel’s few friends.

“Is there a particular reason you are hovering behind me like a vulture, Hugo?” he demanded wryly, knowing it would be a futile effort to try to convince his friend that he preferred to be alone.

Hugo narrowed his golden gaze, absently toying with the signet ring on his little finger.

“I am attempting to decide if I have the nerve so early in the day to beard the lion in his den. Or shall I wait until I am in my cups and therefore impervious to your foul mood?”

Gabriel pointedly turned his attention toward the dunces clustered about the room casting covert glances in his direction.

“My mood would not be foul if I were not surrounded by idiots,” he growled.

“Hmm.” With the ease of a natural sportsman, Hugo lowered his large body into the leather chair opposite Gabriel. “That would not be my first guess as to why you have been snapping and snarling at every unwitting soul who has crossed your path over the past month.”

“At least I have not yet taken to lodging bullets in those who annoy me,” he smoothly pointed out, “although that might change at any moment.”

Hugo smiled at the threat. “You do realize that you cannot keep society at bay forever? Eventually you will have to face their curiosity.”

“Society’s curiosity, or yours?”

“Both,” Hugo admitted. “But considering we have been friends since I bloodied your nose our first day at Eton I surely deserve to be the first to be taken into your confidence?”

Gabriel snorted. “First of all, I was the one to bloody your nose after you attempted to pinch my favorite cricket bat. And I have never known you to take an interest in gossip.”

“That is because the rumors have never before hinted that the proud and notoriously aloof Earl of Ashcombe has secretly wed the daughter of Silas Dobson.”

Gabriel’s jaw tightened at the mention of his offensive father-in-law.

“Obviously not so secretively.”

“Is it true?”

There was a moment of silence before Gabriel gave a grudging nod of his head. “Yes.”

“Bloody hell,” Hugo muttered.

“My sentiments exactly.”

Hugo scowled at Gabriel’s dry retort. “I suppose I need not ask how this particular disaster occurred,” he rasped. “Only Harry could force you into such an untenable situation.”

Gabriel shrugged. Hugo had never bothered to hide his disgust for Harry and his reckless extravagances.

“He certainly can take a share of the blame,” he admitted.

“A share?” Hugo shook his head. “It is common knowledge that Harry jilted Miss Dobson after disappearing with her dowry. Typical of him.”

Gabriel ignored the stab of possessive outrage at the mere thought of Talia wed to his brother.

“Quite typical,” he agreed. “Which is why I should have foreseen the looming danger. I was a fool.”

Hugo breathed a low curse. “I will admit you were a fool, but only for allowing your guilt at Harry’s betrayal to trap you into a vile marriage.”

“Guilt?”

“Of course. Why else would you have wed the vulgar wench?”

Gabriel parted his lips to inform his friend that it hadn’t been guilt but rather sordid blackmail that had forced him into matrimony, but he swallowed the revealing words. It was not just embarrassment at having to admit he had been bested by Silas Dobson, but a disturbing suspicion that he was not being entirely honest with himself.

“My reasons do not concern you,” he snapped.

There was a pause before Hugo reluctantly turned the conversation.

“Have you managed to track down your brother?”

Gabriel shook his head. He had sent two of his most trusted footmen in search of Harry the moment he’d realized he was missing, but thus far they had been unable to discover anything more than the rumor his brother was seen heading toward Dover. “Not yet.”

“Bastard,” Hugo hissed.

“He cannot elude me forever.” Gabriel gave a sharp laugh. “Not that it truly matters now.”

“No, the damage has been done.” Hugo studied him for a long moment, seeming to consider his next words. “May I ask where you have stashed your blushing bride?”

Gabriel arched a brow. “Do you fear I’ve locked her in the wine cellar?”

“The rumor is that she has been whisked off to one of your estates, although I hold out hope that you had the good sense to drown her in the Thames.” Hugo’s lips twisted with a cruel humor. “Or at the very least had her transported to the colonies.”

Gabriel’s hand landed on the table with enough force to rattle his coffee cup and create a startled twitter of alarm that rippled through the room.

He ignored the disturbance, his gaze locked on his friend.

“This is my wife we are discussing.”

Hugo frowned, his jaw jutted to a stubborn angle. “Yes, a grasping, overly ambitious harpy who does not even have the decency to possess a hint of grace or beauty.”

