“Why do you want me as your mistress?” And why am I even asking? Verity wondered.

Max blinked. “Isn’t that obvious?”

“No.” She couldn’t imagine why he would want her. According to her aunt and cousins she had nothing to recommend her. Oh, she knew why Godfrey wanted her. Because she was defenceless and he was a swaggering bully.

But Max—Lord Blakehurst—was not of that ilk. She had not the least idea why a man with a reputation for taking beautiful women as his mistresses would want her.

“Because I desire you, of course….”

His Lady Mistress

Harlequin Historical #772

Praise for Elizabeth Rolls

The Dutiful Rake

“With poignancy and sensuality, Rolls pens a story of a woman who hides her love for fear of being rejected and a man who is afraid that love and happiness will be taken away from him if he cares too much.”

—Romantic Times

The Unexpected Bride

“A delightful Regency romance, filled with tender emotions, deceit and intrigue. This captivating read is brought to a stunningly exciting conclusion, eliciting tears of joy and happiness.”

—Romantic Times

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#771 A SEASON OF THE HEART

Jillian Hart/Kate Bridges/Mary Burton

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Lynna Banning

#774 REFORMING THE RAKE

Sarah Elliott

Elizabeth Rolls
His Lady Mistress

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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The Unruly Chaperon #745

His Lady Mistress #772

Look for

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A Regency Invitation

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Contents

Prologue

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

Prologue

Autumn 1817

Verity huddled into the murk by the chimney stack, watching through the shifting veil of rain as the two men, little more than dense shadows in the pouring blackness, carried their grisly burden from the cottage to the cart. The horse between the shafts tucked his tail in and stamped restlessly, snorting as the stench of death reached him. The boy at his head murmured in shaking tones and held his lantern higher.

‘One, two, three…’ A thud followed as the men swung the body on to the back of the cart.

Her heart tightened. Oh, God! Please be gentle.

‘Right. Got everything, Jake?’

‘Aye…oh, hang on, where’s the…?’ Jake vaulted into the cart and scrabbled around. ‘No. Here ’tis, Bill.’

‘What?’

‘Thought we’d damn near forgot the stake. Won’t do to forget that an’ all. Rector be really put out, he would.’

A snort greeted this. ‘’Taint him as has to drive it in. Is it? Well, come on. Best get it over with.’

‘Aye. Here, lad, hand over that glim. You get on back to bed. And don’t be thinkin’ on this. ’Tis a cryin’ shame. But there ain’t nothin’ to do ’cept obey orders.’

Orders. Her gut roiled as the lantern changed hands and the cart lumbered off. Slipping from the shadows, she followed, just close enough not to lose the sickly light in the blinding rain.

At the end of the village street a swift rattle of hooves sent her scurrying for cover in the lych gate of the churchyard. All that she could see of the approaching rider was that he was tall, and wore a heavy cloak. Clenching her teeth against their betraying chatter, Verity strained to hear what the rider said to the men. The words were muffled in the curtain of driving rain, but the deep accents were unfamiliar. It must be the fashionable stranger who had put up at the inn earlier in the day.

She bit back a sob of fury as the horseman rode out at the same slow pace as the cart. It was none of his business! Did he just want a sensational story to tell his friends? Her fists balled in impotent rage. She must not reveal herself. Surely he would not stay long. She could still do what must be done. Blinking rain out of her eyes, she followed the cart and rider out of the village.

The rain swiftly penetrated her threadbare cloak, chilling her to the bone. She shivered uncontrollably, fiercely pretending that it was just the cold, that there was nothing to fear.

Doggedly she repeated the litany over and over in her mind. There is nothing to fear. No bears or wolves. Ghosts don’t exist. There is nothing to fear…

Except the dark and fear itself. She had never been out this late at all, let alone by herself… You aren’t alone. The cart is ahead…no one else will be out on a night like this anyway… A shudder racked her at the thought and she forced her mind away…nothing to fear…except her own self-loathing.

Finally the cart reached the crossroads. Trembling with exhaustion and cold, Verity shrank into the hedgerow, crouched on the wet turf, scarcely noticing the branches clawing at her and the icy trickle of water down her back. With a shaking hand she pushed back draggled, soaking hair and peered out of her sanctuary. At least the rain had stopped and the clouds were breaking up so that the moon cast a fitful, nightmarish light.

The lantern had been set down and gleamed on the sodden ground. Close by it she could see a dark, gaping shadow.

One of the men leaned over it and swore. ‘Bloody ’ell! Damn grave’s about half-filled up with water. Gawd! What a miserable business!’

‘Never mind that,’ answered the other. ‘Least we ain’t diggin’ it right now. Get him in an’ be done with it. Quicker the better, I say. Give me a hand here, then.’

Verity watched avidly as the two went to the back of the cart.

‘Wait.’ The stranger had dismounted. ‘One of you hold my horse. I’ll lay him in the grave.’

A choked sob tore free. How dare he? That she had condemned the poor broken creature in the cart to be flung into his grave by a curious stranger.

‘What the hell was that?’ muttered one of the men, shifting uneasily.

Verity put the back of her hand against her mouth and bit down hard.

‘Nothing,’ said the tall stranger. ‘Just some beast out hunting.’

‘On a night like this?’ scoffed the other. ‘Nay. ’Tis easy to see you’re from Lunnon! Any sensible creature’s deep in its hole by now.’

The stranger’s tone mocked. ‘Very well, then. What shall I say? That some other poor wight who lies here is crying his welcome to the newly damned?’

Horrified gasps filled the air.

‘Don’t ’ee say it!’

‘Whisht now!’

They stood back as the stranger lifted the body from the cart. Verity could only watch as the tall figure walked easily to the grave with its tragic burden.

Despair flooded her as she braced herself to see the corpse slung carelessly into the mire. Shock lanced the pain as the bearer knelt in the mud and eased the body to its final resting place. A faint splash told her that the deed was done, and far more gently than she had expected. Shaken, she watched as the man straightened and threw something in after the body.

The murmur of his deep voice came to her. ‘We commit his body to the ground—’

‘Here, now!’ a scandalised voice interrupted. ‘Can’t have that! Rector said so. ’Tis in the prayer book! Them as lays violent hands on theirselves—’

‘To hell with what the Rector said!’

The men shrank back before the sudden fury and the stranger continued. ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…’ The deep voice faded into silence and tears of gratitude mingled with the rain on Verity’s cheeks. Whoever he was, little though he knew it, he was her only friend in this nightmare darkness and she would pray for him all the days of her life.

The older of the two men spoke up hesitantly. ‘Ye’d best stand back, sir. Unless ye wants to handle this bit too.’

‘No, I thank you!’ The stranger jerked back, his voice rough. ‘Can’t you leave the poor devil be, now? Just tell the Rector you did it! This ghost won’t trouble you. Let him rest!’

‘Nay, sir,’ the man averred. ‘Rector says as how it’s got to be done. You go along now, sir. ’Tis a nasty, but it’s got to be.’

A savage oath greeted this and the stranger stepped away.

One of the others knelt over the grave and raised his arm. Numb with horror, Verity saw lamplight slide wetly on steel and heard the first brutal thud as the sledgehammer struck against wood. Again and again the fearful blows landed in a merciless rhythm, ghastly in its very steadiness. Retching, loathing her cowardice, Verity pressed her hands over her ears, but still the sounds penetrated, pounding in her blood as though her own heart was impaled.

Nearly senseless, she sank fully to the ground, uncaring of the bitter cold leaching into her. Even as she realised that they were filling in the grave, the hammering echoed in her soul in pitiless torment.

It remained only to wait until they left so she could make her farewell.

At last they were gone, and Verity, listening to the final, fading splash of hoofbeats, crept stiffly out of the hedge. Cold shuddered through her as she approached the grave. The weather had cleared slightly and moonlight gleamed through a gap in the clouds, lighting her way to the disturbed sods.

With a despairing whimper, she dropped to her knees in the mud, tears pouring unchecked down her cheeks. ‘Oh, Papa, forgive me! I didn’t understand…Papa…I’m sorry…I never meant this…I love you…’

Still weeping, she reached into her satchel and brought out her offering. Small and pathetic though it was, she could do no more. If she put up a cross, no matter how humble, it would be torn down. Even a bunch of flowers would be removed if anyone saw it.

Furtively she scrabbled in the wet, cold earth, preparing it for her hidden garland. He would forgive her…he must. He had loved her once…

‘What the hell do you think you’ll find there? A few miserable trinkets, you cur? I heard you behind us, all the way. I went away to flush you out.’

The harsh voice speared her and she cried out in startled terror as a fierce grip took her shoulder and spun her around to fall helpless on the muddy grave.

Savagely the voice continued, ‘Didn’t they tell you? All a suicide’s possessions go to the Crown. You’ll find nothing here, boy. Now leave the poor bastard alone before I give you the thrashing you deserve!’

Dazed, Verity stared up at her captor, but the moon had fled and a tall, menacing shadow filled her vision. She tried to speak, but her throat, swollen with crying, seized, and all that came out was a choking sound.

‘Go on! Go and rob another grave!’

Her limbs would not move. Helpless, she watched as the shadow leaned down and jerked her to her feet. Both her wrists were imprisoned in a one-handed grip. Another hand flung back her hood just as the fickle moon slid out again. She stared up, but the moon was behind him and his face remained shadowed.

‘God in heaven!’ The grip on her wrists slackened at once and she staggered, only to find herself held in a far more alarming captivity with the stranger’s arm around her waist. ‘You’re a girl, a child! What the devil are you doing out here? Who are you?’

She forced her voice past the choking terror. ‘I…I’m Verity. Verity Scott. He…he…’ Sobs closed her throat again.

‘Verity? Then…you’re his daughter.’ The harshness vanished, replaced by horror and compassion. ‘What were you thinking of? You should never have come here! How old are you, for God’s sake?’ A shaking hand pushed wet, bedraggled strands of hair back from her face in clumsy tenderness.

‘F…fifteen.’

‘Fifteen?! Oh, hell!’

She had no will to struggle when he pulled her against him and wrapped his arms around her. Despair and exhaustion sapped her strength and she leaned into him gratefully. He had laid her father to rest with all gentleness possible and given him part of the Christian burial. He had tried to stop the brutal laying of any possible ghost. And he had come back to defend the grave. Unlooked-for comfort seeped into her very bones.

Dimly his voice penetrated. The words didn’t matter. The voice was sorrow itself, breaking in its own despair. At last the words reached her. ‘I must get you back to the village, before you’re missed. Come. I’ll take you up on my horse.’

He lifted her effortlessly, shocking her out of her daze. Wildly she fought him and landed in an ignominious heap at his feet.

‘No! Not yet!’ She struggled to her feet and nearly fell again as she slipped in the mire. He caught her and steadied her.

‘Miss Scott, Verity—you can do nothing here. Come away. Don’t torture yourself. God won’t abandon him…’ His voice shook and she felt his hands tremble as they grasped her shoulders.

‘I…I brought bluebell bulbs,’ she whispered, gazing blindly up into the shadowed face. ‘They’ll remove a cross or…or anything else. The bulbs won’t flower till spring. Maybe they won’t realise. Then if…if I can come back one day, I’ll be able to find him…’ Tears choked her and she turned away, searching for the fallen bag of bulbs.

The moon sailed out and she saw the bag by her satchel at the edge of the grave. Shivering, she knelt again and realised that her companion had knelt too.

He held out his hands. ‘I’ll help you.’

Fresh tears slid down her cheeks as she tipped bulbs into his cupped palms and tried to thank him. No words came and in silence they planted them.

At last they were done and Verity’s companion lifted her tenderly to her feet. ‘Come now. With those to deck his grave he will be at peace.’

Her hand clung to his. ‘Wait,’ she begged.

Dragging in a deep breath, she began in a childish treble, ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills: from whence cometh my help…’ Her voice cracking and breaking, she stumbled through the psalm she had memorised until she came to the final verses and the strangling lump in her heart silenced her. Shuddering, she dragged in a useless breath, and another, only to feel a powerful arm go around her shoulders.

The deep voice continued for her in steadfast accents, ‘The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: yea, it is even he that shall keep thy soul.’

Drawing upon his strength, Verity found her voice again and they finished together, ‘The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in: from this time forward for evermore.’

It was finished. She had done what she set out to do—all she could do—to make amends for her betrayal. There was nothing else she could cling to.

Strong arms held her as she stumbled and then lifted her to lie cradled against a broad chest. Seeming not to feel his burden, her champion strode along the lane, uttering a piercing whistle. A whinny and trotting hooves answered and the horse loomed up before them.

She found herself lifted to the horse’s back and held there as her rescuer sprang up behind her and drew her back into his arms. His cloak was flung around her in heavy protective folds and she realised that she had been wrong. She did have something to cling to. She had this stranger, whoever, whatever he was, and she would cherish the thought of him all her days.

‘Will you tell me your name?’ she whispered.

The arms tightened as the horse broke into a slow trot. ‘Max.’

