Praise for Lucy Ashford writing as Elizabeth Redfern:

AURIEL RISING

‘Intelligent.’

—New York Times

‘Richly atmospheric … Redfern’s strength is in recreating a morally corrupt world.’

—Publishers Weekly

THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES

‘Quite wonderful … It is Redfern’s ability to bring each scene, each character alive that makes this such toothsome reading.’

—USA TODAY

‘Unputdownable … [a] remarkable debut … a glittering tale of London in 1795, full of science, intrigue, war, revolution and obsessive passion.’

—Guardian

He knew he ought to take his hands off her—now. But he wanted her. He wanted her with an urgency he couldn’t ever remember feeling in his entire life, and that big bed was too damned close …

He forced himself away. ‘Damn it, Belle, tell me to stop now. For I swear if we carry on much longer I will not be able to do so.’

‘You mean—this is real?’ she breathed. ‘You actually find me desirable?’

What was she talking about? He gave a harsh, incredulous laugh.

‘Adam—we agreed there would be no intimacy!’

There was an edge of panic to her voice that made him freeze. Cupping her face with his hands, he gazed down at her. His blood was pounding, his loins thudding just from her being near, this beautiful woman whose full, tremulous lips he longed to kiss again.

‘Belle,’ he said quietly. ‘You loved your husband very much. I realise that—’

He broke off, feeling her tremble in his arms.

‘But it’s five years since he died,’ he went on, ‘and I want to kiss you, Belle. I want to do more than kiss you—I think you want it, too. And if you don’t want me to take this further, then say so now. Say, Adam, I want you to leave.’

About the Author

LUCY ASHFORD, an English Studies lecturer, has always loved literature and history, and from childhood one of her favourite occupations has been to immerse herself in historical romances. She studied English with history at Nottingham University, and the Regency is her favourite period.

Lucy has written several historical novels, and this is her third for Mills & Boon. She lives with her husband in an old stone cottage in the Peak District, near to beautiful Chatsworth House and Haddon Hall, all of which give her a taste of the magic of life in a bygone age. Her garden enjoys spectacular views over the Derbyshire hills, where she loves to roam and let her imagination go to work on her latest story.

You can contact Lucy via her website—www.lucyashford.com

Previous novels from Lucy Ashford:

THE MAJOR AND THE PICKPOCKET

THE RETURN OF LORD CONISTONE

THE CAPTAIN’S COURTESAN

And in M&B:

THE PROBLEM WITH JOSEPHINE

(part of Royal Weddings Through the Ages)

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

AUTHOR NOTE

For this story I’ve moved a little later into the Regency period—1819, when the long Napoleonic wars were fading from most people’s memories and a new world dominated by invention and industry was bringing changes aplenty to Society’s elite.

I wanted to explore how a man of wealth and willpower—Adam Davenant—would cope with the barriers still put up by England’s aristocracy against someone like him. The ton likes to mutter that he’s a jumped-up quarry-owner; it’s just Adam’s luck that he collides with lovely Belle Marchmain, who’s well-born, a widow, and absolutely penniless. Adam offers her an answer to her temporary problems, but soon, thanks to her growing feelings for the ruthless Mr Davenant, she’s faced with more dilemmas than ever!

I really enjoyed exploring the clashes between old money and new, and how the rigid rules of class were having to be broken down rather swiftly in the closing years of this decade. I love the way Adam is prepared to knuckle down and help his quarry workers when needs must, and I love the way the defiant, often outrageous Belle gradually has to admit that she’s actually found the man of her dreams.

Here is their story.

The Outrageous Belle Marchmain
Lucy Ashford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Chapter One

Sawle Down, Somerset—March 1819

It was the kind of spring afternoon that touched these green Somerset hills with magic—or so the locals, whose heads were filled with old folk tales, would say. Adam, a hard-headed businessman, had no time for superstitious nonsense, but he found himself doing exactly what an old quarryman would do. He let his long, lean fingers rest on the great slab of honey-coloured stone that had just been hewn from the ground—then he tapped it, once, twice, thrice.

For luck.

May there be three hundred, three thousand times this wealth in the earth below me.

His big roan Goliath was tethered nearby, unconcerned by the noise of the quarry workers and their equipment as they toiled at the excavations in the heat. Adam turned to the man at his side with just the hint of a smile curving his strong mouth.

‘So it’s going well, Jacob?’ he asked softly.

Old Jacob, in his dusty quarryman’s garb, clearly couldn’t wait to tell him just how well. ‘Like a dream, Master Adam! Me and the lads, we were resigned to this quarry being worked out for good. Some of them never thought to get a job like this again.’ The old quarryman could scarcely conceal his glee. ‘But then you came last month and told us there was fancy folks in London interested in our stone.’

‘More than interested, Jacob. Believe me, builders are clamouring for it.’

‘And so they should be!’ Jacob gestured towards the fresh-hewn blocks and rapped one with his callused knuckles, just as Adam had done. ‘Rings true as porcelain, do you hear, sir? No faults inside her!’

Jacob followed as Adam headed across the uneven ground to speak to a group of bare-chested workers who’d been vigorously plying their pickaxes at the rock face. Clouds of dust rose and clung to their sweating backs, but they put their picks aside and grinned when they saw who was there.

Adam had slung his dark riding coat over one shoulder and moved easily amongst them asking questions, offering words of quiet praise. He was owner of this quarry and much else besides, but the rumour ran that the master had been known to wield a pickaxe himself when the going got tough and had vowed he’d never be too grand to stand shoulder to shoulder with his men.

Jacob Mallin kept close to his side, beaming with pride. ‘You promised the lads you’d get this quarry workin’ again, sir, and you’ve kept your word.’

Adam turned to him, the sun glinting on his cropped dark hair and hard cheekbones. ‘I always do,’ he said softly. ‘Tell the men they’ll be handsomely paid for their work. If there’s anything else you need by way of equipment or supplies, just let my manager Shipley know.’

Jacob nodded approvingly. His men would whisper between themselves, He’s a good ‘un, is the master. None works harder than him or treats us better. Yes, Master Adam had his grandfather’s instinct for making money. But he was also a fair man, a man who kept his promises, and the reopening of the old quarry had brought fresh hope to many lives round here.

‘Aye, I’ll tell the lads,’ Jacob promised. ‘Will you be sendin’ the stone up to Bristol, sir, when it’s ready?’

Adam gazed at the rolling green countryside which surrounded them, then turned back with a new light burning in his dark eyes. ‘No. I’m going to build a railway to the Avon canal, and from there this stone—this new stone—can be taken by boat to the Thames and to London itself.’

‘But it’s not your land between here and the Avon canal, Master Adam—leastways, not all of it!’

Adam had moved towards his big roan and was already securing his rolled-up coat to the back of his saddle—far too warm for the garment on a day like this. ‘My grandfather never let a simple obstacle like that hold him up. And neither will I,’ said Adam in a voice edged with steel.

Jacob shook his grizzled head in wonder as he watched him ride off. ‘There’s no stopping him,’ he murmured, eyes shining with delight. ‘No stopping him, that’s for sure.’

Goliath was ready to gallop and Adam let him. There’s nothing like the feel of the land under your horse’s hooves being yours, my lad. Especially when that land but recently belonged to men who’d cross to the other side of the street rather than acknowledge you.

Those were the words of his grandfather, who with his work-roughened hands and west country vowels had laboured night and day to remove the shame of the name the upper classes scornfully gave him—Miner Tom. But they’d all come to Miner Tom’s funeral, oh, yes. All the gentry of Bath and London had hurried eagerly to the lavish ceremony—because they’d realised by then how much the man they’d despised was damned well worth.

Adam’s grandfather had wanted nothing more desperately than for his grandson to be accepted by the society that had spurned him. That wish had come true. But now Adam often thought that he was happiest on days like this, riding Goliath across Somerset’s lush green hills and knowing that the chief wealth of those hills, the fine stone beneath them, was his to be harvested.

They’d said the Sawle Down quarry was finished. It had last been profitable fifty years ago; then the expense of extracting the stone had deterred any prospect of new investment. But Adam had anticipated the surge in demand and hence in price for good building materials; he’d made his calculations and investments and proved the doomsayers wrong.

Now his detractors would say there was no way he could get the valuable stone to the canal, that vital water link to the Thames and London. Well, he would prove them wrong again.

Suddenly a distant movement caught his eye. Another rider was enjoying the afternoon sun—and blatantly trespassing on private land. A woman. Eyes narrowed, Adam urged Goliath into a canter towards her.

He swore aloud when he saw her turn her pretty dappled mare’s head and set off away from him at a reckless pace. A stupid pace, that was taking her towards the edge of another old quarry.

Adam swung Goliath into a broad circle to head her off. The ground here was treacherous. Yes, the grassy slopes of Sawle Down looked inviting, but—disused quarries aside—decades of quarry debris lurked beneath the sheep-cropped turf, waiting to catch the unwary. And indeed it was only a matter of moments before the dappled mare suddenly stumbled and sent its foolish rider crashing to the ground. Adam was there in moments, swinging himself out of the saddle to kneel beside that prone body.

She was clad in a riding habit of crumpled crimson velvet. Her abundant black curls fell in loose array; her little crimson hat, set with ridiculously jaunty red feathers, lay nearby. He saw that her face was a perfect oval, with a tip-tilted nose, a rosebud mouth and thick lashes dark against creamy skin.