Gabriel leaned forward, not giving a damn that his fury was entirely unreasonable.

“Not another word,” he warned.

Glancing toward Gabriel’s tightly clenched expression, Hugo jerkily settled back in his seat.

“Damn, Ashcombe,” he growled. “What is the matter with you?”

It was a question that Gabriel had no answer for, nor did he particularly care at the moment. His only thought was ensuring his friend understood that Talia now belonged to him.

“I will not have anyone insulting the Countess of Ashcombe,” he snarled. “Including you.”

“Even if she forced you into marriage?”

“Talia…” Gabriel faltered, not certain he was prepared to share his doubts. “What?”

“She claims she had no desire to wed either Harry or myself,” he at last confessed.

Hugo waved his hand dismissively. “Of course she would deny trading her soul for a title. What woman would confess such a truth?”

“I am not completely convinced of her guilt.”

His friend hissed, his eyes darkening with shock. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

Gabriel narrowed his gaze. “Take care, Hugo.”

“If she had no desire to wed, then all she had to do was say no. The days of buying and selling women as if they are cattle are long past,” Hugo pressed. “She could not have been forced into marriage.”

It was precisely what Gabriel had told himself, but now he glared at Hugo, barely resisting the urge to punch his closest friend in the nose.

“Have you had the misfortune to meet Silas Dobson?”

Hugo grimaced. “A nasty bit of goods, but a damned shrewd businessman. I have invested in his latest shipping venture.”

“He is an uncouth brute who makes a habit of terrorizing those in his power.”

“That does not mean Miss Dobson…”

“Lady Ashcombe.”

Hugo’s jaw tightened at Gabriel’s interruption. “It does not necessarily follow that your wife is a victim. It is quite likely she was a willing conspirator with her father in plotting to claim the highest available title.”

Gabriel impatiently shook his head. He would soon enough determine the truth for himself.

“Her guilt or innocence no longer matters.”

Hugo’s frustration was replaced by a flare of sympathy. “True enough,” he murmured. “Harry made a deal with the devil and now you must pay.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Have you considered a career on the stage?”

“I…”

Hugo snapped his lips shut as a footman in the familiar blue-and-silver uniform of Ashcombe halted beside Gabriel and handed him a folded note.

“Pardon me, my lord,” he apologized. “This has just arrived from Devonshire. The messenger said it is urgent.”

“Thank you.” Expecting information on his brother, Gabriel was unprepared for his housekeeper’s plea for him to travel as fast as possible to Carrick Park. His blood ran cold as he shoved himself to his feet with enough violence to tumble his chair backward. “Damn. I must go.”

“Go?” Hugo swiftly lifted himself upright. “Go where?”

“Your ill wishes for my wife have come to pass,” he ground out, unfairly striking out at his friend as a fear he did not entirely understand clutched his heart.

Hugo flinched. “What the devil do you mean?”

“My wife has disappeared,” Gabriel turned on his heel, headed for the door. “You had best pray I find her.”

THE FRENCH CASTLE tucked in the countryside south of Paris retained much of its delicate charm despite the obvious ravages of war.

Built in a perfect square to frame the formal inner courtyard, the structure retained two towers from what Talia assumed to be a previous castle and vast wings that were constructed of a golden stone that shimmered in the sunlight. Along one wing a covered terrace was supported by a series of archways that led to the main residence that offered a striking double stone staircase and carved stones set above the large windows.

Among the surrounding gardens many of the statues and marble fountains had been destroyed by rioters, but inside, the endless procession of public chambers, salons and elegant galleries remained remarkably intact. And despite the fact she was being held captive, Talia could not prevent herself from appreciating the exquisite beauty that surrounded her.

Who could remain impervious to the priceless artwork that lined the walls, the massive tapestries, the inlaid wood floors and the breathtaking frescoes that graced the high ceilings?

Standing in one of the long galleries, Talia leaned against a fluted column that bracketed the high, arched window and gazed across the gardens to the distant road beyond.

Not for the first time since arriving at the palace three days ago she considered the possibility of simply walking out the front door and making her escape. She was alone, after all, and she did not doubt that she could travel a considerable distance before she was missed.

Unfortunately, she was not so stupid as to believe that she could actually make her way back to England.