‘You knew him, didn’t you? How?’ She had to find out. She couldn’t bear to know nothing of the one person who had comforted her grief in a shattered world.

‘He was my commanding officer. My superior in every way. A gallant officer and a gentleman. Remember him that way, Verity. And I will remember him as blessed above all men.’

A sob tore at her. Blessed? How could he say that? She could not even frame the question. The horse came to a halt as the moon flickered out again, gleaming hopefully in puddles and on wet hedges.

A gentle hand lifted her chin and she gazed up, seeing him clearly for the first time. Weary eyes looked back out of a harsh, angular face, all colour leached in the silver wet moonlight. Even as she gazed, the face twisted in a sad smile. ‘You don’t believe me, do you, little one?’

Mute, she shook her head.

The smile deepened and he bent to press a light kiss on her brow. ‘He died blessed with a child as gallant and loyal as himself. No man could ask for more. He would be proud of you, Verity. As proud as you should be of him.’

The horse moved on slowly and Verity turned and wept unashamedly on Max’s chest. He doesn’t understand; doesn’t know what I did. If he knew…

But he didn’t know and he held her, rubbing his cheek against her wet hair as the horse picked its way slowly back to the village.

Gradually some of the chill left her. The warmth beneath Max’s cloak lulled her, vanquishing the nightmare, and she dozed, only waking fully when they reached the village and Max spoke.

‘Who is looking after you? Have you any family?’

She looked about, puzzled. They had pulled up outside the inn. ‘Pardon?’

‘Who are you staying with? I’ll see you to the door.’

‘Oh.’ She tried to sound indifferent. ‘I’m still at the cottage. I…I believe my uncle is coming for me tomorrow.’

A low voice spoke from an upper window. ‘That you, sir?’

Max looked up. ‘Harding! Good man. Come down, will you, and take the horse.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Verity clenched her teeth against a shiver. She could make it back to the cottage alone from here. It was only a step. She made to slip down, but found herself held firmly in place. He leapt off and lifted her down, steadying her as she stumbled on legs stiffened with cold.

‘Gently,’ he said, supporting her.

The rest of her might be half-frozen, but her heart felt as though someone had lit a fire under it.

A moment later the inn door opened and a small man came out with a lantern.

‘Everything all right, sir?’ Then, ‘Who the devil’s this?’

The arm around her tightened. ‘Harding, this is Miss Scott. Can you rub Jupiter down while I see her home?’

Harding lifted the lantern higher. ‘Miss Scott?’

She flinched at the light, shrinking closer to Max.

The lantern lowered. ‘I’m that sorry, lass. About everything. He was a brave man. You go with the major. God bless you. I’ll see you later, sir.’

‘Harding?’

‘Yessir?’

‘Don’t wait up.’

‘Sir?’

‘Don’t wait up.’

‘Don’t…? Oh, aye. No, sir. Goodnight, sir.’ He led the horse away.

‘I shall be quite safe now,’ Verity protested. ‘You needn’t—’

‘Don’t waste your breath,’ he advised her and swung her up into his arms. ‘I’m taking you home and that’s all there is to it.’

The easy strength in his arms shocked her into silence until they reached the cottage and he set her down gently. ‘Key?’ he asked.

A bitter laugh escaped her. ‘It’s not locked. They didn’t leave anything worth stealing.’

He opened the door

The darkness within was total. ‘Wait,’ she said and made her way carefully to the table, fumbling for the candle and tinderbox she had left there.

Her numb fingers struggled with the flint and steel. Again and again she tried to strike a spark. A small sob of frustration escaped her at her clumsiness. An instant later both flint and steel were taken by gentle, unerring hands and light flared as the spark ignited the rags in the box.

‘Sit down,’ he said brusquely as he set a chair by the fire and squatted down to touch the candle to the kindling and faggots laid there. Verity obeyed and watched in bemused fascination as he tended the fire and then prowled around the kitchen, looking into every corner. Warmth stole through her, despite the damp clothes.

‘Go up and bring some dry clothes down here.’

That jerked her out of her doze. Blinking up at him in the shadowy, dancing light of the fire, she asked sleepily, ‘Whatever for?’

His voice was very patient. ‘To put on. You need to get dry. Quickly.’

Down here? With him in the kitchen? All of a sudden she was wide awake.

‘I’ll…I’ll change upstairs.’ No doubt he was quite harmless, but still…she couldn’t possibly change down here, even if he turned his back, blindfolded himself and shut his eyes.

‘There’s a fire down here,’ he growled.

‘And so are you,’ she countered. ‘I’ll change in my bedchamber!’

He stared at her. ‘For God’s sake, girl! You can’t possibly imagine that I’d take advantage of you!’

Her cheeks flamed. ‘Of course not! It’s just that…well, I’d rather change up there.’

A sudden grin lightened his rather harsh features. ‘He used to say you were a stubborn little thing. Like your mother, he claimed. Very well, quickly then. I don’t want you catching your death of cold.’

Verity fled before he could change his mind.

By the time she slipped into the kitchen, safely clad in her warmest underwear and a thick nightgown, the major appeared to be foraging in the kitchen cupboards. She sat down by the fire to watch.

He seemed quite at home in a kitchen, finding everything with easy competence as though he were used to looking after himself. Finally he came back with the results of his raid. A hunk of cheese, the end of a loaf of bread and two apples on a chipped earthenware plate. ‘Is this all?’ he asked. ‘It’s not nearly enough.’

She felt heat mantle her cheeks again. ‘I’m sorry. I ate the rest for supper. If I’d known you were coming…’ She’d intended this lot for breakfast, but after what he had done, he was welcome to anything she had.

He blinked and put the plate on her lap. ‘It’s for you! Not me!’

Shaken, she stared at the food. When had anyone last worried about what she ate? She didn’t want to look too closely at the answer.

Her stomach protested at the thought of food, but she forced herself to eat, conscious of Max leaning against the chimney the whole time watching her. She found herself much warmer at the end of the scanty repast.

‘You need a good night’s sleep,’ he said abruptly when she had finished eating. ‘I’ve put a brick to warm in the fire. Take it up with you. Do you feel all right? Not cold any more?’

She nodded as she stood up. It wasn’t quite a lie. She felt a great deal better than she had a few hours earlier.

‘Very well. Off you go.’

‘Good…goodnight, Max and…and thank you.’ Her voice wobbled hopelessly and she shut her eyes to force back the tears. A powerful arm slipped around her shoulder, pulling her close for a hug. She felt the brief pressure of his lips on her hair and turned in his embrace, hugging him hard.

‘I did little enough. Goodnight, sweetheart. Don’t forget that brick.’ He released her and gave her a little push in the direction of the fire.

As she knelt to wrap the brick in the flannels her competent champion had put ready, she looked up. ‘Shall I see you again?’

His mouth tightened. ‘Better not, little one. There’s nothing I can offer you. I can assure you that your uncle wouldn’t approve of me in the least. Go on. Off with you. I’ll sit here for a while to warm up, if you don’t mind.’ He sat down in the chair she had vacated.

‘N…no. That’s quite all right. But wouldn’t you be warmer at the inn?’

He shook his head. ‘Not really, no. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight,’ she whispered, reluctantly. She backed to the door, unwilling to lose the sight of him before she had to. He glanced up at her and smiled as she reached the door. The smile softened the harsh lines of his face, melting her heart.

Max sat staring into the fire, hating himself. What a hellish mess. He’d been too damned late. If only he’d known earlier the pass Scott had come to—surely he could have done something. His heart ached at the plight of the lonely child upstairs. At least an uncle was coming for her. She had a family to take her in. Although why she had been left here alone passed all understanding.

He grimaced. Given what she had done, it was entirely possible that Miss Verity Scott had remained at the cottage on purpose. Much easier to slip out unnoticed from here.

He glanced around the small room. It might be empty and cheerless, but at least it was clean. No doubt Verity had seen to that. According to the villagers, Scott had became a complete recluse towards the end, refusing to allow anyone else in the cottage, completely in thrall to his opium.

A chill stole through him. No doubt the loss of his arm had been a terrible shock for Scott, but suicide… He grimaced. Probably it hadn’t just been the arm. He remembered what he’d been told… Damn shame, Max. Seems the poor fellow got back after Waterloo to discover his wife had died in childbed. Understand he’s been drinking laudanum ever since. Why don’t you go down and see if you can help them? I tried but he wouldn’t even open the door. I saw only the child. She came out and apologised. Said he wasn’t well…

No. It hadn’t been his fault… But still, if only Scott hadn’t deflected that bayonet. A clean death on the battlefield for Max Blakehurst would not have been such a tragedy. If only he hadn’t been swayed by the family insistence that he go to the embassy in Vienna, he might have heard sooner of Scott’s difficulties, been able to do something. Now all he could do was mourn.

He couldn’t even help the child sleeping upstairs. Her family would look after her now. And the last thing she needed was to be reminded of this dreadful night. No. She was better off without him hanging around.

He’d find out where she was going. Perhaps if the family taking her needed some help he could offer it anonymously, but otherwise he should stay out of her life.

Verity came downstairs shortly after dawn, wishing she had defied Max over her supper and left some of it for breakfast. And whatever had she done with her wet clothes the previous night? Surely she’d simply dropped them on the floor of her bedchamber, but they certainly weren’t there this morning.

Her stomach rumbled hopefully. She ignored it. She’d have to set the fire again to dry her clothes when she found them. There was a little fuel left.

She reached the kitchen and stared. The fire blazed brightly and her clothes hung over the back of the chair. Nearly dry.

Tears pricking at her eyes, she looked around. On the table were four eggs, bacon, a fresh loaf of bread, a pat of butter, some cheese and six apples. And a jug of…she peeped in…milk. The tears spilt over. Judging by the state of the fire, he hadn’t been gone long. He’d stayed all night, then gone out to find her breakfast.

He’d even dried her clothes for her. She looked more closely. The mudstains were nearly gone. He’d sponged them. The grey, bleak dawn brightened suddenly. She had one friend. Even if she never saw him again, somewhere in the world was Max. Someone she could love.

Chapter One

Late summer 1822

‘What are you doing here, girl? How dare you waste time reading when Celia’s flounce requires mending!’

The girl known as Selina Dering scrambled up and hurriedly put the book away in the bottom half of the battered campaign chest at the foot of her bed.

‘I’m sorry, Aunt Faringdon. I…I didn’t know that Celia’s flounce was torn.’

Lady Faringdon was plainly not minded to accept this excuse. ‘How would you know anything if you sneak away to your bedchamber to loll about reading? And no lady sits on her bed like that! She sits properly with ladylike decorum.’

‘You and Celia both told me to stay out of the way,’ protested Verity. She refrained from pointing out that there was nothing at all in the room save the bed and the campaign chest, its bottom at the foot of the bed and the top acting as a window seat. Certainly nothing upon which anyone could sit with ladylike decorum. Or even reasonable comfort.

‘Don’t answer back, girl! Do you want another whipping? Go down to Celia now and mend that flounce! Before his lordship and our other guests arrive!’

‘Yes, Aunt.’

She spoke to thin air, since Lady Faringdon had already stormed from the room. Arguing was a waste of breath. The mildest protest drew as heavy a retribution as full-scale rebellion. Not even over the hated name Selina did she object now.

Resigned, Verity locked the chest with the key she wore on a plaited string around her neck. Giving the chest an affectionate pat, she gathered herself together, picked up her workbasket and left the bleak little room in her aunt’s wake. Celia, of course, would be hysterical with fury over the torn flounce, blaming everything and everyone for the catastrophe save her own carelessness.

‘Where have you been?’ screeched Celia, as Verity entered the elegant bedchamber. ‘Just look at this! And Lord Blakehurst may arrive at any minute!’

Verity selected the matching cotton and threaded her needle, biting back the urge to point out that Lord Blakehurst would be admitted to the house by the butler and every footman available and would be greeted with all due ceremony by his host and hostess. Furthermore, since he would doubtless repair immediately to his bedchamber to adjust his cravat and swill brandy, he would scarcely notice the absence of his hosts’ eldest daughter, with or without a torn flounce. At least that was her considered opinion, based on the observation of other visiting gentlemen. There was no reason to suspect that Earl Blakehurst would differ from the rest in any degree. Except, of course, in being richer.

She knelt down at Celia’s hem and began to stitch.

‘Hurry up!’ whined Celia, whirling away to the window and dragging the offending flounce out of Verity’s grasp. A ripping sound rewarded this indiscretion.

‘Look what you’ve done!’ Celia’s shriek of fury outdid her previous efforts. ‘Oh, Mama! Look what she’s done! She did it on purpose, too!’

Biting back some very unladylike language, Verity turned to see her aunt advancing into the room.

‘Ungrateful girl!’ cried Lady Faringdon. ‘After all we’ve done for you! The very clothes on your back!’

Verity rather thought the light-devouring black dress she wore was one discarded by the Rectory housekeeper, but she bit her tongue and concentrated grimly on stitching up Celia’s flounce as efficiently as possible. With a modicum of luck Lord Blakehurst would marry the girl and prove to be a veritable Bluebeard.