The faint scent of lavender drifted up to him. Who was she? What the hell was she doing, riding up here on her own? She was a lady of quality, that was clear. Apart from her fine clothes he registered that her complexion was dewy, her figure lissom. Then Adam realised that her eyes were fluttering open. He noted the tremor of fear that surged through her as she saw him towering over her. Adam was suddenly aware that his boots and breeches—his open-necked shirt, too, quite likely—were covered with dust from the quarry.

She was struggling now to stand up. He fought the impulse to offer her his dirty hand. ‘Are you hurt?’ he said. ‘Perhaps I—’

‘Stay away from me!’

Adam’s lip curled. As he’d thought. Quality. And her age? Twenty-six, twenty-seven, perhaps, and that disdain just had to have been with her from birth. ‘You took quite a fall just then, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I only came over to see if you needed my help.’

She looked so pale, yet there was such determination in that small pointed chin; something rebellious in those startlingly green eyes that were assessing him. Dismissing him, God damn it.

On her feet now, she brushed down her brightly coloured habit, pushed her luxurious curls back from her face and started hobbling after her horse. ‘Poppy!’ she called. ‘Poppy! Here, girl!’

But the mare just whinnied and trotted off to join Goliath, calmly grazing nearby. The woman bit her lip, hesitating, uncertain.

‘That’s horses for you,’ Adam said. ‘Your mare’s had a fright. It was perhaps a little unwise of you to ride up here. Don’t you know there are quarry workings nearby?’

‘How can one ignore the hateful things?’ she shuddered. ‘Always so busy. So noisy.’

‘Particularly at the moment, yes. But they provide work and wages for many men, and food for their families.’

She stared up at him as if he talked a foreign language, then said, ‘Excuse me. You’re in my way.’

He did not budge. ‘Quarries are no place for sightseers,’ he pointed out. ‘I’m trying, incidentally, to find out exactly what you’re doing up here.’

He saw her tip-tilted nose wrinkle a little at his open-necked shirt and the dust on his boots. The old, familiar bitterness surged in his veins. So. Some lordling’s wife, to judge by her mount and her attire, and the wedding band on her finger. She was the kind of woman who would look down on him—until someone enlightened her as to who he was.

He was damned if he was going to be the one to tell her.

She darted sideways to pick up her crimson hat then went marching off towards her horse again, clearly wanting no more conversation with a man she’d dismissed as a labourer. Something clenched warningly in Adam’s gut as he absorbed the way she carried herself. Noted the way her pert little behind swayed under that luxurious fabric.

He called after her, ‘Didn’t you come up here with a companion or a groom?’

She swung round, her face still pale. ‘I like riding alone. I like being alone.’ She carried on stubbornly towards her mare, holding her hat with one hand and the red velvet skirt of her habit in the other. He couldn’t help but notice small, neatly turned ankles in little leather halfboots.

Her dappled mare had trotted off again, away from her. Goliath watched, interested, and Adam called his big horse over. ‘Here! Goliath!’

Goliath came and the little mare did, too; Adam caught the mare’s reins and stroked its dappled silken neck. The woman walked back to him reluctantly.

‘I’ll help you up if you like,’ Adam offered. ‘Then I suggest you get off this private land before dusk falls. You could break your neck riding home once the light starts fading.’

‘Private!’ she breathed. ‘Why, Mr Davenant has no more right to this land than—’ she swept her ungloved hand expressively ‘—than those black crows circling above the trees!’

A sudden cool breeze chilled the perspiration on his back. He said, ‘I believe Mr Davenant bought this land a year ago, quite legally.’

She tossed her head. ‘Money will buy anything, and anybody. And—legally? Some would think otherwise.’

Hell! This time Adam felt the heat surging through his blood. If she’d been a man he’d have floored her for that!

But she was a woman all right. Her face was piquant even in defiance, her body all slender curves …

Damn it. This was no time to be distracted. Adam said, ‘Are you querying his right to this land?’

She faced him coolly. ‘I assume you probably work for him, so I’ll limit my words. I’ve not met Mr Davenant, but I’ve heard enough to know that he was not born to wealth and it shows.’

Adam hissed out a breath. ‘Tell me. As a matter of interest, if you did chance to meet Mr Davenant, would you use those words to his face?’

She shrugged her shoulders, but he noticed she’d gone a little paler. ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘He is no friend to my family. What else have I to lose?’

The sun passed behind a cloud; the moorland grasses shivered. ‘You’ve clearly not lost your pride, ma’am,’ Adam said at last. ‘May I escort you on your way?’

‘I know my way very well, I assure you!’

He clenched his teeth and said with icy politeness, ‘Then will you—condescend to let me help you mount your horse? Or are we going to stand here till the sun goes down?’

She hesitated. ‘My thanks.’

His mouth pressed in a thin line, he put his big hands round her waist and lifted her easily into her saddle. Then he went to check her mare’s bridle—and give himself time to cool down.

She was feather-light. She was icy with damned arrogance. She’d set his pulse racing with rage—and a flicker of something else even more dangerous.

He looked up at her and patted her dappled mare’s neck. ‘All set,’ he said flatly. ‘You’d best be off.’

She nodded her head in curt thanks, then without a backward glance she rode swiftly and competently down the path.

Adam Davenant shrugged on his coat and watched her go, his gaze narrowed.

How her pretty green eyes had glittered with contempt when she spoke his name. Mr Davenant has no more right to this land than those black crows circling above the trees.

She hadn’t recognised him. But one thing was very clear—she hated Adam Davenant like poison. He’d already guessed who she was. If his guess was correct, she had a brother who was heading for big, big trouble. With him.

Chapter Two

London—two months later

Belle Marchmain rather distractedly picked up a length of pink ribbon from the display on the counter, then put it down again in the wrong place. Apprehension shadowed her dark-lashed green eyes as she said at last, ‘I’m sincerely hoping this is some foolish jest of yours, Edward.’

Outside in the Strand the May dusk was starting to fall and lamplighters with clanking ladders were hurrying about their business. Normally Belle relished this time of quiet after a busy day. Once her shop’s doors were locked she would wander possessively amongst the bright lengths of silk and taffeta, herself resplendent in one of the boldly extravagant costumes that were fast making her one of the most talked-about modistes in London.

But just now, her current attire—a striped jacket of black and green over a matching taffeta skirt, with green satin ribbons adorning her luxuriant black curls—seemed ridiculously flippant. Futile, in fact, in the face of approaching disaster.

Belle was twenty-seven years old and had learnt to cope with much in her life. The humiliation in slow, steady steps of her once-proud family. The death of her husband five years ago. But now sheer, blind panic threatened to close in.

It had been no surprise to see her brother, of course, at her glass-paned door, ringing the bell impatiently. She’d known he was in London for two weeks, staying at Grillon’s Hotel in Albemarle Street—’catching up on business and old friends,’ Edward had told her blithely when he called on her a few days ago.

He’d certainly been spending money. Grillon’s was expensive and so were the new clothes he was sporting: new boots, a new silk waistcoat, a new coat of blue superfine and smart yellow pantaloons. And now he perched on the end of her counter, full of casual confidence in his older sister’s ability to sort out his latest mess.

‘You can help me, can’t you, Belle?’ he cajoled. ‘This little shop of yours is doing mighty well, I hear!’

Just then a young woman with curly brown hair burst in from the back room. ‘Madame, should I tell the girls—excuse me, I had no idea you had company!’

Gabby—Belle’s French assistant—bobbed a curtsy to Edward, whose eyes, Belle noted with exasperation, lit up at the sight of her. Belle replied, more curtly than she meant to, ‘I’ll be with you shortly, Gabby. Yes, send Jenny and Susan home by all means, and thank them for all their hard work today, will you?’

‘Of course, madame! But there is something else—’

Belle interrupted, ‘Tell me later, would you?’

Edward watched Gabby go, then started talking again. ‘I just need a little more money, Belle.’

‘To pay your hotel bill? To pay for yet more new clothes? Edward, I am not doing well enough to repay your debts as well as my own.’ Belle had sat rather suddenly in one of the dainty gilt chairs her customers used.

‘But your business is thriving. You must be plump in the pocket!’ Edward, who was two years younger than she was, eagerly pulled up a chair to sit opposite her—admiring, she noticed, his own reflection in a nearby mirror. He was slenderly built and with the same shade of green eyes as she, the same raven black hair. But there was a hint of wilfulness, of weakness about his mouth. ‘You have clients galore,’ he went on, ‘you have servants! And dash it, Belle, you’re being as ratty as when you came back from Sawle Down that day in March, all of a stew about something.’

If Edward had been in any way perceptive, he’d have seen how his sister’s cheeks became a little paler. ‘I was saying goodbye to the land that was once ours,’ she said quietly. ‘As for my servants, Edward, as you call them, I have Gabby, two assistants and a manservant—Matt—who works for me a few hours a week. That’s all.’

Edward shrugged. ‘Yes, but you live the high life, sister mine—you’re always being invited to routs and parties. And when you stayed with me and Charlotte you said you were even thinking of setting up another shop in Bath!’

‘It came to naught,’ she answered rather tightly.

‘Hmm.’ Bored already, Edward was picking up a little silk fan. ‘Nice trinket, this.’

Belle snatched at it and put it down with something of a snap. ‘Edward—’ she was gazing directly at her younger brother ‘—Edward, I think you’d better tell me everything.’