Not only did she not speak French, but she had no money, no legal papers necessary to travel in France and no means to flee the estate beyond her own feet. At best she would be arrested before she reached the nearest village. At worst she would be taken captive by the numerous French soldiers who passed by the palace with unfortunate regularity.

She did not doubt they would be far less gentle toward her than Jack Gerard.

No…not Jack, but Jacques, she silently corrected with a deep sigh.

As furious as she was to have been kidnapped from her home, she could not deny that Jacques had done his best to keep her in comfort.

He had taken her from the church to a small boat kept among the local fishing vessels and had demanded his rough companions row them to a sleek yacht that had been hidden along a remote section of the coast. Thankfully he had sent the brutes back to London, and Talia had been put into the hands of his French crew, who had treated her as if she were a delicate treasure in constant need of coddling.

Once in France, the journey to the palace had been a mere blur as she had been placed alone in a carriage that had traveled for several hours at a bone-rattling speed through the countryside with only brief pauses so she could relieve herself among the bushes.

Since her arrival at the palace, she had been left to explore her surroundings in peace. She had been careful, though, to avoid the large outbuildings that had been given over to a great number of wounded soldiers and a dozen children that she had assumed were orphans.

This morning, however, she had sensed her solitude was about to come to an end. After emerging from her bath, she had discovered the gown she had been wearing since being kidnapped had mysteriously disappeared and was replaced by a lovely satin dress in a warm shade of ocher. There had also been matching slippers and expensive undergarments that had made her blush.

With no choice she had attired herself in the new clothing, although, without a maid, she had chosen to pull her hair into a simple braid that hung down her back. She would not be trapped in her chambers because she was too proud to take the unwanted clothing.

The footsteps she had been expecting for hours at last echoed through the gallery, and, accepting she could not avoid the inevitable, she turned to watch as Jacques Gerard strolled toward her.

A grudging smile tugged at her lips as she caught sight of his elegant charcoal-gray jacket that had been tailored to perfectly fit his lean body. His white cravat was tied in the latest style, and his black pantaloons clung with loving care to his muscular legs.

The humble vicar had been replaced by a gentleman with the sort of natural arrogance that was usually reserved to those born into power. And not for the first time Talia wondered just who this man truly was.

He was far too well-educated for a simple peasant, and yet, his hatred for the aristocracy was unmistakable.

A man of mystery.

Coming to a halt directly in front of her, Jacques reached for her hand, lifting her fingers to his mouth for a lingering kiss even as his gaze stroked with warm appreciation over her slender form.

“Bonsoir, ma petite,” he murmured, his attention lingering on the scooped neckline trimmed with a pretty Brussels lace that lay like a promise against the full curve of her breasts. “I see that the modiste did not disappoint. You look magnificent. Of course, you would appear even more magnificent if only I could coax a smile to those stubborn lips.”

She blushed during his heated scrutiny, unaccustomed to such blatant admiration. But oddly, she did not shrink as was her custom beneath a male’s attention, nor did she find herself plagued by the urge to stammer in embarrassment.

Perhaps it was being away from the constant badgering of her father that had stiffened her backbone. Or her growing confidence since becoming the Countess of Ashcombe.

Or perhaps it was Jacques who had never mocked her as a foolish wallflower but instead had treated her with a dignity and respect that she had never before experienced. At least until he had proven to be a traitor and kidnapped her, she wryly acknowledged.

Whatever the cause, she squarely met his steady gaze with a tilt of her chin.

“You are a fine one to call me stubborn.” She brushed a hand down the exquisite material of her gown. “You know very well I would not have accepted your charity unless you had my own dress taken away.”

He gave her fingers a light squeeze before allowing them to drop. “The clothes are a gift, not charity, and as a Frenchman renowned for his exquisite sense of fashion I had no choice but to rid the world of your tattered rags.”

“Hardly a rag.”

He waved aside her protest, his dark eyes shimmering with a wicked amusement that could tempt a saint.

“Besides, you are my guest. It is my duty, as well as my pleasure, to ensure you are provided with all the comforts you might desire.”

“I am your prisoner, not your guest.”

“Prisoner?” He lifted his brows in a pretense of innocence. “There are no bars on the windows and no shackles holding you against your will.”