Nothing she heard about Lord Blakehurst in the next twenty-four hours led her to revise her estimate that it would be a match richly deserved by both parties. Lord Blakehurst had arrived late, snubbed at least three people at dinner, whom he plainly considered beneath his exalted touch, and everyone was hanging upon his every utterance.

‘Such a personable man!’ sighed Celia the following evening as she prepared for bed. ‘Terribly rich of course. One can only wonder that he has left it so long to marry! Of course, he came into the title unexpectedly when his brother died three years ago.’

Verity, tidying away her cousin’s clothes, thought it entirely possible that no female would have so conceited a man as his lordship must be, only to dismiss the idea. Anyone that rich could be as conceited as he liked and society would still deem him a personable man.

‘And, of course, he must be seeking a bride if he has come here,’ continued Celia.

Verity blinked as she put away a chemise. ‘Oh?’ That leap of logic evaded her. She had yet to learn that a visit to Faringdon Hall was a prerequisite for matrimonially inclined Earls.

‘He never accepts invitations to house parties, except from his closest friends,’ explained Celia, in tones of gracious condescension. Or boasting, more like. Verity shut the drawer with a snap on the chemise. Pity it wasn’t Celia in there.

‘Conceive for yourself how pleased Mama was when his lordship indicated that an invitation would be accepted.’ Celia preened in the mirror, all golden-haired, blue-eyed conceit. ‘Naturally he wishes to court me a little more privately than is possible in London.’

Since when did a house party with over twenty guests afford any privacy for a courtship? Verity swallowed the observation. If it made Celia happy, then who was she to cavil?

‘I’m surprised you came up so early, then,’ she remarked.

Celia shrugged. ‘Oh, Blakehurst disappeared to the billiard room with a few of the other gentlemen. And Mama had to invite that tedious Arabella Hollingsworth with her parents, so what was the point? All she does is brag about her betrothal to Sir Bartholomew!’ Celia pouted. ‘So I said I had the headache and came up. Anyway, gentlemen prefer a female to be a little fragile.’

Verity hid a grin. If Celia were as lucky as her erstwhile friend in snaring a husband, namely Lord Blakehurst, then cock-a-hoop wouldn’t begin to describe her. No doubt Celia’s sudden recognition of Miss Hollingsworth’s tediousness had its origins in jealousy. As for fragile—Celia was about as fragile as a viper.

‘You may brush my hair now, Selina.’ Celia gazed at her reflection in satisfaction, patting a bobbing curl.

Verity reminded herself not to rip the curl out and picked up the silver-backed hairbrush.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Celia sadly. ‘Just look at all those disgusting freckles!’

Staring at her cousin’s flawless complexion in the mirror, Verity wondered what maggot had entered her head now.

‘I can’t see any,’ she said unguardedly, ‘but the Denmark lotion is there on your dressing table if you need it.’

The reflection smiled spitefully. ‘I meant your freckles, Selina.’

Verity took a firmer grip on the brush along with her temper and began brushing. Much safer to say it all to her pillow. Unlike Celia, the pillow would not carry tales and earn her further punishment. If nothing else, the Faringdons had taught her the virtue of hiding her feelings under a stolid demeanour.

She shivered. Being Selina made that so much easier. Frighteningly easy. At times it felt as though Verity had retreated into a numbing mist. That one day she might not be able to find the way out again.

Verity wriggled her shoulders pleasurably as the sun poured over them, sinking deep. Not even the basket full of mending daunted her when she had managed to escape from everyone for a couple of hours. No doubt she’d have a few more freckles on her nose to add to the ones Celia had found so disgusting the previous evening. It seemed a small enough price for a morning spent out of doors.

Her mind drifted as her needle flashed over the torn sheet, insensibly soothed by the trickle of the fountain, and the occasional flicker of a goldfish between the lily pads. A contented bee hummed in the lavender behind her. Here she could dream. Pretend that in the house, or somewhere about the estate, was someone who cared for her. She could be Verity, not Selina.

Here in the centre of the maze she was safe for the time being. Except, of course, for her toes. They were in imminent danger of being devoured. She wiggled them gently in the water as she scissored her bare legs and felt the flutter as the startled fish fled.

‘Oh, Lord Blakehurst! What a tarradiddle! You are the most dreadful creature!’

Celia’s most flirtatious simper, followed by a very male rumble, shattered her peace. What on earth was Celia—whom the servants dubbed Mistress Slug-a-bed—doing in the maze at nine o’clock in the morning, let alone with Lord Blakehurst? Not for the first time Verity crashed headfirst into her aunt’s towering hypocrisy—only to a man of massive fortune and noble degree would Lady Faringdon have entrusted her virtuous treasure in such a potential den of iniquity as the garden maze. And in any other damsel such behaviour would be condemned as shameless.

Another giggle reminded Verity of the precarious nature of her situation. She surged to her feet, stuffing mending as well as her stockings and slippers into the basket and suppressing a curse as she pricked her finger on the needle. Which path were they on? She had to pick one that wouldn’t bring her face to face with Celia and her swain. She shivered. If they caught her here, it would be one more hiding place crossed off her diminishing list.

Frowning, she listened. They weren’t far away. She waited, poised for flight. The voices drew nearer. She tensed, then saw a flash of jonquil muslin through a thin patch in the hedge. Realising that she had about five seconds to escape she swept up the basket and fled, bare feet flying across the turf. She reached the opening on the opposite side of the pond and whipped out of sight.

‘Whatever was that?’

Celia’s surprised question froze Verity. Drat. They’d heard her. She fought to steady her breathing.

‘A bird? A rabbit?’ suggested Lord Blakehurst. ‘Didn’t you say your brother would be here?’

Verity just managed to choke back a snort of laughter at the faintly questioning note in his voice, not to mention the suspicion. Heavens! What a slowtop to fall for that trick! That or he didn’t know Godfrey very well. Godfrey Faringdon meet his own sister in the middle of a maze, in order to play gooseberry? Not this side of Judgement Day. Obviously Lord Blakehurst, petted darling of society, the quarry of every mama with a marriageable daughter, had been neatly cozened.

Unable to resist temptation, she peered around the hedge. If Lord Blakehurst didn’t take care, he would find himself leg-shackled to—

Her heart nearly stopped and she jerked herself back, shaking. It couldn’t be. Could it? Unable to believe what she had seen, she dragged in a deep breath and stole another look. Celia, dressed in her prettiest sprig muslin, with the merest suggestion of dainty ankle below the flounce, was pouting up at…Max.

Shock gripped Verity. She couldn’t be mistaken. Every feature of that face was etched on her memory. The hard angles, the square jaw. Her heart pounded as she absorbed every detail. Max. Here.

‘Perhaps we should go back, Miss Faringdon?’

‘Oh, pish!’ Celia disposed herself on the seat with a graceful swish of her skirts. ‘Why should anyone think anything of it? After all, such good friends as we are, Lord Blakehurst…’

Such good friends?

His lordship’s voice dripped indifference. ‘I’ll bid you good morning, Miss Faringdon. Believe me, my friendship with your reputation far outweighs any other consideration!’

Verity nearly choked as Celia’s brow knit, trying to work out if this remark added up to a compliment. Even as she watched, his lordship bowed to Celia and made to leave the maze.

Celia leapt to her feet. ‘Oh, sir! I must guide you, lest you become confused. Our maze is renowned for all the guests who have become hopelessly lost in it!’

Verity slumped against the hedge. She would have to give them plenty of time before she returned. She listened to the fading voices.

Maybe the maze wasn’t such a good place with the house full of visitors. Too easy to become trapped, no matter how well she knew it. She couldn’t risk being caught and giving Aunt Faringdon more ammunition.

But Max was here…why? Could he really be courting Celia? Max? Her gentle, tender Max? Did he know she was here? Oh, for goodness sake! Why should he?

She didn’t think she had told him who her uncle was. And apparently Max had left the village very early on the morning after her father’s burial. He would not have seen Lord Faringdon. And what if he found out she was here? She bit her lip. The only way in which he could help her would be to remove her from the Faringdons’ care. And he wouldn’t be able to do that, even if he wanted to. He might force them to treat her properly while he remained, but after he left— Despite the warmth of the day a chill stole through her. It would be worse than ever.

She couldn’t understand it. They didn’t want her here. They hated her. Why, then, did Aunt Faringdon refuse to write her a reference and let her go?

No. She must stay out of his way. Not that he was likely to recognise her after five years…she’d been a child. A thin, underdeveloped fifteen seen by a tallow candle. No. He would never recognise her.

In her dreams Max always knew her instantly, swept her up on to his horse and took her away. Lord Blakehurst was another matter entirely. Earls did not sweep indigent females up on to their precious bloodstock and carry them off to the obligatory happy ever after. Somehow she had to banish Lord Blakehurst and think only of Max. Otherwise she had lost her comforting dream.

The following evening Max, Earl Blakehurst, sighed with relief as the ladies left the dining room in the wake of Lady Faringdon. What in Hades had possessed him to accept this invitation? He hated gatherings like this. A veneer of pretension and affectation on the part of the ladies, concealing a solid core of hypocrisy. And the gentlemen were not much better.

Across the table young Godfrey Faringdon’s bragging account of some tale involving a lady’s companion at another house party grated on him. He gritted his teeth. In consigning Colonel Scott’s daughter to the care of her loving family, he had made a serious error of judgement.

‘Ah, Blakehurst? You there, old chap?’

He looked across the table to Mr Marlbury.

‘You’re being chased,’ said Marlbury, in a helpful spirit.

Max looked at him blankly. He knew that. Celia Faringdon’s subtlety at dinner had rivalled her mama’s. And as for her little stratagem this morning! He shuddered. That was the stuff of nightmares. Trapped. By a conniving little baggage!

‘The brandy!’ urged Marlbury.

‘Oh.’ Max became aware of Thornfield, to his left, attempting to pass him the brandy decanter. ‘Sorry, Thornfield.’ He poured himself a glass and took a cautious sip. He barely suppressed another shudder. Just as atrocious as the previous night. Lord. The things a man would do in response to a guilty conscience: attending ghastly house parties and drinking appalling brandy to name a couple.

‘I say, Blakehurst,’ said Thornfield in a low voice, ‘Miss Celia seems quite taken with you!’ He leered at Max. ‘Dare say you’ve only got to drop your handkerchief.’

Max gulped brandy. One thing he could guarantee: Miss Celia might be taken with him, but she would not be taken by him. His handkerchief would stay in his pocket. And he would stay out of the maze.

‘Of course, if that don’t appeal,’ went on Thornfield, showing remarkable percipience for a man in his inebriated condition, ‘you could always amuse yourself with Fanny Moncrieff or Kate Highbury. They won’t expect marriage.’ He attempted a lascivious wink.

Max returned a non-committal reply and reminded himself that he did, after all, bear a certain reputation. But had he realised that Lady Moncrieff and Mrs Highbury were to be present, casting their jaded, world-weary lures in his direction, then he would definitely have reconsidered his strategy in attending.

Oh, the devil! Too late for second thoughts now. He was here and he should have come years ago. Indeed, even being in the house had not yielded results. He had found out nothing, so he would have to ask his host point-blank. And how he was supposed to ask tactfully escaped him.

In the end, he eschewed tact, cornering his host as they left the dining room. ‘Faringdon, perhaps I might have a private word with you?’

Lord Faringdon blinked. And then smiled. An oily, triumphant sort of smile that put every nerve on full battle alert. ‘Why, of course, Blakehurst. My library is private. This way!’ He signalled to his son. ‘Godfrey, tell my lady that I am engaged on some urgent business with Blakehurst.’

Max eyed him with extreme disfavour. Good God! The man was fairly rubbing his hands in glee! What the devil did he—? The truth crashed over him. Faringdon thought he was about to make an offer. For Celia. Mentally cursing his own idiocy, Max followed his host to the library.

‘More brandy, Blakehurst?’

Max abandoned good manners. ‘No. Thank you.’

Faringdon favoured him with a conspiratorial grin and poured a glass anyway, thrusting it at him. ‘No, no, Blakehurst. This ain’t the same stuff we had in the dining room! Wouldn’t waste this on that lot!’

‘I’ve had enough,’ Max informed him coldly.

Faringdon stared. ‘Had enough? Oh, ah…yes, well.’ He took a sip himself. ‘To business, then. I take it, you like what you see. She’s had only the best, so…’

Max headed him off at once. ‘Lord Faringdon, I wonder if you could give me any news of Miss Scott?’

‘Miss Scott?’ The brandy in Lord Faringdon’s glass slopped over.

Max frowned at the reaction. Faringdon’s eyes flickered under his hard gaze. Fear.

He pressed on, relentless. ‘Yes. I believe her to be a niece of Lady Faringdon and under your care. Her late father was my C.O. and I thought to enquire after her.’ He pretended to examine a painting.

‘Oh.’ Disdain came through clearly. ‘I’m afraid she is no longer with us.’