So he did. And Belle’s heart sank almost as low as she’d known it, while Edward recounted the entire sorry tale. In which everyone in the world was at fault, except, of course, himself.

At twenty-one Edward had inherited the Hathersleigh family’s estate near Bath—or what remained of it—and within the year he’d married his sweetheart, Charlotte. By the time of their wedding Belle was living in London. And whenever she saw Edward he was forever telling her how the estate was thriving, and, of course, how clever he was.

Just over a year ago he’d announced to her that he’d sold a large portion of the estate’s land to a neighbour—Adam Davenant. Belle had felt apprehension and more. She’d never met the man. He owned, she was aware, estates all over the country and wasn’t often in Somerset. But she knew her father had loathed Davenant—called him a money-grubbing upstart.

‘Did you have to sell to him, Edward?’ Belle had asked at the time.

‘Yes,’ Edward said flatly, ‘and Davenant was desperate to buy. You know what all these new-money families are like, Belle. They want as many acres as possible in hopes of making themselves respectable.’

Belle had grieved the loss of the land at Sawle Down, but had hoped that Edward would concentrate on making a success of what remained of their ancestral estate near Bath. Hoped that marriage and family responsibilities might perhaps be the making of him.

Some hope. The amount Davenant offered for the land had, in fact, turned out to be derisory—though he was now set to make a fortune from his purchase, because the sudden surge in price of Bath stone had made the old quarry there workable once more.

He must have known. Must have deliberately set out to swindle them. And now, with the London dusk closing in around her and Edward staring at her with that half-defiant, half-scared look that she knew of old, Belle rubbed her temples with her fingertips as her brother told her anew—rather resentfully, as if it were her fault—that last summer’s harvest had been a poor one, thanks to the rain that had ruined his wheat. ‘And the taxes, Belle! Last year this blasted government brought in new taxes on barley, on farm horses—anything that grew or moved, basically!’

Then Edward proceeded to remind her that the roof of Hathersleigh Manor had needed replacing entirely. ‘Uncle Philip neglected the place so badly,’ Edward complained. ‘The roof had to be fixed, or the thing would have caved in.’

Their father’s brother, the dour Philip Hathersleigh, had overseen the estate from their father’s death fourteen years ago until Edward reached his majority. Belle didn’t feel particularly close to Uncle Philip—even less to his shrewish wife Mildred—but she’d formed the opinion that Philip was a sound, careful man whose advice Edward had rashly spurned, with the result that Uncle Philip and his wife had retreated back to their estate in the north with little love lost.

‘Look after the paperwork, young man,’ Uncle Philip had said grimly to Edward. ‘And get yourself sound legal advice, if you want to stand any chance of holding your inheritance together.’

Edward had blithely ignored Uncle Philip’s warnings; her brother’s desk, Belle couldn’t help but notice on her March visit, was overflowing with neglected files and unread correspondence. And, of course, with bills.

‘So the new roof and taxes got you into debt,’ she now said steadily. From the back of the shop she could hear the merry voices of her assistants making their departure. Could hear Gabby’s laughter and Matt’s deep voice as he began to lock up. ‘Surely though, Edward,’ went on Belle, trying to keep calm, ‘the income from the estate could have kept your debts at bay?’

‘I did get on top of my debts, Belle. Or at least, I thought I had. You see, back in February—it was just before you came to stay with us, actually—I sold some of the sheep from that land Davenant purchased from me last year.’

‘You did—what?’ breathed Belle. She felt suddenly cold.

Edward shrugged, but his cheeks were pink. ‘I sold some of Davenant’s stock. He’s so rich I thought he wouldn’t even notice.’

Belle said, ‘You stole from him. Oh, Edward. You stole from that man.’

Edward jumped to his feet and walked around the candlelit shop with his hands thrust defiantly in the pockets of his new coat. ‘Stealing? Hardly—his sheep had strayed because he’d not bothered maintaining his fences. And dash it all, Belle, you could say that Davenant was stealing from me, you know? He paid me a pitiful amount for that land I sold him and if that isn’t stealing, I don’t know what is! Belle—Belle, are you all right?’

A spring evening, on Sawle Down. A stranger, whose arrogance had made her cheeks burn. Are you querying his right to this land? he’d asked cuttingly. And he’d only been one of Davenant’s labourers.

Something tightened painfully in her chest, as it did whenever she remembered that hateful day. She dragged herself back to the equally unpalatable present. ‘You were telling me you’d stolen some of Mr Davenant’s sheep.’

‘I wouldn’t exactly call it theft! But then Davenant found out about the sheep, curse it, and I got a lawyer’s letter …’

Edward told her all this very rapidly, almost indignantly, as Belle sat there in her bright-striped jacket with the green ribbons trailing from her hair.

I have fought. I have fought so hard, to make this new life for myself.

‘Davenant himself came to call on me two months ago,’ Edward was continuing. ‘In Somerset, just after you’d been to visit.’

Belle clenched her hands. ‘What’s he like?’

‘Oh, positively detestable, you can imagine, risen from rags to riches in a generation. “Miner Tom”, they called his grandfather—made the family fortunes from tin in Cornwall. As for Davenant—well, he’s a big fellow dressed in black, a positive boor—what more can I say? I tell you, Belle, not a pleasant word passed his lips during our conversation. He told me I was nothing less than a sheep-stealer—as if a few sheep should matter to him!’

Belle was finding she could scarcely breathe. She twisted the slender wedding ring on her finger. ‘Is this why you’ve come to London?’

‘Well, yes. Davenant demanded another meeting—demanded, can you credit it? He said he’d travel to Somerset again to see me if I preferred, but I—actually, I didn’t prefer it, not with the baby due, you know?’

Belle did know. She knew that Edward’s poor wife had already had two miscarriages within the past two years, and she dreaded to think what would happen if Charlotte lost this baby.

‘Anyway,’ went on Edward, ‘we met the other day at my hotel, and Davenant had all the figures with him about his sheep—now, isn’t it the sort of thing a normal fellow would leave to his man of business? But, no, I’d swear the creature had gone through all his stock lists with a toothcomb. Dash it, he must make thousands a week from his various interests!’ He gesticulated angrily. ‘Nevertheless, he told me that my debts regarding those dratted sheep could not be ignored.’

Outside in the Strand a crowd of merrymakers went by on their way to an evening in the clubs of St James’s. Belle waited for the noise to fade and asked, ‘Has Charlotte any idea of this?’

‘No,’ he said defiantly, squaring his shoulders. ‘Poor Charlotte, not a thing, and I don’t want her to. She’s delicate, you know?’

And what if I were delicate? Belle bit back the retort, knowing it was ridiculous to expect Edward ever to see her as anything other than his capable, shrewd-headed older sister. But she had to think. This could be disastrous.

Adam Davenant was after Edward, not her. But her shop, her own small savings—would they be implicated? Would everything she had worked so hard for since her husband’s death be lost?

For a moment sheer panic clawed at her chest. Somehow she fought it down and forced herself to say calmly, ‘Is there any possibility that Mr Davenant will let you pay this sum back gradually, month by month?’

‘Good God, I doubt it. He’s a grasping wretch, Belle!’ As Edward distractedly pushed his dark hair back from his forehead, he unintentionally laid bare the old, white scar that puckered the skin there. ‘He’s told me I’ve got to bring the money to his house in Mayfair within the week or he’ll press charges. Damn it, if I had it, I’d hang it round the necks of a few sheep and get them herded up the steps of his fancy house.’

Belle briefly rested her forehead in her hand.

‘You’ll help me, won’t you?’ Edward pleaded. ‘Charlotte. Our home. The new baby … I can’t go to prison, Belle. I can’t …’

Belle had always been aware that the once-renowned Somerset estate of the Hathersleigh family had, thanks to the profligacy of successive generations, dwindled to very little—unlike, unfortunately, the aspirations of its title-holders.

She’d also had to face up to the fact that her own prospects were bleak when her husband died five years ago in one of Wellington’s final campaigns of the war. She’d had to make harsh choices: either to move in with Edward at Hathersleigh Manor, or to earn her own living. In fact, imposing herself on Edward never seriously crossed her mind and the idea of being a governess or companion horrified her. Certain offers she’d received from so-called gentlemen repelled her even more.

Then inspiration had come. She had always been a talented seamstress and was fascinated by the women’s fashions that ebbed and flowed like the long Napoleonic wars, so—in the face of her brother’s disapproval—she’d decided to open a dress shop in London.

Her designs were bold and eyecatching. Outrageous, some of the ton’s older matrons were heard to intone witheringly. Her shop, though small, was well situated in the Strand, and she and Gabby lived in the two rooms above it. Soon she’d begun to attract customers who were tired of soft pastels and wanted something different, but she was by no means making a fortune. She was lucky if her own rent and bills were paid every quarter day. How on earth could she deal with Edward’s debts?

Now, as the candles flickered around the bright silks and satins in this little shop, which she felt sick at the thought of losing, she looked at her brother steadily and said, ‘There’s no point in my even asking the amount of your debt to Mr Davenant, Edward, for I know I won’t be able to pay it. But I will go and see him for you.’

‘Go and see him?’ Her brother was astonished. ‘And then what? I’m damned if you’ll grovel on my behalf in front of that—that nouveau-riche upstart!’