“It is beneath you to pretend that I am here of my own free will,” she chastised.

“Come, ma petite,” he coaxed, skimming a finger down her cheek. “It has not been such a terrible adventure, has it?”

She jerked from his touch, her eyes narrowing at his patronizing tone.

“I have been bullied and coerced and manipulated by others my entire life, Monsieur Gerard,” she said between clenched teeth. “I had foolishly hoped I might have found a place where I could control my own destiny, as well as friends who appreciated my independence, when I arrived at Carrick Park.”

A brief flash of regret shot through his eyes before he cupped her chin in his hand and regarded her with a resolute expression.

“Oui, it was a foolish hope. You were never destined to enjoy your independence for long.”

She frowned. “There is no need to mock me.”

“Talia, use that considerable intelligence of yours,” he commanded.

“What do you mean?”

“You could not have remained alone at Carrick Park.”

“I do not comprehend why not,” she protested. “It seemed a satisfactory arrangement.”

His lips twisted. “For you perhaps, but I can assure you that your husband would soon have been joining you in Devonshire. Or demanding that you return to London.”

She stiffened at the mention of Gabriel. She had done her best not to think of her husband since those first hours after her kidnapping when she had ridiculously held on to a hope that he would come charging to her rescue. As if he would bother himself to chase after his unwanted wife even if he had known she was taken hostage. She was such a fool.

“Nonsense.” Her voice held a bitter edge she could not entirely disguise. “He was quite happy to be rid of me.”

Jacques regarded her as if she were impossibly naïve. “No, he wished to punish your father for having dared to threaten him,” he said. “Once he is assured that he has established his dominance over you, and, more important, Silas Dobson, he will be anxious to claim his wife.”

A treacherous memory of how Gabriel had already claimed her in the rumpled sheets of her bed briefly seared through her mind. Then, with a gasp, she hastily thrust aside the unwelcome image. What the devil was the matter with her?

“You know nothing of the situation.” She took an awkward step away from her companion, thankful he could not read her thoughts. “Gabriel is eager to forget we were ever wed.”

His eyes narrowed. “Even if such a ridiculous notion were true, he cannot forget you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are the Countess of Ashcombe, not some commoner’s wife.”

“I am aware of my title,” she said tartly. Her wedding might have been a bleak affair, but she had no doubt that it had been perfectly legal. Had Gabriel not returned for the wedding night just to ensure…

No.

Not again.

“Then you should also be aware that, whatever Lord Ashcombe’s personal opinion of you as his wife, his pride will not allow you to be a source of mockery among his peers.” Jacques thankfully distracted her dangerous thoughts. “When he judges it to be the appropriate moment, he will use his considerable power to launch you into society.”

Talia shuddered at the mere suggestion. She would as soon be left to rot in a French prison as be launched back into society.

“He cannot force them to accept me.”

“Of course he can.” Jacques’s hand shifted to brush a stray curl from her cheek. “They will not dare to do anything but bow at your pretty feet.”

Her humorless laugh floated eerily through the gallery. “Absurd.”

He shrugged aside her disbelief. “Not that taking your place among society is your most important function as the new Countess of Ashcombe.”

“I suppose you intend to tell me what it is?”

He stepped close enough to surround her in his male heat, his hands framing her face.

“I should not have to, no matter how innocent you might be.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Mons…”

“Jacques,” he huskily insisted.

“Jacques,” she impatiently muttered. “Just say what is upon your mind.”

“Very well.” His lips curved in a mocking smile. “The first and foremost duty of the Countess of Ashcombe is to produce the essential heir, ma petite.”

She sucked in a sharp breath, more disturbed by the brutal pang of need that clenched her stomach than by Jacques’s audacity.

She wasn’t stupid. In the days leading up to the wedding, there had lurked the knowledge that Gabriel would need an heir, but she had endured too many disappointments to willingly invite more. How could she have allowed herself to hope for a child when her husband might very well have decided he could not bear to bring himself to share her bed?

Even after their wedding night, she had refused to consider the possibility when it became evident she was not yet pregnant. Gabriel was obviously satisfied with his mistresses in town, leaving her alone in the country. The desperate desire to hold a baby in her arms might very well drive her mad if she allowed it to settle in her heart.

“I…”

Mistaking her unease for embarrassment, Jacques stroked his thumb over her heated cheek.