Anger surged through Max and he swung back to stare at Faringdon. Just as he’d feared. Verity Scott had been bundled off God knew where. Somewhere her tragic story could not embarrass the socially ambitious Faringdons. He could see it now—packed off to be a companion to a cantankersome old hag, or immured in some foul girls’ school as a drudge. Well, he wouldn’t permit it!

He saw with satisfaction that Faringdon had paled and forcibly relaxed his hands. Clenched fists were not the best way to draw information out of a reluctant man. Not discreetly, anyway.

‘Perhaps you could give me her direction, Faringdon. I should like to pay my respects.’ What had they done to her? Could he help her? Might Lady Arnsworth, his Aunt Almeria, employ her?

Lord Faringdon said quickly, ‘I fear you misunderstand me, Blakehurst. When I said that Miss Scott was no longer with us, I meant that she has…that she is…’

Cold horror, laced with shocking pain, shuddered through Max. ‘She’s dead.’ Statement, not question, and something inside him tore apart as Lord Faringdon inclined his head in assent.

‘Wh…when?’ He could not control the break in his voice. That poor, gallant child. Dead. It lacerated him.

‘Oh, quite soon after she came to us, you know.’ Lord Faringdon manufactured a sigh. ‘All very sad of course, but no doubt for the best. There was nothing much one could do for her after Scott’s disgraceful end, you know. Dare say she felt it.’

Max remembered a fifteen-year-old girl crouched, weeping in the mud of her father’s grave, planting bluebells, and came close to strangling his host.

‘I’ve little doubt she did.’ He hardly recognised his own voice, hoarse and shaking.

Faringdon glanced at him. ‘Sure you won’t have a drink, Blakehurst? You sound as though something’s caught in your throat.’

Something was—bile. A drink wouldn’t answer the purpose. He’d be tempted to fling it in Faringdon’s face. Somehow he managed to say, ‘I take it she’s buried in the churchyard, then. I’ll pay my respects there.’ Bluebells. She’d liked bluebells. He’d beg some bulbs from the gardeners. A queer sound from Lord Faringdon brought him around. His jaw clenched, Max raised his brows questioningly.

Lord Faringdon looked as though he might strangle on his cravat as he tugged at it. ‘Ah, well…um…as to that, Blakehurst…no marked grave, y’know. Sad, very sad. Weakness in the bloodline, no doubt. Only glad it bypassed my family.’

Max’s stomach churned at the import of Faringdon’s words. No marked grave…

Then she had…the memory of another suicide’s grave rose in accusation. He could feel the rain, smell the wet earth…and hear the awful blows… And he saw again a girl’s tear-streaked face, heard her breaking voice struggle to finish a psalm, felt the slight, trusting weight in his arms as he attempted to comfort her. Saw dark, shadowed eyes shining in the firelight with tears and gratitude for too little, too late.

Blindly he turned and walked from the room without another word.

Verity slipped away from the kitchens as soon as she had finished helping to count the silver. Swiftly she made her way along the upper corridors towards the back stairs that led up to her chamber.

The sound of footsteps ascending the main stairs hurried her the more. Her aunt had made it quite plain that she was to remain out of sight of the guests. So far she had managed to get through the day without any serious trouble—a run of luck she had no intention of breaking.

Reaching the back stairs, she caught up her skirts and took the steps two at a time, only to let out a shriek of fright as a shadow detached itself from the wall and grabbed for her. The familiar reek of stale brandy assailed her. ‘Let me go, Godfrey!’ She hit out at her slightly inebriated cousin and tried to dodge around him, but he caught her easily in the confined space.

‘Just a cousinly kiss, then.’ He leered at her. At least she assumed he was from the slur in his voice. He usually leered when his mother wasn’t looking.

She was trapped between Godfrey above her and the footsteps below in the hall. ‘Stop it!’ she hissed, clawing at his eyes.

He grabbed her wrists as he jerked his face away and dragged her close. ‘Not without my kiss,’ he muttered. Brandy and foul breath surrounded her.

‘No!’ Gagging, she kicked out at him and connected with his shin, stubbing her own toe. It was enough. Godfrey yelled in pain and shoved her away so that she stumbled backwards into the hall with a cry of fright.

Her landing scared her even more. Instead of crashing to the floor, she found herself held safely in a strong grip. A very masculine grip that steadied her on her feet and released her. Dazed, she looked up into a dark, harsh face. Bright topaz eyes burned into her.

‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘What are you doing here?’

Dark brows lifted in mute question. ‘Have we met?’

Her world tipped upside down as she stared up at the one person she must, above all others, avoid. ‘N…no,’ she lied. ‘You startled me. Thank you, sir. I…I didn’t know there was anyone here. I…I slipped.’

‘Did you?’ The deep voice took on a tone of lazy curiosity. ‘And did Faringdon slip, too?’

Verity could not suppress a shudder. Suddenly her elbow was taken in a firm grip.

‘You may as well come out, Faringdon,’ continued her rescuer. ‘Let’s be quite sure we all understand each other.’

Godfrey emerged from the stairwell and Verity saw with unchristian pleasure that her wild swipe at his face had drawn blood.

‘What’s it to do with you?’ blustered Godfrey. ‘This ain’t your house!’

Lord Blakehurst smiled without the least vestige of humour. ‘The whims of a guest should always be indulged, Faringdon. It appears the wench is less than willing. You will oblige me by leaving her alone. Is that clear?’

Wench? Verity only just choked back the explosion. Safer if he did think her one of the maids. So she swallowed her fury and lowered her eyes. Probably in this clothing she did look like a servant. She had already decided that it was too dangerous to let him know she was here.

Godfrey smirked. ‘Unwilling? Oh, she’s always willing enough—’

Blakehurst seemed to swell. ‘Go. Before I forget that your father is my host.’

Godfrey backed away. ‘Suppose you think you’ll get a leg across, eh, Blakehurst?’ he jibed, settling his sleeves in an attempt to look unconcerned. Then he lifted his hand to his face and stared at the blood in apparent disbelief. The look he stabbed at Verity swore revenge.

Cold fear dripped down Verity’s spine. If this came to her aunt’s ears—that she had landed in Lord Blakehurst’s arms—her situation would be even worse.

‘I suggest that you cease to judge others by your own dubious standards, Faringdon.’ His lordship’s voice descended to outright menace. ‘I have absolutely no need to force my attentions on unwilling maidservants. Now take yourself off!’

Godfrey left, with another vicious look at Verity. Her heart sank. God only knew how he would explain that scratched face to his mother, but Verity didn’t doubt that she would figure largely.

Shivering, she turned to go. If Godfrey didn’t mention Lord Blakehurst’s presence, then she was safe. Relatively.

‘A moment.’

Slowly she looked back. Almost against her will, her eyes lifted to his face. All hard planes and angles, it held the promise of strength and purpose. Something inside her exulted, rioted, even as she stood motionless, trapped in his gaze. ‘My lord?’

‘You puzzle me, girl.’

Swallowing hard, she didn’t say anything, just tried to look vaguely subservient as she fought the attraction of those eyes.

‘Are you a servant?’

Five years ago, three even, Verity would have denied the suggestion without hesitation. Now…now when she knew how easily she could be kicked out, that there was nowhere else to go, now that she understood exactly what her fate would be if they did throw her out, she hesitated.

‘You don’t talk like it,’ he went on.

‘Nursery governess,’ she muttered. It wasn’t quite a lie. She did try to teach the younger girls between paid governesses. The gaps between paid governesses had gradually become longer and longer.

‘Oh.’ He seemed to accept that. ‘I’ll mention this to your mistress and—’

‘For God’s sake, no!’ Shaking, she forced her voice to calm. ‘My—’ She’s your mistress, not your aunt ‘—Lady Faringdon would blame me, not Godf—not him. I’d be sacked. Please, don’t!’

‘What is your name?’

It nearly choked her, but somehow she got the hated name out. ‘Selina Dering, my lord.’ And bobbed a curtsy.

Another voice broke in. ‘And what, may I ask, is going on here?’

Chapter Two

Verity wished she could turn to stone at the sound of Aunt Faringdon’s voice. Or at least to ice so that she wouldn’t feel anything. The soft voice bit deep.

‘You, Selina! Take yourself off. Presumptuous girl! Go to your room!’

Lady Faringdon turned to Lord Blakehurst, all honeyed smiles. ‘I must beg your pardon, Lord Blakehurst. That sort never know their place. I hope you were not too inconvenienced.’ She bore Lord Blakehurst away, casting a look over her shoulder at Verity that promised dire retribution on the morrow.

Verity retreated to the stairs and raced up to her dark, chilly little room. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it, shaking in the cold blackness. Eyes tight shut, she saw again the face of her rescuer. Familiar eyes stared back haughtily. Eyes that comforted her dreams, that she’d never expected to see again in the waking world. The moonlight had never revealed their colour. Burning amber. He hadn’t recognised her.

Don’t think of him.

Verity prepared quickly for bed in the dark. Shivering, she lit her tallow candle, took her father’s journal from under her pillow and got into bed.

She couldn’t hide from the truth.

Lord Blakehurst, Celia’s supposed suitor, was her Max.

Dazed, she let the book fall open where it would. The start of the Waterloo campaign and her father’s first reference to ‘…my new Brevet Major, Max B. I shall not call him anything else here. His family name and degree have not the least significance in what lies before us. He is, however, a gallant lad, and one I shall be happy to rely on when we finally face Bonaparte. I have good reports of his intelligence and courage from his previous commanders…’

That was the first of many references. Apparently Colonel Scott had become very much attached to the younger officer. Almost like a son. She shut her eyes, remembering that tiny, dead baby sharing her mother’s grave…no, she mustn’t think of it, mustn’t remember her father’s return the next day…

‘I think Mary would approve him and Verity would like him. He has a gentle way with women and children.’

A few of the things William Scott had written about Max’s way with women should have brought a blush to his daughter’s cheeks, but Verity had come to the conclusion that young men were young men the world over. And apparently all the women Max had entertained in Brussels had been more than willing. It did not appear that her father had thought the worse of Max for his youthful sins.

Hungrily she read on through her father’s account of the weeks leading up to Waterloo. Max was mentioned regularly. In the five years since she had first read this journal, he had come alive for Verity in a way she could not quite understand. She knew his expertise with horses and his fondness for dogs. She knew he hated tea and how he liked his coffee. She even knew how he liked his eggs and bacon. And that he was perfectly capable of cooking it himself.

Above all his kindness and thought for an orphaned child glowed in her memory…a gentle way with women and children…

He was as real and precious to her as life itself. And the Max she had found in her father’s journal reassured her that the man who had planted bluebells on a suicide’s grave, guarded her sleep and left her a decent breakfast, was not a figment of her imagination. In the past five years he had been her only friend, his very existence her only comfort as she cried herself to sleep. And now he was here, in the house, supposedly courting her cousin.

Shivering, she replaced the journal and snuffed the candle. She had never thought that he might be of such high degree. She wished she could forget.

An hour later she still lay in the dark, wishing Lord Blakehurst had never come to the house. Then she could at least have held on to her vision of Max. Max who, at least in her dreams, might be able to care for the disgraced daughter of a suicide.

Now the image she had held all these years was overlaid with the disturbing reality. An aristocrat who would never give her a second thought. Bitterly she remembered asking if she would ever see him again.

Better not, little one. I can offer you nothing.

No. Earl Blakehurst could offer nothing to Verity Scott. And, if she possessed the least vestige of common sense, she would stay out of his way.

Extricating himself from Lady Faringdon’s effusions, Max made his way to the billiard room where he found the gentlemen, except Godfrey. He only hoped he had convinced Lady Faringdon that his meeting with the unfortunate Selina had been entirely his fault. Somehow he doubted it.

The girl’s eyes haunted him. Dark, shadowy grey. Trusting. They struck a strange chord in him. Another girl had looked at him like that. He’d failed to help Verity Scott. He was damned if he’d fail to help this girl. A few quietly voiced threats might do the trick.

At the end of a game he said, ‘A word with you, please, Faringdon.’

Faringdon turned slowly, setting his cue down with great care. ‘If it’s about that business you mentioned earlier…’

Max took a careful breath. ‘Not exactly, sir. Merely that you might have a word with your son. I found him forcing his attentions on…one of your maids this evening.’

Faringdon started. ‘A…a maid? Which one?’

Remembering Selina’s eyes, wide with fear of dismissal, Max said, ‘How should I know?

Faringdon shrugged and picked up his cue. ‘Oh, well. Just a housemaid. Young men need to have their fun. You know how it is, my lord.’ He looked knowingly at Max. ‘Just a bit of sport. Dare say the wench was not really unwilling—’

Ice flooded Max’s veins. ‘I assure you, she was most distressed,’ he stated. ‘And I would have no hesitation in stating that to anyone who asked me.’ For all the use it would be. Faringdon didn’t give a damn. He added, ‘After all, you wouldn’t want anyone asking questions about Miss Scott’s tragedy, would you?’