A flash of anger darkened Belle’s eyes. ‘I have never grovelled in my life. I will simply explain that you realise you have made a grave error—’

Edward jumped up, about to protest, but something in Belle’s steady gaze made him clamp his lips together and sit down again.

‘That you’ve made a grave error,’ she repeated, ‘and would be grateful if Mr Davenant would accept your word of honour that your debts will be paid off steadily over—what? Three years, Edward?’

He looked sullen now, a little boy again. ‘Three years! I suppose so. Times are hard, though Davenant’s thriving, blast the fellow …’

‘I shall go and see him,’ said Belle quietly. ‘And I’ll let you know how I get on.’

He got up to pace to and fro, nodding. ‘Very well. And put on some charm, eh? Come to think of it, Belle, a second marriage for you, to some rich fellow—not Davenant, of course, God forbid—could be the answer for both of us. You’re really not at all bad-looking, if you’d just make an effort not to frighten the fellows off with those startling clothes and that sharp tongue of yours.’

This time, there was an edge of ice in her voice. ‘Let me assure you I have absolutely no intention of getting married again. Ever.’

Her brother shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. I’ll stay on in town for a week or so at Grillon’s, so you can let me know there when it’s all sorted with Davenant, can’t you?’ He started putting on his hat, checking his reflection in the mirror.

‘Edward,’ Belle said suddenly. ‘You’re not going to visit any of the gambling dens, are you?’

He swung round. ‘Gambling dens? Never. And thanks for this, Belle. Some day I’ll return the favour.’

Breezily Edward let himself out. Belle sat with her hands frozen in her lap, immobile.

Gabby came in rather hesitantly. ‘Are you free, madame? I wanted to tell you that there was a little trouble earlier.’

Belle’s heart sank anew. ‘What kind of trouble?’

‘Jenny told me about it. It appears that when you and I were measuring Lady Tindall in the back workshop for her new gown, a customer came in and complained about a cuff that was loose on a pelisse she bought last week.’

‘What did Jenny do?’

‘She mended it there and then, and the customer left—but she was so unpleasant, Jenny said! And she declared she would not be using our shop in the future!’

‘Well, it sounds as if we’re better off without her,’ Belle soothed and Gabby went off, looking happier, to tidy the workroom. Originally from Paris, the lively French girl had come to Belle’s notice when she’d advertised for an assistant seamstress and Gabby had proved invaluable, good both with the customers and with the two girls Belle also employed.

In addition, it did no harm that Matt was smitten by Gabby—honest, stolid Matt Bellamy, who worked most of the time at his brother’s stables just down the road, but was a joiner by trade. Belle had hired him to fit out her shop and he continued to do odd jobs for her. Though Gabby teased Matt outrageously, Belle could see that secretly Matt adored her.

Together against the world, Belle and her staff were a good team. But—Edward. Her brother had flushed with anger when she’d mentioned gambling dens, yet Belle couldn’t help remembering that when he’d first come into his inheritance the lure of the gaming parlours had pulled him time and time again to London.

Marriage to Charlotte had at least cured her brother of that particular weakness. But trouble was still lurking, clearly. In fact, Belle felt that nothing had been quite right in her life since she’d clashed with the forbidding quarryman on Sawle Down. Just the thought of that encounter sent ripples of unease through her.

Stay away from me! she’d lashed out at him. Why had she been so rude, so hateful to him? Because he was clad so roughly? Because he was employed by Mr Davenant?

She’d never even met Davenant, but one thing was for sure. If he ever learned of the insults she’d uttered about him that day, then she and Edward were finished for good.

Chapter Three

London—four days later

Adam Davenant had issued the invitations to the meeting at his house in Clarges Street only yesterday, but despite the short notice every single person had come and he was under no illusions as to why. Quite a few of them had never visited his Mayfair mansion, and they would all be desperate to get inside and assess his wealth.

Greeting them, he’d cynically noted how their eyes leapt out on stalks as they registered the expensive if discreet furnishings. The number of liveried servants. The superb wine and food on offer. Everything was perfect; it damned well had to be when people were all too keen to rake up your lowly origins.

Though the plentiful wine was perhaps a mistake, Adam decided as the boasting grew louder amongst the rich and ruthless men who’d gathered to feed on the cold repast set out on the vast table in his first-floor dining room. When the boasting began to turn to bickering, Adam knew it was time to start the real business of the day. He rose to his feet at the head of the table and, as was his way, stated his case bluntly.

‘In Somerset there’s stone to be quarried that’s as good for building, gentlemen, as any in the world. With London expanding so rapidly there’s a never-ending market, and all of us—whether landholders or business investors—stand to gain. But the issue I wish to discuss today is—transport.’

Adam was dressed impeccably in black with a snow-white, plain cravat and he made an imposing figure. Though not yet thirty, he carried the authority of a man who was accustomed to power.

He carried the authority of money.

All eyes were on him as he turned to point to the large map hung on the wall behind him. ‘Gentlemen,’ he went on, in the polished voice in which there was no trace of his grandfather’s west country vowels. ‘What we need is a railway to convey this fine new stone from the Somerset quarries to the Avon canal and thence by water to London.’

‘There are railways already, Davenant,’ someone called out.

‘You mean tramways for trucks, pulled by horses or powered by gravity,’ replied Adam. ‘I’m talking about a steam railway. All of us with goods to transport from Bath to London—not just stone, but farm produce and manufactured goods, too—would benefit. The carrying times would be halved and the profits doubled.’

Already several men were nodding and murmuring agreement. But Lord Rupert Jarvis—who had, Adam noted, been eating and drinking steadily since he arrived—was sneering openly. ‘You mean your profits doubled, Davenant. Not mine.’

The blond-haired Jarvis, as well as possessing large estates in Somerset, owned a big haulage business with networks of carriages and teams of horses all across the south of England. Known to be a cruel master of both men and beasts, Jarvis saw the emergence of the railways as the coming of Satan.

Adam countered him with icy calmness. ‘There’s still room for all forms of transport, Lord Jarvis. But we cannot ignore the chances that steam offers. Some of you will already know that the Yorkshire mine owner Charles Brandling has been using steam engines to carry his coal to the ports for years. I’m proposing that each of us become shareholders in this new Somerset railway. And apart from the profit motive, we’ll all be aware, I’m sure, that a railway would spare our men and horses much hard labour.’

‘Siding with the workers, Davenant? They’re damned lucky to have jobs,’ said the sleekly dressed, coldly handsome Jarvis crudely. ‘If they aren’t up to it, tell ‘em to get their wives or brats to help out. That’s what I do.’ He looked challengingly round at the assembled company.

‘I’m sure you do,’ said Adam. His chiselled face was expressionless, but his grey eyes were hard as granite. A tense silence had fallen.

Jarvis leaned back in his chair. ‘Show us your route, Davenant,’ he said challengingly. ‘Doubtless you’ve got it all worked out.’

Adam turned and pointed to his map. ‘Here’s the city of Bath, with the stone quarries to the south and the River Avon flowing close by. And here—’ he pointed again ‘—is the canal that links the Avon to the Thames, offering seventy miles of navigable waterway. You’ll see that the most practical route for a new railway would be from Monkton Sawle straight to the canal as it runs south, just before it swings east out of Somerset.’

There were murmurs and nods of assent. Then Jarvis, who’d been demolishing another portion of venison pie, cut in, ‘I suppose you realise you’ll need to cross my land for the last half-mile of your proposed railway?’

‘In order to reach the canal at Limpley Stoke, yes, I would need to cross your land,’ said Adam. ‘Just as I’d need the consent of the other landholders gathered here today who would be affected. It’s in all our interests, beyond doubt.’

‘Like hell it is,’ growled Jarvis, wiping pastry crumbs off his lips. ‘And I’ve listened to enough of this. I’m off, to another more interesting appointment.’

Adam politely indicated the plate on which stood the remainder of the venison pie. ‘Certainly. But I would hate you to leave hungry. Shall I ask one of the servants to wrap up the rest of that pie so you can take it with you?’

There was a stunned silence. Then someone chuckled and began to applaud; Jarvis’s appetite for a free meal was well known.

Jarvis pushed back his chair angrily. ‘Damn you, Davenant,’ he muttered and hurried from the room, letting the door slam behind him.

Some of the others spoke up then. ‘I’m with you, Adam,’ said Tobias Bartlett firmly.

‘And me.’ ‘Yes, you can count me in on your scheme, Davenant.’ More pledges of support echoed round the room.

But there was still the problem of damned Jarvis; the big map made it all too clear that Jarvis’s acres of land at Limpley Stoke barred the most direct route between Adam’s quarry and the canal. Any other route would add miles to the journey.

‘It’s not as if Jarvis makes much use of that land anyway,’ Adam’s friend Bartlett was grumbling. ‘And surely he realises he could expect a hefty share of your profits if he negotiated with you?’

‘I don’t think,’ said Adam softly, ‘that Jarvis’s motive is based on thoughts of profit.’

Siding with the workers, Davenant? Jarvis had sneered.

Well, sometimes Adam wished he and Jarvis could resolve their differences like common workmen—with their fists. Then he would knock Jarvis’s block off.

He looked thoughtfully down at his strong hands. As a boy at Eton, Adam had briefly been taunted with Miner Tom’s name—until he’d pummelled the sneers from his rash tormentors’ faces. On coming into his fortune he’d learnt to fend off his detractors in equally efficient ways. Both in his manners and attire he was unpretentious but faultless, never letting his cool façade slip. Being mighty rich he was happily accepted by most of society, especially by those who had daughters to marry off.