“You truly are an innocent.”

“Not so innocent as you imagine,” she said dryly.

“I find it charming.” A dangerous emotion flared through his dark eyes. “I find you charming.”

A stab of panic had Talia jerking away from his lingering touch. “I will not discuss this with you.”

Jacques folded his arms over his chest, watching her nervous retreat with a narrowed gaze.

“What will you not discuss?” he asked. “The realization that your husband is not some mythical creature who you can pretend lives in some distant land and that eventually you will have to do your duty as his wife?”

“My relationship with Lord Ashcombe is none of your concern.”

“I am merely attempting to reveal that your idyll would not have lasted beyond a few weeks,” he persisted. “You should thank me for rescuing you from an existence that would never have made you happy.”

“Rescuing me? I was kidnapped,” she sharply reminded him. “And you know nothing of how to make me happy.”

A smile of pure male confidence curled his lips. “I know you intimately, ma petite.”

Heat flared beneath her cheeks at his suggestive words. “Nonsense.”

“I know you prefer to devote your days to helping others and that you would be miserable being forced back to the stifling ballrooms of London.” His dark gaze skimmed over the exposed skin of her bosom. “I also suspect you are not eager to become a broodmare for a husband who has shown you nothing but contempt.”

She abruptly whirled away, unwilling to reveal the awful truth that she would give anything to have a baby. A tiny child to whom she could offer all her love that had been rejected by others.

“Please, do not,” she choked out.

Jacques bent his head to whisper in her ear, his gentle hands resting on her shoulders.

“Your talents would be respected here, ma petite. There is much need and few hands to offer assistance.”

She shook her head. “I am no traitor.”

“Come.” Tightening his grip, Jacques steered her across the floor of the gallery to the arched windows that overlooked the inner courtyard. A reluctant smile curved her lips at the sight of a dozen children ranging in age from five to fifteen darting among the ruins of the statues and fountains, chasing a stray dog. “Do you see them, Talia?” Jacques demanded, his voice low and compelling. “They are not English or French, they are children. And all they know is that war has destroyed their homes and their families. Just think of the difference you could make in their lives.”

Talia could not deny a tug of regret.

Her days in Devonshire had proved she possessed a talent for helping those in need, whether it was making certain a sickly tenant received meals from her kitchen or organizing the village to build a new school for the local children.

How much could she accomplish for those poor orphans?

She heaved a sigh. “You do not fight fair.”

“I fight to win.”

She thrust away his unexpectedly tempting offer and turned to meet his watchful gaze.

“Am I to be held here forever?”

He deliberately lifted his brow, glancing toward the beautiful Rubens’s paintings displayed in gilt frames and the dangling chandeliers made from priceless Venetian glass.

“You disapprove of your lodgings?”

She thinned her lips, battling against his considerable charm.

“I simply wish to know what you intend for my future.”

He reached to straighten the lace at her bosom. “Be at ease, Talia. Once the information I acquired has been used to defeat Wellesley, I will personally escort you back to Devonshire.” He paused. “Although I have hopes that I will have convinced you to remain with me by that time.”

She was far from comforted by his promise. “How can you speak so casually of what you have done? Do you not realize that hundreds, perhaps thousands, of British soldiers might die because of your treachery?”

“And hundreds, perhaps thousands, of French soldiers will be saved,” he readily countered. “It is war, ma petite.”

“A war started by your crazed emperor who will not be satisfied until he has conquered the world.” Her scowl shifted toward the marble bust of Napoleon that had been placed on a teak-wood pedestal. “How can you give your loyalty to such a man?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“I COULD ASK the same of you,” Jacques countered, his jaw clenched. “How can you give your loyalty to a mad king and his imbecile son who devotes more attention to the gloss on his boots than to his people starving in the gutters?”

She lowered her eyes, unable to deny his condemnation. Not that she was prepared to admit the truth. Not to the man who was willing to betray those who had come to trust him, including herself.

“We shall never agree.”

“You think not?” He waited until she lifted her head to meet his somber gaze. “We are not so different, you know.”

She stilled. “What do you mean?”

He paused, as if not entirely certain he wished to explain himself. Then, with a tiny shrug, he turned his gaze toward the children still darting about the courtyard.

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