To his utter amazement the other man went absolutely white. ‘Well, of course I will have a word to Godfrey, but really, Blakehurst! A maidservant! It’s not as though she is anybody important.’

Max walked out without another word before he could ask if Verity Scott had been important—before he could choke Lord Faringdon into a sense of his iniquities.

He went up to his bedchamber, where he found his ex-batman folding shirts.

‘What the devil are you doing here?’ he growled.

Harding grinned. ‘Doing me job, sir. It’s better than the servants’ hall here. Stuck-up lot, they are. Any luck, sir?’

Max dragged in a breath. Then let it out. Verity Scott’s death was too raw a wound. ‘No. Goodnight, Harding.’

Harding’s brows lifted. ‘Goodnight, sir.’

The door shut behind him and Max slumped into a chair. All he wanted was some peace and quiet in which to think. To accept that he had failed Verity Scott as badly as he had failed her father. He had assumed that all was well, that she was safe with her relatives. He had thought there was nothing he could do.

The silence pounded the same message into his brain over and over. He had assumed wrongly. What the hell had they done to her? An image of Godfrey Faringdon flashed into his thoughts. Had Godfrey bullied her? Persecuted her the way he was apparently persecuting that poor girl, Selina?

Bitterly Max accepted that he would never know. That no one would talk for fear of scandal. And he had no way of finding out where the poor child was buried. He couldn’t even do as much for her as she had done for her father.

Shutting his eyes, he saw again the despairing child’s face. He’d never even seen her clearly in the firelight. Just the bleak misery and fear in her dark eyes. And the trusting gratitude. He didn’t even know what colour they had been.

Enthroned on a canopied sofa in her boudoir the following morning, Lady Faringdon ranted at her errant niece. ‘And just what did you intend by insinuating yourself into Lord Blakehurst’s presence? You conniving little slut!’ Without giving Verity a chance to respond, Lady Faringdon swept on. ‘To think that we have given you a home all these years, lent you our countenance! How dare you!’

Verity drew a deep breath, reminding herself not to strike her aunt’s countenance. ‘You can get rid of me easily enough, Aunt Faringdon. Write me a reference so that I can find a position and I’ll be gone.’

‘Why, you ungrateful wretch! Do you think—?’

She broke off as the door opened and Godfrey walked in. A night’s sleep had not improved the livid scratches, and Verity’s satisfaction burned coldly.

‘Godfrey! How frightful! Whatever happened?’ gasped Lady Faringdon.

He shrugged. ‘Nothing much. Just her—’ he cast Verity a spiteful look ‘—taking exception to something I asked of her.’

Verity shut her eyes briefly as churning fear replaced satisfaction. She could tell the truth about what Godfrey wanted—and be accused of trying to trap him into marriage. To share that particular trap with Godfrey… Better dead.

Breathing deeply, she sank into herself, away from the stream of invective, away from the hatred, letting it wash over her. She forced her eyes to remain blank, uncaring. It was the only defence she had left. A cloak of meekness over the boiling fury within.

The door opened abruptly to admit Lord Faringdon. His bulging gaze lit on Verity. ‘Out,’ he snapped.

Only too glad to remove herself, Verity headed for the door. And heard Lord Faringdon ask as she opened it, ‘What the devil happened between you and Blakehurst last night, boy?’ Shock held her, but she dared not remain. She shut the door with a shaking hand and glanced around the corridor. Empty.

Swiftly she bent to the keyhole. She was used to hearing nothing good of herself, and sometimes knowledge was safety.

‘Enough, sirrah! You will leave that chit alone until Blakehurst is out of the house! Do you hear me?’

Godfrey whinged unintelligibly, but Lord Faringdon’s response came through loud and clear.

‘Because if you don’t, I’ll cut off your allowance for a year. The last thing we need is—’

Whatever the last thing was, Verity missed it. Hearing footsteps, she straightened and fled. She’d heard enough. For the next few days she was safe. Perhaps that would give her time to think of some escape that had not occurred to her in the last five years. In the meantime, she must stay out of Lord Blakehurst’s way.

Verity folded another sheet and added it to the mended pile. Three to go. A quick glance at the clock confirmed that she had plenty of time. Everyone was still out on their river-boating expedition. She had at least two hours before she need expect them. Plenty of time to finish the mending, slip out into the gardens and still get back before there was any risk of being seen. Aunt Faringdon had made it perfectly plain yesterday morning that if she…had the impudence to importune any other guests…she would regret it.

There was nowhere else to go. She couldn’t afford to be thrown out. Not unless hell froze over and Aunt Faringdon gave her a reference as a governess or companion.

‘Which she won’t,’ muttered Verity, as she reached for another sheet. ‘She may hate me, but she’d hate paying twenty pounds a year for a governess even more.’ That was the only explanation she could think of for their refusal to let her go. Without a reference she was helpless.

The door opened abruptly and a tall, familiar figure whipped into the room, shutting the door with a speed only equalled by the silence with which he managed the feat. He spoke not a word, but looked around wildly.

Verity blinked as Lord Blakehurst made for the large cupboard in the corner. The doors stood wide and to her utter amazement he slipped into the corner behind the door. Still without a word.

‘Umm…my lord…’

He glared at her from his hiding place. ‘Ssshhh!’

Returning the glare with interest, Verity asked politely, ‘And your boots, my lord?’

‘My…?’ He looked down. ‘Oh, damn!’ His boots were clearly visible beneath the door. ‘Quick. Shove that mending basket in front, girl.’

Verity obliged, wondering what could have sent one of the wealthiest peers in the realm scuttling for cover like a startled coney.

A moment later she had her answer. The door opened and Lady Moncrieff looked in.

‘Is his lordship about, wench?’

Verity couldn’t help her eyes narrowing slightly. From her position she could see the lordship in question. And the very faint shake of his head.

Blandly she answered in her best servant’s voice. ‘Oh, no, mum. The master went boatin’ wiv all the other quality. Do you need summat mending?’

‘Lord Blakehurst, girl!’

Verity gritted her teeth. ‘Lord Blakehurst? Up here, mum? What would his lordship want wiv the likes of me?’

The delicately curved lips curled. ‘Nothing, I dare say. You’ve little enough to recommend you!’

The door shut with a snap and Verity muttered one pungent and graphic word more usually associated with the kennels.

‘Yes. Quite.’

She spun around and met her unwanted companion’s smile as he emerged from behind the door. Heat surged across her cheeks. In her anger she’d forgotten his presence.

‘She was wrong, you know,’ he added conversationally.

‘Wrong?’

‘Wrong,’ he affirmed. ‘You have plenty to recommend you,’ he went on. ‘Brains for one thing. Your accent was inspired.’ The smile in his eyes deepened. ‘Thank you,’ he added.

She resisted the urge to smile back and said shortly, ‘I think you’d better go.’ Before her lungs forgot how to function.

His brows rose. ‘So soon? But I haven’t paid my debt to you.’

Her breath seized. If he stayed…if anyone came in… ‘There is no debt. You helped me. Please—you must go! If anyone finds you here…’ Her voice dried up at his smile.

‘They’ve all gone boating.’

‘And the servants—the other servants?’ she amended, remembering her role. ‘You think they won’t tattle?’ She grimaced. Most of them were only too pleased to have someone to look down upon. One or two were sorry for her, but the rest took their tone from their mistress.

He grinned at her and pulled out a large handkerchief. And ripped it almost in half. ‘Our chaperon. I brought it along for mending.’

She scowled at him. Drat the man! She would be in the most appalling scrape if they were caught and all she wanted to do was smile back!

‘No one would ever believe that the high and mighty Lord Blakehurst would be seen dead blowing his nose on a mended handkerchief!’ she snapped. And shut her eyes in horror. Was she mad? Meek little Selina wouldn’t have said that!

An appreciative chuckle made her eyes snap open.

‘Not dead, no,’ he admitted with a grin. ‘That would be a bit much. But I do have a very saving disposition. Hangover from my army days. Ask my valet. He’ll tell you.’

‘Please, just go,’ she begged.

He stared at her. ‘Miss…Miss…Selina, you’re not scared of me, are you? You don’t imagine for one moment that I have any…’ he hesitated ‘…that I would behave like Godfrey Faringdon towards you?’

Verity gasped. ‘You? Like Godfrey? Oh, no!’

His gaze focused. ‘You seem very sure.’

She caught herself up. ‘I…I…yes. Nothing about your reputation suggests that you…that you…well, anyway, I am sure. But please go!’

‘Has that little toad bothered you again?’ he asked sharply.

Her stomach lurched. ‘No. He hasn’t been anywhere near me.’ She could not repress a shiver. The moment Lord Blakehurst left Godfrey would be at her again.

‘Good.’

Her eyes widened at the harsh note in his voice. ‘Why should you care?’

He didn’t answer. Instead, he came towards her. She forced herself to stillness, meeting his suddenly intense gaze unblinking.

Slowly he lifted a hand and brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw, the softness of her throat. Every precept of good sense and modesty shrieked at her to strike his hand away. She remained still, captive to his gentle touch. When had she last been touched gently?

The answer shook her to the core. Nearly five years ago. By Max Blakehurst. Only now his touch made her restless, sent shivers rippling through her. She forced herself to remain still, rigid.

After a moment his hand dropped. He inclined his head. ‘Good afternoon, Selina.’

The door shut behind him and slowly Verity lifted her hand to the path his fingers had traced.

Twenty minutes later Max rode out of the stable yard. With Lady Moncrieff stalking him through the house, retreat was the only sane tactic. He had no stomach for her ladyship’s plans for their mutual entertainment and having her forever cooing about him had become intolerable.

He pushed his horse harder, seeking forgetfulness in the flying hooves and surging power beneath him.

Several miles later the mare’s labouring breath told him it was time to turn for home. He drew the lathered animal to a halt, dismounted and loosened her girth.

‘Easy, old girl.’ He rubbed the sweaty nose. ‘I’ll walk for a bit. Give you a breather.’ Guilt and self-loathing did not excuse riding his horse into the ground. There was no rush, he could take his time getting back. When he did he’d make his excuses and depart. There was nothing to hold him at Faringdon Hall.

Or was there?

Deep grey eyes swam into focus. Wary, shuttered eyes, fringed with the darkest lashes. Selina…what was her name? Dering. Selina Dering. He came to a dead halt. Why the devil would he consider staying for Selina? As far as he could judge, his warning to Godfrey and Lord Faringdon had taken effect. She had said herself that Godfrey had not been near her. What more could he do for her?

His whole body hardened as he walked on slowly, suggesting all manner of things that they could do for each other. From the moment she had landed in his arms the other night he’d been conscious of the attraction. He wanted her. At first he’d tried to ignore it. Told himself he’d acted in her defence from motives of the most disinterested chivalry. It was only half-true. He wasn’t disinterested. On the contrary.

Her very refusal to have anything to do with him piqued his interest. Most girls in her position would be doing their utmost to cast languishing smiles, practically tripping over themselves—literally—to engage his interest. Selina couldn’t get rid of him fast enough. He grinned. Not what he usually looked for in a mistress, but for her he’d willingly make an exception. God, she’d be sweet…

No! Be damned if he’d behave as Faringdon had, forcing the girl into submission.

But you wouldn’t be. All you have to do is offer. She can refuse.

And she would. Her whole response to him suggested that. Far from trying to catch his attention, she had been practically pushing him out of the door of the sewing room. Hardly encouraging, but at least she had some spirit left. Whatever her background was, she didn’t talk or behave like a servant.

He faced another truth. When he left, what was to prevent Godfrey taking up where he had left off? Probably at the most he had won the girl a breathing space. He swore under his breath. All he wanted was to shake the dust of this place from him, but he couldn’t. Not until he had made quite sure that Selina was safe.

A heavy weight descended on his shoulder accompanied by a satisfied snort. Adjusting his step to accommodate the mare’s head, he cast a sideways glance at her and rubbed the velvety nose. ‘Comfortable? Anything else I can carry for you?’

She whiffled contentedly.

He shook his head and walked on, remembering the unridable filly he’d bought three years earlier. Mistrustful Fidget, as likely to bite a man as not, with her head on his shoulder like an overgrown spaniel.

He’d tamed her. Why not Selina? He had rescued Fidget from a young idiot who was mistreating her brutally. Was Selina’s situation so very much different? He caught himself up with a rueful grin. Arrogant coxcomb! Selina was a girl, a woman. Not a filly.

Fidget had been given no choice in her fate. Selina had every right to refuse. Fidget had learnt to trust him after he had taken her. Selina would have to learn before he took her, if she learnt at all. If she hadn’t been too badly hurt. His stomach clenched at the thought of what she’d likely been subjected to.

He’d been invited to stay for a fortnight. He had just over a sennight left. That long to gain Selina’s trust—and affection.

Affection? Where did that notion come from? Since when had he wanted affection from one of his mistresses? All he wanted from his mistresses was a couple of months of pure and simple pleasure. Three at the most. Well, maybe not pure. Very well, definitely not pure. But no more than three months. Not even from the loveliest of them. So there it was—he wanted Selina. Right down to her freckles.