Jarvis, despite his oily good looks and title, was secretly despised by the ton for his coarse behaviour. If it wasn’t for his damned land, Adam would have been happy to cut him dead—or thump him.

A young housemaid came in just then with more good wine from Adam’s cellars. Adam didn’t partake—he didn’t enjoy fuddling his wits—but went instead to join the group who’d gone to pore again over the map of Somerset.

‘If Jarvis won’t give way, Adam,’ a Somerset neighbour was suggesting, ‘you could take the railway down the valley to Midford then head north—see?—to skirt his estates for the last mile. As I said, I would happily sell some land to you in return for some shares in the project.’

Adam was heartened that so many of these men were, like him, all for progress. ‘We’ll manage without Jarvis somehow,’ he said. ‘Though if we do head north, we’ll have to blast some of the higher contours out of the way, here, and here …’

‘It’ll be worth it,’ said another Somerset landowner eagerly. ‘Davenant, you mentioned the coal mines in the north-east; I’ve heard rumours that Stephenson up in Stockton is planning to transport people as well as coal on his railways! Steam is the future, and this scheme of yours gets my backing, if only to take the sneer off Jarvis’s face. The way he treats his men and his horses is despicable. Thank God he left early, is all I can say. We can make some progress now, Adam … Adam?’

‘Hmm?’

It didn’t happen often, but Adam, by the window, was temporarily distracted. In fact, he couldn’t take his eyes off a remarkably shabby carriage that had just pulled up at the far end of Clarges Street, from which a woman was getting out; a woman wearing a big straw hat and dressed in a startling ensemble of turquoise and pink as striking on her pert figure as icing on a festive cake. She was probably an expensive courtesan, Adam decided, hired by one of his wealthy neighbours for an afternoon of bed sport. Shrugging, he turned back to his guests—then paused again.

Something about her looked familiar. The way she stepped proudly out of that ridiculous carriage. The slenderness of her waist, outlined by her short pink jacket; the swell of her deliciously trim derrière as she stood on tiptoe to say something to her coachman …

She reminded him of that woman on Sawle Down.

The memory made his breathing hitch. She’d insulted him to kingdom come—and he’d stood there and taken it from her! When what he should have done—the thought occurred to him time after time, usually at damnably inconvenient moments like now—was take her in his arms. Hold her close. Drown out those defiant protests of hers with a kiss …

Definitely time to get back to his guests, and his railway.

It was Belle, and she was standing on the pavement at the far end of Clarges Street, arguing with Matt. ‘This will do, Matt!’ she announced firmly after letting herself out. ‘I can walk the rest of the way, I assure you.’

Matt Bellamy, up on his seat, frowned down at her. ‘Here, Mrs Marchmain? But we’re not quite there yet.’

I know, thought Belle tightly. And no way on earth am I going to risk allowing Mr Davenant or his servants to see me arriving in this rickety old coach.

She’d tried already to shut the carriage door, but failed; now she tried again. Blast, it was nearly falling off its hinges.

She’d hoped to make an impression arriving outside Mr Davenant’s house and had asked Matt to borrow something suitable from his brother’s stables. But when Matt had turned up outside her shop at half-past two with this, Belle had been secretly horrified.

And the door still wouldn’t shut. She tried again; this time the handle came off in her hand. Somehow she rammed it back. Matt had jumped down now from the driver’s seat to hold the horses and was simply gaping at the four-storeyed, cream-stuccoed dwellings that surrounded them.

Belle resisted the same impulse to let her own jaw drop. She’d known, of course, that Davenant dwelt in the most exclusive part of London. But the thought of confronting him in one of these magnificent mansions made her heart quail with in her.

It was four days since Edward had called at her shop with his dire news. She’d written twice to Davenant requesting an appointment and heard precisely nothing, so she’d decided there was no alternative but to confront him in his lair. Sternly quelling her apprehension, she’d dressed appropriately and left her shop in Gabrielle’s capable hands.

Of course, appropriate wouldn’t be the word most people would use for her twill silk gown of turquoise and pink or her snug-fitting pink jacket. Appropriate didn’t perhaps apply to her large straw hat adorned with turquoise satin ribbons. Oh, dear. When she’d put on the outfit she’d felt full of confidence. But now she was feeling rather sick.

Davenant’s grandfather made the family fortunes from tin mining, she remembered Edward saying scornfully. But as she gazed down Clarges Street, she felt her breath catch in her throat because the miner’s grandson had done rather well for himself.

Still standing by the rickety coach, she smoothed the sleeves of her jacket, adjusted her straw bonnet and emphasised to Matt a little too brightly, ‘This will most definitely do, Matt. Return the vehicle, will you? I shan’t be wanting you again.’

Big Matt set his face obstinately. ‘Don’t seem right, Mrs Marchmain, leaving you here alone, callin’ on an unknown gentleman.’

Belle very much wanted to say crisply to Matt and to anyone else within hearing, ‘Believe me, Adam Davenant is no gentleman!’ But that would simply make poor Matt even more anxious; so instead she retorted, ‘Matt, I’m a twenty-seven-year-old widow and, as you see, I’m at no risk whatsoever in a neighbourhood like this. There is absolutely no need for you to stay. Besides,’ she added in a moment of inspiration, ‘Gabby will be expecting you. You promised her you’d fix that loose counter in the workshop today, remember?’

As she spoke she was horribly conscious that halfway down Clarges Street a couple of liveried footmen stood on the steps of the biggest house of them all, gossiping in the sun. She’d been aware for some time that the footmen were staring in her direction and felt newly embarrassed by the scruffy equipage and the presence of loyal Matt in his ancient greatcoat and battered hat.

‘Won’t you want escortin’ home afterwards, ma’am?’ frowned Matt.

‘I shall walk,’ Belle announced. ‘I shall enjoy the fresh air.’

‘But …’

Just then the door handle fell off again; she kicked it under the carriage. ‘Matt!’ she hissed. ‘Please—just go!’

Matt, his burly visage expressive, heaved himself back on to the driving seat. Belle found herself urging his departure under her breath rather frantically. Then, lifting her head high, she set off down Clarges Street. The footmen watched her as she drew nearer.

She knew it. She knew, before she reached them.

They were outside Adam Davenant’s house. They were his footmen. Oh, drat and botheration. And they had seen everything; the ancient carriage, Matt, herself kicking the blasted door handle out of sight …

They had sprung to attention, stiff-faced, their arms straight at their sides, but Belle had seen a hint of malicious humour in their eyes.

‘Is this Mr Davenant’s house?’ she asked crisply.

‘This is Mr Davenant’s residence—ma’am.’

‘Then I wish to speak to him, if you please. And before you ask, I have not an appointment, though I have written to him twice informing him that—that it is in his interests to see me.’

The footman’s lips pursed. ‘Mr Davenant happens to have company.’

‘Then I will wait.’

The impudent scoundrel almost sniffed. ‘Very well, madam. I will take you to await Mr Davenant’s convenience.’

‘But …’ Belle bit her lip. She didn’t exactly have a choice, did she? He held the door open; she sailed inside.

Oh, my. This place was incredible. Her entire shop would fit inside this lofty hallway, with its huge chandeliers and sweeping staircase. Money from mining and quarrying, she reminded herself steadily. Money from other men’s back-breaking toil.

The footman—who she reckoned might stop breathing soon if he lifted his nose any higher in disdain—ushered her along the vast hallway to a room that led off it, pointed her inside, then disappeared, closing the door rather firmly on her as he left.

She was too agitated to notice much, beyond the fact that she could hear the sounds of loud male talk and laughter from upstairs. Would the sneering footman trouble to deliver her message? Would the hateful Mr Davenant even bother to leave his rowdy companions and grant her a few minutes’ audience? She paced to and fro. This had to be one of her stupidest ideas ever.

Suddenly she heard a man’s bellow of rage from out in the hallway, then the pattering of feet and the sounds of a girl sobbing. Just as she turned towards the door it burst open and a young maidservant tottered in, clearly in a state of some distress. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.

The maid saw Belle. ‘Oh! I beg pardon, miss, I’m sure!’ Knuckling the tears from her eyes, the girl was already turning to hurry away, but Belle grabbed her by the shoulder. ‘What is it, my dear?’

The girl, in her white cap and apron, was shaking. ‘Nothin’. It’s nothin’, miss …’ She hurried out again into the hall, Belle following. But the girl stopped with a low cry when she saw, from the other direction, an extravagantly dressed, fair-haired man prowling towards her with an unpleasant smile on his face. ‘Now, what’s all this, missy?’ he said to the cowering maid. ‘I thought we were having a pleasant conversation. Not trying to run from me, are you?’

This time it was Belle who let out a gasp of shock. She knew this smooth-tongued aristocrat whom some would call handsome. Her stomach clenched. Dear God, if this man was a friend of Davenant’s, things were even worse than she’d thought.

Belle said to the young maid quickly, ‘I will see to this. Go, now.’ The maid scurried off, still sobbing. The man lurched closer—clearly he had been drinking, she could smell it. He was staring down at her. ‘By God. Mrs Marchmain. Well, isn’t this a happy coincidence?’

Belle held her chin high. Loathsome, loathsome man. ‘Not for me, Lord Jarvis, I assure you.’

At first Jarvis scowled. ‘I see your pride is still as damned lofty as ever …’ Then he began to laugh—a bitter, ugly sound. His pale blue eyes were assessing her greedily. ‘Hold a minute. Now, let me think. Here you are, in Davenant’s house—can it be that my money wasn’t enough to tempt you, but Davenant’s is?’

He laid his hand on her shoulder and let it slide to her breast. Belle’s stomach heaved as she knocked it away.

‘You disgust me, my lord,’ she breathed. ‘You did when we last met and not a thing has changed—’

‘What the deuce is going on?’

The man’s voice came from the wide staircase above them. Jarvis jumped away from Belle and looked up angrily at the speaker. ‘Davenant. Damn it, I’d no idea you were there …’

Belle looked up, too. And with this second shock she felt so dizzy that her ribs ached with the need for air. No. Impossible. Please …

The newcomer scarcely glanced at her. It was on Jarvis that his iron gaze rested as he came steadily down the stairs; he was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in the sober perfection of black tailcoat and pristine white neckcloth.

He said to Jarvis, ‘I thought you were on your way out a while ago.’

‘And so I was,’ declared Jarvis furiously. ‘Until I was delayed, by an encounter with this woman here.’

‘Not true,’ breathed Belle.

‘Oh, it is true. She insulted me, Davenant, damn it!’

Belle thought she’d been prepared for almost anything. But not for the fact that Adam Davenant, her brother’s enemy, was the man on Sawle Down into whose ears she’d poured insult after insult.

Desperate hope rose in her breast. He might not remember me. He might not recognise me …

Lord Jarvis did though, all too well; Jarvis was still glaring at her, and to him she said as steadily as she could, ‘You claim I insulted you, Lord Jarvis. All I did was tell you to stop pursuing that serving girl because you were frightening her out of her wits.’ Belle met his glare squarely, though she truly wished the ground would open up and swallow her.

‘I’ll escort you to the door, Jarvis,’ she heard Davenant saying.

The two men were moving away from her along the hall; she saw Jarvis pausing by the open doorway, still muttering angrily to Davenant, jabbing his finger in her direction. Dear God, she could just imagine what foul lies he’d be concocting.

‘Good day to you, Jarvis,’ Davenant was saying.

Jarvis gave a swift nod. ‘Good day to you, Davenant. We’ll speak soon, I’ve no doubt.’ The footman closed the door after him and Adam Davenant was coming back towards her. The footman hadn’t bothered to ask her name; there was a chance, just a chance she might still somehow be able to wriggle out of this …

‘Well,’ Mr Davenant said softly. ‘So we meet again, Mrs Marchmain.’

Her last hope died.

Chapter Four

Adam Davenant was astounded and annoyed. As if Jarvis wasn’t enough—the damned man caused trouble wherever he went—she was here.

A footman had warned Adam that a rather odd lady had come to call and within moments of first seeing her in the hall it had all fallen into place. She was the woman who’d emerged from that dreadful old carriage.

And who’d stirred memories of that sunlit March afternoon in Somerset.

Stirred more than memories, in fact. She was clad outrageously in a clinging outfit of turquoise and pink with a loud bonnet trailing ribbons everywhere. Her eyes were emerald, her raven-black curls set off the perfect creaminess of her skin, her lips were full and rosy.

And he steadily reminded himself that just a few weeks ago she’d heaped such insults on the name of Adam Davenant that they were etched like acid on his memory. Even more ominously—she knew Jarvis.

‘You’re very quiet, Mrs Marchmain,’ he drawled. ‘Surely you aren’t trying to conjure up more insults to hurl at me? Or have you exhausted yourself being rude to Jarvis?’

Belle swallowed on the dryness in her throat and lifted her chin. ‘He was treating that young serving maid abominably. You will perhaps remark, Mr Davenant, that I had no right to interfere, but I could not stand by!’

He was watching her with something unreadable in his eyes. ‘You do tend to say what you think, don’t you?’ he said. ‘You have a neat way with put-downs. You told me, for instance, that I wasn’t born to wealth and it showed.’

Oh, Lord, thought Belle rather faintly. He hadn’t forgotten or forgiven a single word. Something shook inside her, seeing him like this, no longer wearing the garb of a rough quarry worker, but dressed as the rich, powerful man he was, here in his mansion. And how well he fitted the part. To say he was handsome wasn’t enough. His strong features and formidable stature implied power and dominance. Edward had described him as a boor. No one else in their right mind would.

But she was damned if she would grovel. ‘How was I supposed to know who you were? How could I have guessed, when you were—you were—’

‘Dressed like a labourer?’ he cut in. ‘That was because I’d been inspecting my quarry. I judge people by their words and actions, Mrs Marchmain, not their attire; a lesson you might try learning. Now it’s my turn for questions, the most obvious being—why exactly are you here?’ His voice licked somehow at her senses, soft and dangerous. Dear God, her errand was doomed before it had even begun.

But she had to try. ‘I have business with you, Mr Davenant, which concerns my brother. I wrote to you, but you did not deign to reply!’

‘I leave begging letters to my secretary, Lowell.’

Begging letters. ‘How dare—?’

‘Mrs Marchmain,’ he interrupted, ‘I’m an extremely busy man. And your brother—Hathersleigh—has taken up too much of my time already.’

Heat surged through her veins. ‘You could at least give this matter your attention!’

‘Why? Because you’re members of the once-illustrious Hathersleigh family?’

She bit her lip. ‘We are not without influence still.’

He sighed heavily. ‘Please don’t remind me that you have a great-uncle who is a duke, as your brother once did.’ She visibly flinched. ‘I really don’t care,’ he went on, ‘if you can trace your ancestry all the way back to William the Conqueror. Why should I waste my time on you, when your family is reduced to sheep-stealing?’

Oh, Lord.

She remembered how at Sawle Down the dust had clung to this man’s breeches and boots and perspiration had gleamed on his hard cheekbones. Today, he could have claimed to be a duke himself and no one would have doubted it. His clothes were exceedingly plain, yes, but that coat of his had clearly been cut by a master to fit those broad shoulders so perfectly. Sleek buckskins clung to his powerfully muscular thighs and his polished top boots were exquisite. His thick dark hair was cropped short, his pristine neckcloth was quite perfect.

He made no effort to clamour for attention. He didn’t need to. And as his slate-grey eyes rested on hers, she felt a sharp jolt of awareness implode quietly yet devastatingly inside her. Awareness of what, precisely? Of his sheer maleness, that was what. It was impossible to look at him without thinking: here was a man of power, with a man’s desires, and all that implied.

And he was her family’s enemy. Her enemy.

She said, her head lifted high, but her pulse rate in tumult, ‘I hope you will accept, Mr Davenant, that I spoke in the heat of the moment that afternoon on Sawle Down.’

‘It gave you a wonderful opportunity to reveal your true thoughts, though, didn’t it?’ he observed caustically. ‘So please don’t lower yourself in my estimation by trying to take back what you said.’

The smouldering look she gave him said, Don’t worry. I won’t.

Inside Adam was rigid with tension. The witch. The insolent little green-eyed witch.

What Jarvis had said to him just before he left was still ringing in his ears.

I don’t know why that woman’s visiting you, Davenant, but you’d be a fool to believe a word she says. She’s a greedy little widow angling for money—some time ago I made the mistake of not offering her enough.

She’d come here to plead with Adam for mercy for her brother, no doubt. And she must realise her mission was already doomed—because Adam knew exactly what she thought of him.

‘I’m in the middle of a meeting,’ he told her curtly. ‘I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’ He was leading the way along a corridor. ‘You can wait here, in my library.’ One big hand pushed open a panelled door.

She swung round on him, head held high. ‘You expect me to wait? Again?’

‘You are uninvited,’ he pointed out. ‘Be glad that I see you at all, Mrs Marchmain.’ He turned to go, closing the library door on her. She could cool down in there. And so, damn it, could he.

Adam was a highly physical man and his lifestyle usually accommodated a mistress, kept in enviable style in return for companionship in bed and out of it. He’d recently ended just such an arrangement with an elegant widow, Lady Farnsworth—mainly because she was starting to hint a little too often about marriage.

Marriage was one big mistake as far as Adam was concerned. But it was also an error on his part, he now decided grimly, to be without a mistress. It made him think hungry thoughts about a raven-haired termagant dressed in turquoise and pink who quite simply detested him.

Belle just stood there when he’d gone, sunk before she’d even begun. I really don’t care if you can trace your ancestry all the way back to William the Conqueror, he’d said. Why should I waste my time on you, when your family is reduced to sheep-stealing?

She cringed anew. The ducal connection came through their mother, who’d died shortly after giving birth to Edward when Belle was only two. It was Belle’s father who used to point out to his children that their mother’s uncle was the Duke of Sutherland, but as far as Belle knew the Duke wasn’t even aware of their existence. Either that or he’d heard of their dwindling fortunes and kept well away.

Belle’s father had died when Belle was just thirteen, and that was when the estate had to be put in the care of stern Uncle Philip and his wife. Edward, at twenty-one, had come into his inheritance with considerable joy, hence the youthful gambling spree. But Belle had already grasped the reality—that her family was in actuality impoverished.

Since Belle’s widowhood her dressmaking business had given her independence; but it did not give her the deference or protection she might once have expected in society. She’d met Lord Jarvis two years ago, when he’d expressed an interest in investing in her shop and invited her to his big London house for a business meeting with his lawyer.