And if she didn’t want him?

His whole being revolted at the thought. He took a deep breath. If she didn’t, he’d have to devise another way of protecting her. It crept into his mind that Selina would be very different from his previous mistresses. He had the oddest feeling that he might not want to let her go after three months.

He pushed the thought away. He was being fanciful. Taking her as his mistress would be the easiest and most satisfactory way of protecting her. That was all.

Hurrying along an upstairs corridor the following morning, Verity heard a breathless voice protesting.

‘No. Please, sir…you mustn’t…’

She hesitated for a moment. She should be helping Celia get ready for the riding party… A sob of fright came, followed by a crash and a wail of despair. Anger burned away her hard-won caution. Hitching up her skirts, she broke into a run. Rounding the corner she found one of the younger maids, Sukey, crouched weeping over a tray of broken porcelain. Desperate fingers clawed uselessly at the shattered ruins.

Godfrey stood there, an amused smile on his face. ‘Next time you’ll know better than to refuse, won’t you?’

Verity felt sick. This would see Sukey dismissed. She turned on the man responsible like a tiger. ‘Leave her alone! Haven’t you done enough? Just go away!’

She hurried to the distraught maid and bent down to help her, picking up the pieces. Godfrey loomed over both of them. Furious, Verity surged to her feet, a jagged shard of porcelain in her hand.

‘Were you looking for this? Go away!’

He leapt back, swearing.

‘What is…my Sèvres!’

Verity barely bit back a curse as she looked up to find Lady Faringdon, her face mottled with fury, staring down at the ruined tea service.

She turned on the maid. ‘Out! Go and pack. I expect you out within—’

‘It wasn’t Sukey’s fault!’

That halted Lady Faringdon’s tirade. Her eyes bored into Verity.

Meeting her gaze unflinchingly, Verity lied shamelessly. The truth wouldn’t help. ‘I was in a hurry. I bumped Sukey over as I came around the corner. It wasn’t her fault.’ Keep it simple. No explanations. Hopefully she won’t remember you were supposed to be going to Celia’s room—in the opposite direction.

She held her breath.

So, from his vantage point just inside his bedchamber, did Max. Obviously Godfrey didn’t confine his harassment to Selina. He opened the door a little more.

Lady Faringdon had her back to him, but she looked as though a poker had been stitched into her gown. He focused on Selina, standing between her mistress and the weeping maid. Her face was blank, expressionless, the eyes downcast.

Silence held for a moment. He could see the fierce tension in Selina’s body as she waited for the inevitable. Any moment now she’d be dismissed. She’d saved the maid at the cost of her own position. Savagely he reminded himself that it didn’t matter, that he’d look after her even if she didn’t know it.

Then a blur of movement and a ringing slap. Selina stood unflinching as her cheek flamed scarlet from the blow.

He didn’t even realise he had moved. ‘Good morning, Lady Faringdon. A little domestic disaster?’ He avoided Selina’s eyes. If he saw that mark on her cheek he might just strangle his hostess.

Lady Faringdon blanched, her hand going to her mouth. ‘Oh!’

Max waited. If she struck Selina again…

‘Why, Lord Blakehurst! I do hope we didn’t disturb you.’ With a suppressed snarl she turned on Selina. ‘Insolent hussy! I’ll deal with you later.’

Then she snapped at the maid. ‘Clean that up and get back to your duties, girl. Godfrey—our guests are waiting to go riding. You should be down already.’ Her smile became gracious. ‘And you, Lord Blakehurst? Are you not going?’

He lied without hesitation. ‘That was my intention, but I have a letter to write. I’ll follow later.’ Returning to his room, he listened as steps retreated along the corridor. He’d thought to join the riding party. Not now. He had something else to do.

Chapter Three

He found her in the schoolroom. At first she didn’t realise the door had opened and he watched her. Tidying up with a swift, calculated efficiency. Picking up paper, emptying ink-wells, shelving books. Apart from the red mark on her cheek, she looked tired. Faint smudges showed like bruises beneath her eyes.

Anger coalesced deep inside. ‘Are you all right?’ He couldn’t keep the fury from his voice. That someone had hit her, hurt her in any way—he swallowed his rage and strode into the room.

‘Oh!’ Books cascaded from her arms. ‘Oh, damn!’ She bent down to pick them up.

‘Here, let me help you.’ He bent down. ‘What’s this? Miss Mangnell? And good lord—The Mirror of Graces? How to be a proper young lady?’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘My Aunt Almeria swears by this one.’

‘Then I’m glad I don’t know her,’ muttered Selina.

Max gave a snort of laughter. ‘So am I.’

She flushed. ‘I beg your pardon. I should not have said that.’ Wary grey eyes glanced up at him. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’

The red mark on her cheek cried out. Biting off a curse, he reached out and touched it gently. ‘I came to see if you were all right. Does that hurt?’

She flinched and he dropped his hand. ‘It won’t happen again,’ he said quietly

She didn’t meet his eyes and bent to pick up a book from the floor. ‘You can’t know that.’ Her fingers whitened on the book.

‘Yes, I can,’ he said. He’d never raised his hand to a woman. And he didn’t see himself starting with this waif. ‘Why did you do it, Selina? No doubt she will dismiss you later when she has had time to find another governess. Why not tell her the truth?’

‘You think she would have believed me?’ Careful fingers began to smooth the pages of the abused book. ‘Even if she had, she would have assumed Sukey asked for it. That she attracted Godf— Mr Faringdon’s attention on purpose. She would have been dismissed all the quicker.’

He couldn’t deny the truth of that. But still…his conscience informed him that he was a complete and utter knave to make his dis-honourable offer when she was desperate. He swore mentally. What else could he do? Leave her to be flung out? To starve? Or worse?

His conscience, which had never taken much interest in his dealings with the fair sex, pointed out that what he was about to propose definitely came under the heading of Worse. Worse than death, in fact. The devil it does! I’m not planning to rape her!

He planned to seduce Selina. Gently. And make sure she had everything she could possibly desire. His blood burned at the idea of teaching her a few things he doubted she had the least idea of desiring. How could she after Godfrey? Best to lead up to it gradually.

‘Selina—where will you go?’

Puzzled grey eyes met his. ‘Go? What are you talking about, my lord?’

Patiently he said, ‘When your mistress dismisses you. She is unlikely to give you much of a reference. Do you have somewhere to go?’

‘Somewhere to go?’ He saw her swallow convulsively.

‘Yes. I—’

‘She won’t dismiss me.’

Max, cut off before he’d fairly started, blinked. ‘Pardon me?’

‘She won’t dismiss me.’

Unable to believe that she could mean it, Max pressed on. ‘Selina—don’t be foolish. Have you thought of another position? Another…type of position.’ His cravat was about to strangle him, and the puzzled look she gave him made it worse. Damn! Why was offering a carte blanche suddenly so hellishly difficult?!

‘No. I have no references. But she won’t dismiss me.’

He stifled a crack of laughter. References? He’d never asked for references. All the references he required were flitting around the room before him, tidying away quills, books and a battered globe. Abandoning that tack, he asked gently, ‘Sweetheart, what do you want?’

She turned, eyes wide. ‘Why did you call me that?’

He didn’t know. He’d never called any woman sweetheart. But it felt right. It fitted. ‘What do you want?’ he repeated, sticking to the point. Seeing the puzzled frown deepen, he added, ‘Generally, from…from life.’ Where in Hades had that come from? He knew what women wanted. Pretty, fashionable clothes, jewels, a carriage, masculine attention, all the usu—

‘A family.’

‘A…what?’

She flushed and turned away. ‘You needn’t mock. I know it’s impossible. But you asked.’ The break in her voice rocked his world on its axis.

He said carefully, ‘You want children?’ His mistresses had, one and all, taken whatever precautions could be taken against that catastrophe. A mistress who wanted a child? Deep within something tightened.

She didn’t answer, but started dusting. He frowned. That was something she wouldn’t need to do again.

‘Selina?’

At last she replied. ‘That would be nice too. But what I meant was that it would be…I’d like…to belong. To be part of people’s lives. Not to be always apart.’

Max’s world gave another wobble. ‘You have no family? Not even someone to write to?’

‘There is no one I can call my kin.’ Her voice hardened. ‘No one to give a present to. Which is just as well, since I have nothing to give.’

His heart ached for her, even as he realised the advantage it gave him. No family. No one to be horrified and ashamed at the step she was about to take. No one who would refuse to acknowledge her ever again. He ignored his conscience, which suggested it made her even more vulnerable. She would be his. Safe. He moved towards her, removing the duster from her hand and dropping it.

Awareness leapt within Verity at his nearness, at the brush of long fingers over hers. Then her hand was caught in a gentle, inescapable grip, his thumb stroking sensuously over her roughened skin. Everything within her contracted, shivered in expectation. What on earth was he about? She looked up at him, shocked. A mistake.

‘Nothing?’ His smile deepened and, with it, the flare of something hungry in his eyes. Something warm that melted her, bone deep.

Uncertainly she shook her head. ‘I have nothing,’ she repeated.

‘You have something I want.’

His voice was a deep caress and she realised that he had drawn even closer, that his body brushed against her, that the sharp, tangy odour of his cologne surrounded her, wreathing through the beeswax.

‘Would you consider another sort of position, Selina?’ he asked quietly.

What? Her mind wouldn’t focus, could only absorb the nearness of him, the longing to lean against him. She shook her head to clear it enough to focus on his suggestion of a new position. The Faringdons would not permit it, but she could not tell him that. She dared say nothing that might give him a clue to her identity. ‘Without a reference…I have nothing to live on while I find another place.’ It was true enough, just not all of the truth. A curl fell into her eyes, tickling, and she pushed it behind her ear. It escaped immediately. Impatiently she lifted her hand again. Then froze.

His hand lifted to her face, pushing the errant curl away from her eye. He didn’t bother to tuck it away, but threaded his fingers into her hair in a shockingly intimate gesture. She could feel his thumb circling slowly at her temple, then drifting lower to caress her cheek, her jaw, her throat.

Heat bloomed, and a strange ache invaded her breasts, her belly. A tightening that pulsed to the beat of her heart, suddenly pounding. She could only stare up at him, eyes wide. Her whole body quivered with anticipation, lost in a dreamlike daze. ‘My lord?’ Her breath shortened. ‘I…I don’t understand…’

‘Then I shall have to explain,’ he murmured.

Her breath jerked in. Never before had a man’s voice stabbed into her like that. But then again, never before had a man spoken to her as his arms stole about her and his lips brushed her ear. Pleasure rippled through her even as understanding coiled painfully inside. She knew now what he wanted.

A light touch grazed her throat, drifted along her jaw.

Breathless, she looked up, shivers racing through her, and met a penetrating amber gaze only inches away. She felt caged by his warmth, his strength, by the scent of shaving soap and the spicy masculine smell that underlay it. Her hand rose uncertainly, drawn by the faint shadowed roughness of his jaw, her fingers itched to stroke it, test its texture.

She mustn’t. She understood now what he wanted. She should draw back, but his eyes and touch held her trapped. Gently. Safe, but suddenly vulnerable. To her own desire. Her breath shivered out and she realised that she had been holding it, that her heart’s pounding had nothing to do with terror. And that he was even closer. He leaned forward, his breath a tender caress on her lips. Every precept—of modesty, decorum, every scrap of good sense—screamed a warning. Run!

She lifted her face and felt the warm, gentle touch of his lips. Oh, the joy of being touched and held tenderly. With…affection? Featherlight, his mouth brushed across hers in the briefest of kisses. Delight shot through her. His warmth enfolded her. Her lips parted on a soundless sigh and for an instant the kiss deepened, possessing her completely, then it was over almost before she could believe it had happened. With a final, lingering caress at the corner of her mouth, he drew back, releasing her.

Her eyes fluttered open. She hadn’t even realised they were shut. He was still close, close enough that she could see his pulse beating in his throat.

His voice came, calm and soft. ‘Perhaps that will make things clearer.’

She could only nod, certain that without breath her voice would not function. And then she wondered why she had nodded as though things were clearer. She was more confused than ever. How he could speak so indifferently was beyond her comprehension. He had kissed her until her head spun. Grimly she reminded herself of Lady Moncrieff. He’s used to beautiful women. Women who know how to…to please a man. Whatever that means. Why would his head spin? Why would he even kiss her? He couldn’t want her. Could he?

‘Well, Selina? Do you understand now?’

Only too well. Braced against the gentleness in his voice, she turned to go. Oh, yes. She understood well enough. But Max would never try to force her consent.

His hand shot out and caught her wrist.

Shock, as much as his grip, held her motionless. Fear stirred and knotted. She ignored it and fought to infuse her voice with icy indifference. ‘Sir?’

‘A moment, Selina.’

It was not a request. The grip on her wrist sent the knot of fear twisting through her stomach. Oh, no. Surely not him too. Could she have been mistaken in him? Tension singing through her, she faced him, trying to force her breathing to steady.