The lawyer never arrived. Lord Jarvis had locked the door to his study and had proceeded to make her an offer which had left her breathless and shaking.

‘Let’s really get down to business, shall we?’ he’d smirked, sidling closer. ‘How do you fancy a change of profession?’

He was, in effect, bluntly suggesting that she be his mistress. He’d silkily gone on to tell her that if he didn’t appeal to her tastes, he had a choice of stalwart grooms from whom she could have her pick. ‘As a young widow you must be quite desperate for male companionship. I’ll enjoy watching.’ He’d smiled. ‘I’ll pay handsomely, of course. One hundred pounds a month, Mrs Marchmain—I promise you won’t be bored.’

She’d struck him hard on the cheek. His smile had vanished at the same time as the red mark appeared on his pale skin.

‘So you want more money, do you?’ he’d whispered. ‘A greedy little slut, are you, Mrs Marchmain?’

‘Let me out,’ she’d breathed. She’d run to the door and was struggling frantically to open it. ‘Damn you, let me out of here!’

He’d unlocked the door with an ugly look on his smooth features. ‘Don’t even think of telling anyone about what’s passed between us today,’ he’d rasped. ‘Or I’ll have you damned well ruined.’

Now she walked round this opulent book-lined room in utter agony of spirit. With a huge effort she tried to steady her racing pulse. She had dealt with Jarvis and she would deal with Davenant, though how, God only knew.

It was scarcely four, but outside the sky was growing overcast. On a nearby table some papers were scattered and, if only to distract herself from her dismaying thoughts, she went across to look. There were maps of Somerset, along with some geological sketches—to do with quarries, she guessed. Towards the back of the table was a tray of mineral samples together with a brass model of some kind of engine about a foot high, beautifully crafted.

Even though Adam Davenant’s family fortune had been made in mining and quarrying, it was unusual for anyone to display such an obvious interest in the practicalities of money-grubbing. ‘Showing his base blood,’ Edward and his friends would sneer.

Yet in spite of herself Belle’s attention was caught. She remembered how Davenant had defended the quarries to her that day on Sawle Down—they provide work and wages for many men and food for their families.

She remembered her inner acknowledgement that he was right. That sudden, instinctive feeling that he was a man of integrity …

A terrible mistake. An illusion.

She turned the model of the engine by its base, finding that the cold precision of it somehow soothed her roiling mind. A steam engine, she guessed; Uncle Philip Marchmain used to tell them both that steam was the future, and that the end of the world of the horse was in sight.

Well, the end of her world was in sight if she didn’t find some way of extricating herself from this appalling mess.

She put the model down and sank into a chair. What would Davenant say—what would he do—if he knew that almost every night since that fateful encounter she’d been haunted by dreams of him?

When she’d fallen from her horse that afternoon and opened her eyes to see him towering above her—dust-covered, muscular, roughly clad—she’d felt something tight impeding her breathing. He’d offered to help her to her feet and she’d rejected him, so rudely.

But she’d never forgotten the strength of his hands on her waist as he’d lifted her on to her horse. Never forgotten the sense of sheer male power that emanated from his body, the gleam of the sun on his hard cheekbones; the glimpse of his naked chest revealed by that open-necked shirt …

Her pulse thudded at the memory. She was turning the ring on her finger in nervous agitation when suddenly the door opened. Adam Davenant—Lord Jarvis’s friend and her enemy—was here again.

She jumped up from the chair as if it burned her. He pushed the door shut, folded his arms and studied her. Belle in turn acknowledged the spectacular lines of his tall, broad-shouldered figure with bitter eyes. Handsome. So handsome.

And trying so very hard to be a gentleman, she’d heard people say. But she didn’t think anyone would dare to say that to his face. Whatever his origins, this man was formidable. And most women would simply—melt.

‘Ah, Mrs Marchmain,’ he said. ‘Still here, I see.’

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but, yes, I am.’

He looked at his watch. ‘I can spare you ten minutes,’ he said.

Outside the afternoon sun had vanished behind dark clouds. She thought she heard the ominous rumble of thunder in the distance—which was apt, since Thor the thunder god, in the person of Mr Adam Davenant, had her in his lair. Oh, Lord …

Belle took a deep breath and began. She explained how Edward had been heir to a much-diminished estate but was working so hard to hold his inheritance together. ‘And then there were the new taxes on landowners,’ she went on, ‘and the weather was truly dreadful …’

She saw Davenant’s dark eyebrows rise in faint contempt. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘So these iniquitous taxes and the unkind weather landed solely on your brother’s portion of Somerset, did they?’

She coloured hotly. ‘I see it pleases you to mock me, Mr Davenant. But I haven’t finished yet! A year ago, as you well know, Edward sold some of his land to you because of pressing debts. And you paid him a truly pitiful amount for that land …’

Something happened then. The previously impassive features of his chiselled face had become hard as granite.

‘I paid him two thousand guineas,’ said Davenant.

Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Two thousand?’

‘Yes.’ His narrowed eyes never left her face. ‘You see, I guessed that the old quarry there might benefit from reinvestment. I told him this and also offered him some shares. He turned down my offer and told me I was wrong. Nevertheless I paid him the two thousand—far more than he’d have got from anyone else.’

‘Because you knew you could make that amount many times over from the stone!’

‘Have you any idea,’ he countered grimly, ‘how much it costs to invest in equipment and labour for a re-opened quarry? It will be years before I start to see a profit; certainly no one else would have paid your brother so much. But fool that I was, I felt sorry for the young idiot.’

Outside thunder rumbled again. Davenant went to light the lamp on the table where the model engine was; his movements were lithe, almost graceful for such a powerfully built man …

Stop it. Stop it, you fool.

Two thousand guineas. Belle sank into the nearest chair. Now Davenant was saying with lethal politeness, ‘I take it there’s some discrepancy over figures. Am I right?’

Belle thrust aside a long bonnet ribbon that trailed down her cheek. ‘I don’t know—I might have misunderstood—’

‘I doubt it,’ he cut in crisply. ‘Try asking your brother again. On this occasion you might find that he remembers the truth.’ His expression was glacial. ‘You could ask him, at the same time, why he stole my livestock.’

Belle was truly floundering now. ‘It must appear to you as theft, I know. But that was all a mistake.’

‘I suppose he told you that my sheep had strayed on to his lands,’ he drawled icily. ‘Told you that it was my fault, for not maintaining my fences.’

The hot blush rose to Belle’s cheeks. That was exactly what Edward had said.

‘I maintain my fences very carefully, Mrs Marchmain,’ went on Davenant. ‘In fact, every detail of my life is conducted with the utmost rigour. Now, I’m a busy man …’ he glanced again at his watch ‘… it’s gone four, and I’m sincerely hoping you’ve come here with some concise suggestions as to how your younger brother intends to pay back the not inconsiderable sum he owes me for selling off my sheep. Which is a criminal act, incidentally.’

Adam Davenant usually kept his emotions on a tight rein, but by now he was deeply angry. Somehow this woman had got under his guard and he shouldn’t have let her. Turquoise and pink, for God’s sake—he had to blink every time he looked at her! He should have abided by his first instinct and ordered her off his premises.

‘Mr Davenant,’ she was saying, that pointed chin still tilted defiantly, ‘you must realise that it has been extremely difficult for my brother to see our heritage so diminished.’

She wasn’t giving up yet, registered Adam. ‘Ah,’ he answered. ‘The precious notion of blue blood and entitlement. Spare me, Mrs Marchmain. The Hathersleigh estate has been lurching towards ruin for generations, thanks to a fatal mixture of greed, complacency and sheer carelessness. Have you observed the way in which your brother conducts his business? Have you seen the great piles of unsorted paperwork that litter his so-called study?’

‘He is busy,’ Belle faltered. ‘His wife is not well …’

‘And so he sends his older sister to make his excuses for him. I repeat, I bought that land at an excessive price from your brother—not out of generosity, nor out of greed, but because I simply had no desire to have a bankrupt neighbour in Somerset. It’s not good for appearances.’

Belle gazed at him whitely. This man was surely as cold and hard as the rock his men hewed from the ground. She rose to her feet. ‘Exactly how much does my brother owe you for the sheep?’

‘I don’t see how you can hope to pay me off. You must have even less money to spare than he does.’

‘I run a successful dressmaking business!’

‘Not successful enough.’

She sat down again. Adam watched the turquoise ribbons, ridiculously flippant, fluttering from her straw bonnet and reflected that her brother was a goddamned weakling. Adam had rashly hoped to help young Hathersleigh by buying that land, but the fellow was a fool, and a liar, too—he’d not even equipped his rather pluckier older sister with the truth.

And the fact that she was still assuming her goddamned superiority, and laboured under the misapprehension that he, Adam, was somehow under obligation to show leniency, sent bitterness surging through Adam’s blood.

He knew that people like her despised and feared men of Adam’s mould, who were a symbol of things to come, of old values passing. She thoroughly deserved humiliation at his hands. Yet even while she glared up at him as if he was the devil incarnate, he felt something simmer, damn it, that was very like lust in his traitorous loins. Felt the longing to take her very firmly in his arms and plunder that sweet, rose-pink mouth with his lips and tongue …

Jarvis had clearly tried to make her his at some point in the past. Jarvis had failed.

Adam could see her hands trembling now. Yet still she faced him with that damned defiance, still she came up with fresh excuses for her sibling.