His intent gaze rested on her face, then dropped to her captive wrist. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. His hand fell from her and she felt bereft, as though part of her had torn itself away.

Resisting the urge to hold the wrist to her cheek, she waited, some of her fear allayed.

‘Not all positions require references, Selina. And I can assure you I would be a gentler lover than Godfrey Faringdon has been.’

Tension gripped her again. Carefully, slowly, she stepped back, holding his gaze with hers, certain that any moment he would grab her, drag her into his arms. Men didn’t really ask. Men took.

‘I…I should not be here, my lord. Please excuse me.’ She backed away, her gaze never leaving his face, the bright topaz eyes watching her like a big cat, until she reached the door. Then she fled.

Max swore. She had refused him. Without hesitation. And her life here was hell. She was treated like a slave. How could enduring that be preferable to a discreet and well-paid liaison with himself? She didn’t dislike him. She had responded to his kiss. She couldn’t possibly have thought he would offer marriage. So why the devil wouldn’t she even consider being his mistress? Obviously her birth was respectable. She didn’t speak like a servant. Perhaps his offer had shocked her.

After what Godfrey had doubtless done to her? He stalked to the door. Surely she didn’t think he’d ever force her? Had he frightened her with that brief kiss? Had she realised the fierce depth of his desire for her? He’d had to control every muscle in his body not to ravish her, plunder the soft mouth. She was sweetness incarnate. It had taken every ounce of willpower to draw back, when all he had wanted… He swore again. She’d only had to glance down and what he wanted would have been all too obvious.

It was still making its painful presence felt ten minutes later when he reached the billiard room. Picking up a cue, he considered his next move. His next move? On the rare occasions a woman refused him, he accepted her reply and dropped the pursuit. In fact he usually realised before ever broaching the subject. He sent a red ball crashing into a pocket. Why couldn’t he accept Selina’s refusal? He shook his head. When had he ever wanted a woman so much that his body continued to ache after she had refused him and gone?

Perhaps she needed time to think it over. She hadn’t exactly refused. He ran over her reply. I should not be here, my lord. Please excuse me. Perhaps she needed some reassurance that he wouldn’t leave her penniless at the end of their liaison. Maybe he hadn’t made that clear.

He thought back. And closed his eyes in disbelief at his own stupidity. Apart from telling her that he’d be gentler than Godfrey, he’d offered her nothing. Nothing beyond a casual tumble. No wonder she’d refused. All he had to do was find her and explain…explain what?

He didn’t know himself what he wanted. Only that Selina was very different. That in taking her under his protection, he would be doing just that. Protecting her.

Verity lay in bed, shivering. The warmth of the day lingered, but she couldn’t stop shaking. Her memory refused to listen to wisdom, continuing to dwell on the tender strength of his hands, the gentle pressure of his kiss. That was bad enough, but for her body to join in the treacherous assault shocked her. What sort of wanton creature ached and trembled at the mere memory of a kiss that had lasted about three seconds?

It would have to last a lifetime. She didn’t dare see him again. Grimly she admitted that it was not that she did not trust him. Rather, she could not trust herself. Her whole being cried out to let him hold her, touch her.

Stop it! He wants a great deal more than just to hold you. He wants exactly what Godfrey wants. Nothing else. A gentle, persuasive voice murmured, Would it be so bad to be his mistress? He would be kind to you…you’d be free. You could purchase an annuity. They’d never dare to take you back after that…even if you are a minor.

No! She wouldn’t, she couldn’t. She mustn’t. Things weren’t so bad that she needed to sell herself into whoredom. Besides, perhaps he didn’t want her as his mistress. Chances were she had completely misunderstood him and that he simply wanted to bed her while he was here. That was much more likely. Even if he did want more… She shied away from the thought, shocked at her own weakness.

A little voice asked, How much longer can you hold Godfrey off? Wouldn’t it be better—

No! If only she could think of some way to leave when she came of age. Just over a year. She shut her eyes in despair at the bitter reality. She had nothing—no money, no other connections. She would be no safer if she did leave.

A soft tap on the door shocked her bolt upright. Who would bother knocking? Certainly not Godfrey…

‘Selina? Are you awake?’ The deep voice went straight through her like a spear. What could he possibly want?

Exactly what he wanted this afternoon.

‘Y…yes.’

‘May I come in?’

How can I stop you?

‘By saying no,’ came the quiet response. Dismayed, she realised that she had spoken aloud. And that even if she let him in, she was safe enough. He had knocked, requesting her permission to enter. He has a gentle way with women and children…

‘Come in.’ She felt as though those two simple words had brought her to the edge of a precipice, to hang trembling over the unknown.

Clutching her blanket to her, she watched, wary, as the door opened and he came in. His lamp cast a mellow flickering glow so that she saw his face shadowed, as she had remembered it for five long years. In that light she could almost forget that he was Blakehurst. She could almost pretend that this was one of her dreams in which, miraculously, Max had come to take her away. Almost.

He dwarfed her tiny room, needing to bend his head to avoid cracking his six foot plus height on a beam. ‘May I sit down?’

‘If you can find something to sit on,’ she said, deliberately unwelcoming. To her complete consternation he sat on the campaign chest. He appeared to be holding himself stiffly. She wondered if he were uncomfortable. Then she saw the flash of his eyes in the lamplight and had the impression of something held tightly leashed, something dangerously hot.

‘I imagine you know why I have come,’ he said in a quiet voice strangely at odds with the burning look in his eyes.

Burning? She gave herself a mental shake. She must be imagining things. It was just the reflected lamplight.

‘I came to make quite sure you understood what I offered you this morning. I want more than a casual tumble. I would take you as my mistress, Selina. If you still refuse, then so be it, but I thought you might find my protection more acceptable than Faringdon’s persecution.’

A gentle way with women… ‘Why?’

She thought he blinked. ‘Why? Because I’m asking you, Selina. Not forcing you. If you become my mistress, it must be willingly.’

‘No. I meant, why do you want me as your mistress?’ And why am I even asking?

He definitely blinked. ‘Isn’t that obvious, Selina?’

‘No.’ She couldn’t imagine why he would want her. According to her aunt and cousins she had nothing to recommend her. Oh, she knew why Godfrey wanted her. Because she was defenceless and he was a swaggering bully, not far removed from the loutish schoolboy who had once drowned a kitten in front of his terrified little cousin, merely because he knew she was fond of it.

But Max—Lord Blakehurst—was not of that ilk. She had not the least idea why a man with a reputation for taking beautiful women as his mistresses would want her.

‘Because I desire you of course.’ The sudden huskiness in his voice shocked her. ‘Because I want to take you in my arms and kiss you and every one of those damn freckles. Because I want to see your eyes go black with desire when I make love to you. Because I want to hear you beg me to take you. And I want to hear you cry out in pleasure when I do.’

As if he couldn’t help himself, he reached for her and she jerked back against the wall. Instantly his arms fell to his sides. She heard the rasp of his breath, saw the sudden flattening of his mouth.

‘I’m s-sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t mean to make you angry. You startled me.’

Silence hung darkly between them.

‘I’m not angry,’ he said at last. ‘Well, yes, I am. But with myself for frightening you. The truth is, Selina, that I want you. I wanted you the minute I laid eyes on you. Or, to be accurate, the minute I felt you in my arms.

‘Think about it,’ he went on. ‘Even if you are not dismissed, there is still Faringdon. He may leave you alone while I am here, but what do you think will happen when I leave? At least if you come with me you will be treated well, you will have clothes, jewels and money. A house to live in. After we part you will have a generous sum of money settled on you.’

Any single element of what he offered would be a great deal more than she had now. It would have been tempting…if she had wanted any of it. It was what he didn’t mention that tempted her—that briefly there would be someone who cared a little. Someone who would treat her tenderly. Someone she could care for. After we part… Inevitably there would be a parting. Even now her heart ached in the expectation of pain. Would it be worse to have the joy and lose it, or never have it at all?

He said he wanted to make love to her. Godfrey had told her what he wanted of her in explicitly crude detail that left her shuddering. The word love hadn’t entered into it. Max’s hot words left a burning ache in her breasts, a shimmering glow throughout her entire body that she knew would burst into flame if he so much as touched her. That was why she had jerked back. Max held a far more dangerous power over her than Godfrey Faringdon because she wanted him, despite her mind screaming that she was insane even considering such a step, that she would be ruined, lost forever, should she take it.

It was far too dangerous to accept. If he ever found out who she was… She did not think she could bear the disgust and horror in his eyes. For the drudge, Selina, to accept his offer was unexceptionable. For Miss Verity Scott to become his mistress… She could protect herself against the Faringdons’ scorn. She didn’t love them, never had, but Max…he would hate her if he ever discovered the truth.

‘Selina?’ The very softness of his voice caressed her. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. But believe me, what we could have together would be very different from what Faringdon has forced on you.’

She believed him, and did not bother to correct his assumption that Godfrey had already stripped her of her innocence. In a way he had. As had all the Faringdons. She had very few illusions left as to how the world viewed a girl in her situation. A drudge. A source of unpaid labour and a convenient victim for bullying. He had offered her escape. Not love.

She had to refuse him. But her whole being cried out in protest at being denied the tenderness he offered. Surely she could have just one last, tiny taste of heaven, one small joy to cherish in the years ahead?

‘I must refuse you, my lord,’ she said quietly, praying that the lump in her throat wouldn’t choke her.

‘Must you?’

She could only nod.

‘Very well.’

He rose from the chest and picked up his lantern and she realised that he was leaving. That if she didn’t speak now he would be gone. With all her dreams.

‘But, if you do not mind, my lord…I…I should like to kiss you again.’

He turned very slowly. ‘Why? If you do not wish—’

She interrupted. ‘I cannot be your mistress, my lord, but it is not because you frightened me, or that I do not trust you.’

His mouth twisted ruefully. ‘If you will offer to kiss me after what I said to you earlier, then your trust is self-evident. Are you sure, Selina? Be warned: I have every intention of using this kiss to change your mind. It will start with a kiss, but if you want it to stop there, you are the one who will have to say so.’

She swallowed. He had warned her, that was fair. The risk was hers, to take or reject. She took it. Trembling, she held out her hand.

His smile deepened and he came to her.

This time he sat beside her, his weight tipping her towards him, and she realised just how much bigger he was. In the enveloping shadows his large frame loomed over her, the faint scent of cologne teased her senses, wafting over her. She felt his hands on her shoulders, urging her towards him, drawing her with shattering care into his embrace.

Her breathing hitched, drawing the scent, the essence of him, deeper. His large, warm hand slid under her chin, tipping her face up. Delicately he touched her, tracing her cheekbones, her nose, the line of her brows. And where his fingers caressed, his lips followed, tasting, teasing until her breath shivered and broke in pleasure.

Those tantalising fingers found her jaw, stroked and circled while his thumb brushed her mouth, following the curve of her lips. She could feel his breath, hot and urgent at her ear and turned her head, shyly seeking him. She felt him smile as his mouth closed over hers, felt his arms tighten as she melted against him. Instinctively her arms slid around him as she wriggled closer, pressing herself into the heat of his body.

The blanket she had clutched around her fell away, forgotten in the wonder of his mouth moving on hers and his gentle hands holding her close. Hands that explored and shaped her, telling her that she was lovely, that he desired her. Hands that banished the old world and replaced it with a spinning glory of passion.

Clumsily, she opened her mouth a little and returned his kiss, only to feel a possessive hand slip between them and cover one breast as his tongue traced her lips. A shocked gasp ripped from her at the glittering sensation taking her by storm. He took instant advantage. His mouth twisted against hers, opening her more fully and his tongue penetrated deeply in intimate possession. Her mind whirled. Her body melted to warm, flowing honey, drained of all strength.

Slowly, repeatedly, he claimed her mouth until some last vestige of common sense warned her, If you don’t stop him now, you won’t be able to. You won’t even want to.

It took every ounce of willpower, but somehow she pushed on his shoulders, pulling her mouth free. She could feel the hard tension in his body, the tightening of his arms as, for an instant, he possessed her mouth fiercely, demanding her surrender. Then he released her and stood, his breathing audible.

‘My offer stands. You have only to come to me.’

He was gone, his footsteps fading down the stairs, leaving Verity staring into the dark. Her taste of heaven had been a terrible mistake. His kiss had not given comfort. Instead her whole body sang and throbbed with a burning need that she scarcely understood. Instead of comfort, she had unleashed an appalling temptation.

Chapter Four

Three days later Max left the breakfast parlour in a thoroughly disgusted frame of mind. Lord, what on earth possessed him to remain at this house party? If he had to endure much more inane conversation and blatant toadying, he was likely to brain someone. Probably that simpering chit, Celia. Thank God the wench was too self-indulgent to appear for breakfast. No doubt she sipped weak tea off a tray in her bedchamber and made some housemaid’s life a living hell.

Like Selina. He gritted his teeth. He’d not seen her since the night he went to her bedchamber. Plainly she meant her refusal and had taken pains to avoid him. He should forget her, return to town. But the thought of that cur, Godfrey, forcing himself on the girl… Max found his shoulders growing tense and his fists clenching. So he’d put off his departure time and again, telling himself that while he remained she was safe and hoping to see her so that he could ask again, persuade her with a few more gentle kisses. His body ached at the memory of her mouth opening shyly under his, the small, shocked gasp as he tasted her deeply and caressed the tender breasts pressing against him…

He was just as shabby as Mr Faringdon, his conscience informed him. Why shabby? he argued. If Faringdon’s been forcing himself on her and she has nowhere to go, then she might have welcomed the opportunity.

You lousy bastard! his better self protested. What choice has she got?

Oh, rubbish! After all, she’d be far better off, and it’s not as though I’d leave her destitute afterwards. In fact, I could set her up with an annuity. A little something in the three percents to make her independent. She can always say no. It’s not as though I’d force her.

She did say no. His conscience pointed that out with unwonted zeal. It also reminded him of another girl he’d failed to save. Unlike Verity Scott, Selina had had her chance and refused it. There was nothing to hold him here. He’d leave tomorrow. In fact, he’d find Faringdon right now and tell him before going riding.

The day passed wearily for Verity with no prospect of rest until evening. She could only thank God for the house party. At least her tasks were still limited to those away from the family and their guests. And maybe tonight she could hide on her stairs again and watch for a glimpse of Max going past on his way to bed.

That was the only time she permitted herself to see him, the only bright spot in a very bleak outlook. And it gave her more pain than pleasure. The temptation to go to him, accept his offer, tore at her.

She shivered. Better that she told him who she was. He’d never take her then. The temptation would be gone. She didn’t dare. He’d try to force the Faringdons to treat her better. But what could he really do? She was under twenty-one, a pauper, wholly at the command of her legal guardians. He was Blakehurst, society’s darling. The night they had met he had said it was better they did not meet again, that he could offer her nothing.

She had seen him. That was better than nothing. And if he found out the truth she’d be worse off than ever. Aunt Faringdon would see to that.

During the afternoon she was sent to Celia’s bedchamber to do the mending. At least it meant she could sit down. She curled into a tight little ball, shivering despite the warmth of the day, as she stitched at the gown Celia had torn the night before. She wouldn’t mind the mending and other tasks if her aunt and cousins would just treat her like a member of the family, if they had not stolen every vestige of dignity from her, down to her very name.

Did Verity Scott even exist any more? Or had she died years ago and been replaced by the silent, unassuming Selina? She was nineteen, for heaven’s sake, nearly twenty. She’d had more courage at fifteen. Desperately Verity tried to remember the child who had crept out in a blinding downpour to try and give her father’s burial some honour.

Would she dare to do it now? Shame and self-loathing lashed at her. How could she have become so subservient? Grimly, she tied off her thread and snipped it. She had stood up for Sukey. What if she stood up for herself? Now? What if she refused to be Selina any more?

She rose and took the mended gown to the armoire. She had become Selina in order to survive. So she would have to make a decision. Survival, or self-respect.

The next item in her mending pile was a shirt of Godfrey’s. A button had come off. Even after laundering, the shirt still smelt of him, reminding her of what was likely to happen after the conclusion of the house party. Sick fear clenched her stomach. She had thought she had nothing left to lose. Apparently she did: survival, or self-respect. She doubted that she could have both.

Celia came up to change for dinner in a foul temper and Verity learned that Lord Blakehurst had disappeared straight after breakfast and gone riding all day. By himself. Again.

Stepping out of her afternoon gown, Celia sat down at her dressing table in her chemise and petticoat and said, ‘He was at breakfast, they told me, and then he simply vanished. Oh, and Mama is furious.’ She turned to Verity with a sneer and said, ‘Something to do with you, I believe. You’re for it when she comes up. She said you had tried to intrigue Lord Blakehurst.’

Fingers suddenly numb, Verity dropped the slipper she had just picked up. Someone had seen them.

‘Imagine,’ continued Celia, ‘you! Attempting to intrigue a connoisseur like Blakehurst! They say all his mistresses are stunningly beautiful and that he flaunts them all over London. But it is all of a piece, I dare say. Obviously cowardice runs in your family and now you have attempted to become a whore.’

Beyond the churning fear something stirred deep inside Verity. Something that had stayed chained for years.

Celia pouted at her reflection and caught up a handful of hair, twisting it this way and that. ‘I think I shall have a new coiffure tonight. I’m so bored with my old one. See to it, girl.’

Verity’s self-control shattered into a thousand gleaming, deadly fragments and her temper stepped free. ‘Certainly, cousin,’ she said, sweeping up the sewing scissors on her way to the dressing table. ‘How about this?’ She snatched up a section of hair and slashed with the scissors. ‘And this!’ Another bunch of curls joined their fellows on the floor.

Celia’s shrieks and screams, as she clutched the shorn patches by her left temple and ear, had their inevitable aftermath.

Verity turned calmly enough as Lady Faringdon rushed in. Her ladyship took one look at the ruin of Celia’s hair and rounded on her niece. ‘Get out,’ she shouted. ‘Return to your room. I’ll see to you in the morning, after I bid farewell to Lord Blakehurst.’

Verity drew in a horrified breath which her aunt observed.

‘Yes, that’s right. He’s leaving. Did you think that you had caught his attention? No doubt your attempt to insinuate yourself into his notice has disgusted him. Now go!’

Refusing to be cowed, Verity said cheerfully, ‘Goodnight, Aunt, Cousin. I dare say one of the maids can brush your hair before bed, now that I’ve lightened the task for her. Enjoy your evening.’

Tearing herself from her mama’s enveloping bosom, Celia leapt at her with a shriek of rage, but Verity stood her ground with a little smile and lifted the scissors again. ‘Do you want me to even it up a trifle, Celia?’

Celia shrank back. ‘Mama! She threatened me!’

‘Yes, well,’ said Verity, ‘after all, what else could you expect of a coward and a whore?’ She dropped the scissors and stalked out, slamming the door.

She barely remembered reaching her chamber. Vaguely she noticed several guests appear from their rooms, excitedly wondering what all the commotion was about. One or two even asked if she knew, but she was too shocked at the enormity of what she had done to respond.

Eventually she lay on her narrow bed, staring into the darkness, trying to hold back despair. There was no time to think of a plan for escape, or try to find a position. She had to leave. At once. She’d burned an entire armada of boats to the waterline.

But, oh! It had been worth it to see the look on Celia’s face! Despite her fear, she giggled. And Aunt’s face! As though the silent, cowed poor relation had suddenly gone mad.

Enough. Now she had to think what to do. Shivering, she faced the truth. If she remained, she was ruined. After this, her aunt would look the other way while Godfrey debauched her. If she left and sought shelter in the workhouse, it would only be a matter of time before some other man took her.

A whore.

Whichever way she turned, she was trapped. Unless…unless she accepted Lord Blakehurst’s offer. She couldn’t! She didn’t dare…did she? Carefully she thought it over. If she took some precautions, misled him a little about her intentions, he would never realise who she was. If he took her, she would be free. Even if they realised who she had gone to, they wouldn’t dare take her back, because to do so they would have to admit who she was. The risk of scandal would be too great.

She would have to remain Selina Dering. With a queer sense of foreboding, she realised that, to all intents and purposes, Verity would cease to exist. There would be only Selina. Max must never know the truth. Any of it.

Straight after dinner Max excused himself, muttered something about an early start and went up to his room. Not even the prospect of finding out what had caused the explosion of feminine hysteria shortly before dinner tempted him to remain for longer than was absolutely required by the dictates of courtesy.

That Celia Faringdon had been at the centre of the outburst was evidenced by the fact that she had not appeared at dinner. Lady Faringdon’s explanation of a sensitive and easily cast-down temperament, Max translated as spoiled brat who didn’t get her own way over something trivial.

Once in his room, he rang the bell and when Harding arrived, said, ‘We’ll leave first thing. Have you packed?’

Harding nodded. ‘Aye, sir. Everything’s ready. Will there be aught else tonight?’

Max shook his head, and then reconsidered. ‘On second thoughts, send up a bottle of brandy, and then get an early night.’

Harding hesitated. ‘Brandy, sir? You’ll have a devilish head in the morning.’

Earl Blakehurst raised his brows. ‘I beg your pardon, Sergeant?’

Holding his ground gallantly, Harding repeated, ‘You’ll have a devilish head, sir. The brandy’s damned awful!’

Max managed a disclipinary sort of stare. ‘In which case you have my full permission to say “I told you so” and gloat. Just do it.’

‘Yes, sir. One hangover coming up, sir.’

Max’s mouth twitched. ‘Impudent dog! God knows why I bear with you!’

Harding grinned. ‘Probably, sir. Omniscient, isn’t He?’

Max burst out laughing and sat down on the bed to pull his shoes off.

‘Sir?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Dessay it’s not my place to ask, but did you hear anything about the Colonel’s lass?’

The laughter drained away. ‘I’m sorry, Harding, I should have told you,’ he said quietly. ‘She’s dead. Faringdon hinted that she took her own life. I was too late. Again.’

Harding blanched. ‘Oh, Gawd! I’m that sorry, sir.’

‘So am I. Goodnight.’

When the brandy came Max uncorked it and faced his failure. Five years. Why the hell had he left it so long to assure himself of Verity Scott’s well being? Not knowing the Faringdons beyond a nodding acquaintance, he’d assumed that they would take care of Verity, that she would be safe with them. Damn it, he’d been relieved when he discovered that her relations were wealthy.

Not until Lady Faringdon came to the fore this past spring in launching the fair Celia had he begun to wonder.

His fingers tightened on the wine glass and he took a large swallow, feeling the brandy burn its way down. He had thought that the child was better off not being reminded of that ghastly burial, that he should leave her to recover in the care of her family. He hadn’t even worried when they didn’t bring her up to London for a Season. After all, launching a girl was an expensive business and Verity, as far as he knew, was destitute. All her father’s property had been sequestered. They might have provided for her much less expensively.

But closer acquaintance with Lady Faringdon had all his instincts on point. This was not a woman to whom he would have consigned a dog with a thorn in its paw, let alone the shattered, grieving orphan of a suicide.

He piled up his pillows and, sitting back, linked his arms behind his head to stare up into the shadowed canopy of his bed. Too late. Just as he had been too late for the man who had saved his life at the ultimate cost of his own.

William Scott had deflected the sabre that should have killed or maimed him. It had been William Scott whose wound had festered and turned gangrenous. It had been William Scott whose arm had been amputated in a stinking field hospital after Waterloo. And William Scott who had eventually sunk into despair and destroyed himself.

Bitterly he took another swallow of brandy. He should have visited soon after Verity came to live here. Or written to her. Then she might have known that she had one friend who cared for her and remembered her father with gratitude rather than shame. It might have made the Faringdons look after her.

He shuddered, forcing the ghosts away. He could do nothing for them now. They were both at peace. Tomorrow night he would be back in London. Hopefully his twin, Richard, would have returned to town and he could wash the bitterness of failure from his heart. Better to turn his mind to the living and keep on drinking to banish tonight’s ghosts. A hangover in the morning was a fair price for that.

About halfway down the bottle an image of Selina flashed into his mind. She had refused him. Twice. There was nothing more he could do for her. He clenched his fists. No doubt if she had to contend with young Faringdon’s attentions whenever the distempered cub chose to grace his ancestral seat, then she had good reason to fear what a man might do to her.

Lord, but she’d be sweet though. Those great dark eyes and dusky curls. Her slender figure would be all delicate curves when she filled out a trifle. She had spirit, too. He grinned, remembering the yell of pain from Faringdon, just before Selina had tumbled out of the stairwell—and the marks on his face. Faringdon had endured any number of witty remarks about wildcats the next morning. And she had defended that maidservant.

All of which would go hard against her when he left. Max lifted the glass to his lips and swore again when he found it empty. He reached for the bottle and carefully poured another tot. And another.

Selina had refused his offer. There was not much he could do for the poor girl, unless… Unless he could persuade his Aunt Almeria, Lady Arnsworth, that she needed a companion. That Miss Selina Dering would fit the bill admirably. He could go up to her room now and suggest it to Selina. Give her his direction in town and some money for the fare. Almeria would have her if he offered to frank, say, her box at the opera.

Contemplating the level in the brandy bottle, he hesitated. Perhaps he ought to leave it until morning. Business matters were best undertaken with a clear head. And he had a horrible feeling that he had reached the limits of his control on his previous visit to her bedchamber. It had been damn near impossible to release her then. Now…his whole body hardened, just thinking about the sweetness of her response, the way her body had melted in his arms. If he went now, he’d probably find himself attempting to seduce her into accepting his original offer.

She refused you.

He was still battling with his conscience when he heard a soft tapping on his door. Frowning, he fished his watch out of his waistcoat pocket and stared at it in disbelief. Who the devil would come visiting past midnight? Mentally he ran over the list of guests, wondering which of the bolder married ladies might have decided to live dangerously.

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