‘My brother does not deserve prison, Mr Dave na nt.’

‘Really?’

‘Indeed. You see, he has a wife who is expecting their first baby very soon—’

‘He’ll have that in common with many of his fellow-prisoners in Newgate gaol, then.’

She tightened her fists. Then: ‘You are despicable,’ she said quietly. Her voice was steady, yet he noted how her small, high breasts heaved with distress beneath that tightly buttoned little pink jacket. ‘Despicable,’ she repeated. ‘Both in your behaviour to me now, and your deliberately not telling me who you were that afternoon on Sawle Down. Your deception was truly dishonourable.’

Dishonourable? Damn it! She’s a greedy little widow, angling for money. Adam went in with all guns blazing.

‘Your kind talk always of honour and status,’ he retorted harshly. ‘Would you say your brother was showing honour, in sending his sister to me to plead his cause? There are names for that kind of behaviour.’

She recoiled as if he’d struck her. ‘It was my decision to come here! If you think that Edward intended—’

‘I think,’ he cut in, ‘that your cowardly brother told you about his plight in the hope that your feminine charms would soften my steely peasant heart. If that’s an example of blue-blooded behaviour, you can keep it. In my world, we call it pimping.’

‘Oh! I think—my brother did not mean—’ She was stammering now, and backing away; somehow her dangling sleeve caught the little steam model and it went crashing to the floor.

She let out a cry of dismay and bent to start picking the pieces up.

‘Leave it,’ he commanded harshly. ‘A footman will see to it.’

‘No!’ She was still flurrying around the floor. ‘No, I will pick it all up and then I am going, you hateful, hateful man! Edward was right to say you are a boor and a tyrant. And—and I will see Edward and I in gaol together before I grovel any more to you!’

With that she bobbed down again, to pick up more pieces of the ill-fated model. As she did so she was presenting that very pert, very rounded derrière to Adam’s narrowed eyes. Hell. He did try to look away. He despised himself for registering even the slightest flicker of interest. But a picture of her unclad appeared rather tantalisingly in his mind, and his body responded accordingly.

Adam had decided long ago that marriage was not for him. He had neither the time nor the inclination to play the games of courtship, flattery and lies that a permanent commitment would involve. God knew he was offered enough suitable brides; they were pushed before him at every opportunity, thanks to his wealth.

But the example of his parents’ marriage had put him off for good. Miner Tom’s only son, Charles, had been so rich he was able to choose a bride from the aristocracy, but his well-born wife—pushed into the marriage by her parents—had thoroughly despised her low-born husband and after producing two male heirs she’d embarked on a string of affairs.

Adam had spent a good deal of his childhood trying to protect his young brother, Freddy, from their mother’s promiscuity and their weak father’s rages. Both parents had died years ago, and Adam felt not the slightest desire to emulate their unhappiness; hence his custom of keeping suitable mistresses to satisfy his own male desires.

He treated them generously, but always Adam made the terms quite clear: ‘This ends when I say it ends. Afterwards, if we happen across each other in society, we will acknowledge each other civilly. No more and no less.’

Most of his former mistresses knew better than to cause him any trouble; Lady Farnsworth, his latest, had been an exception. Adam had quickly wearied of the elegant widow’s clinging possessiveness and her withering contempt for any suspected rivals.

The trouble was, he hadn’t yet chosen himself another woman for his bed. Usually they were either widows or amicably separated from their husbands and the choice was plentiful. But no one had tempted him to make an offer, since …

Since he collided with this little minx, who’d insulted his name to high heaven one March afternoon on Sawle Down.

The realisation struck him like a thunderbolt. No. He couldn’t have held back from singling out a new chère amie because he was thinking of Belle Marchmain. It was damned impossible! But …

She’d come here to ask him a very big favour, but her plans—so far—had come crashing round her pretty ears. Now he looked at her again as she furiously picked up the last bits of his model from the floor.

Her straw bonnet had fallen off and her glossy raven curls were tumbling around the slender column of her neck. ‘There! That’s all of it!’ she breathed, putting two more pieces defiantly on the table. Her face had become a little flushed. ‘Whatever you call it,’ she added rather darkly, her hands on her hips.

Mrs Belle Marchmain looked delectable. Her pink silk jacket had fallen apart, and the brightly patterned gown that fitted so snugly to her bosom and tiny waist almost made him smile.

What would she be like in bed? If she was, as Jarvis suggested, well practised in the erotic arts and open to offers, it might be interesting to find out …

‘And—and you can stop looking at me like that!’

Her rebuke shocked him out of his reverie and Adam stopped smiling. ‘You were asking about the model you almost destroyed,’ he said. ‘It’s a miniature of a Newcomen steam engine. And that’s not quite it, Mrs Marchmain. You came to me with a problem. And I think I might have the solution.’ He’d propped his lean hips against the sideboard and watched her with cool, assessing eyes.

Belle suddenly felt that the room was too small. Either that or this formidable man was too close. Something tight was squeezing her lungs. ‘Let me tell you now that Edward will never sell more of the estate to you and I wouldn’t ask him to. It’s his heritage!’

‘But of course,’ answered Adam imperturbably. ‘And your brother shouldn’t be expected to dirty his hands for a living as so many men—and women—do.’ She swallowed. ‘I also imagine,’ he went on in the same calm voice, ‘that most of the rest of his estate is entailed. You want me to drop charges against your brother for stealing my livestock, don’t you? Well, I certainly require payment. And as to what that payment shall be, I have the perfect answer. I think you do as well.’

What? Belle paled. ‘I—I thought perhaps we could come to some arrangement, for Edward to pay his debts off gradually …’

His lip curled. ‘Impossible, I’m afraid. But I still see no reason, Mrs Marchmain, to dismiss the obvious solution.’

So frozen did she look that her lips could clearly scarcely frame the words. ‘What exactly are you suggesting, Mr Davenant?’

‘Let’s be clear. You surely realise you have only one thing you can offer in payment of your brother’s debts,’ Adam said softly. ‘Yourself. Be my mistress.’

Chapter Five

Belle felt, in that instant, as if all the breath had been squeezed from her lungs. Lord Jarvis’s insults had made her feel sick. This man made her feel as if the safety of her world had been rocked to its foundations.

Be my mistress.

He was just watching her, leaning back against the sturdy oak sideboard with his arms folded across his broad chest. The candlelight fell on his cropped dark hair, on his sleepy grey eyes, on his hateful, sternly handsome face. And her pulse was skittering with the unsteadiness of a new-born colt.

The way he was looking at her. Assessing her, damn him. She felt his presence in the pit of her stomach and her dry mouth. She couldn’t look at him without tingling anew at the sight of his powerful figure: those heavily muscled shoulders, his broad chest tapering down to slim hips and powerful thighs … Oh, just his being near her made the air difficult to breathe.

His mistress. How dare this man make such a proposition? How dare he? Yet—oh, goodness, she’d been an arrogant idiot to come here. Straight into the lion’s den, armed only with her own stupid defiance—and her brother’s lies. She bent to rather shakily pick up her fallen bonnet; how ridiculous its gaudiness seemed now.

She remembered how she’d felt when her husband died and the enormity of the debts she’d faced. Remembered how she’d stood her ground against Lord Jarvis—only, dear God, this man was far more dangerous than Jarvis.

When she eventually spoke her words were, to her, miraculously steady. ‘To be perfectly honest, Mr Davenant,’ she replied, ‘I’m not quite sure whether your—offer is intended as a deliberate insult or a very poor joke.’

He shrugged. ‘It’s neither. There happens to be a vacancy.’

‘But I thought you already had a mistress …’ She clamped her mouth shut. You stupid fool, Belle. She shouldn’t have shown the slightest interest. Yet she couldn’t help but hear, in her shop, the gossip of the ton. Couldn’t help but know that Adam Davenant attracted the attentions of the most beautiful women in London.

His dark eyebrows had already arched in amusement. ‘So you take an interest in my affaires, do you? Then you should be aware that my latest companion and I have recently parted company.’

Belle returned his smile, sweetly. ‘She has had a lucky reprieve.’

He laughed. He actually laughed. ‘I wish you’d tell her so.’ His voice was silky. ‘I thought I was making you quite a reasonable offer. I would provide you, of course, with a London house and an income, so I do wish you’d stop acting like some virgin schoolgirl, Mrs Marchmain.’

She let out a sharp breath. ‘I’m merely, as a woman of the world, trying to assess what you would gain from such an arrangement. You’ll understand I find it hard to believe you are suggesting this out of any kind of—of liking.’

He shrugged. ‘I’m rather bored with women who think I’m the answer to all their prayers.’

‘So tedious for you, I’m sure!’

He nodded. ‘A little, yes.’ Belle gritted her teeth. ‘I think,’ he went on blithely, ‘that you, on the other hand, would enter the kind of relationship I’m suggesting with a refreshing honesty. And of course your weakling brother’s error regarding the sheep would be forgiven—’ He stopped. He suddenly noticed that she was trembling. ‘Is something wrong, Mrs Marchmain?’

‘You thought I came here to—to bargain with you.’

‘And didn’t you?’

‘Yes! But not in that way.’

He was silent a moment. Then he said steadily, ‘I see. Not now that you know exactly who I am, you mean. Tell me, does my low birth make me so much worse a prospect than Jarvis?’

She shuddered. ‘Jarvis is despicable.’ She spoke with such absolute disgust that Adam felt a bolt of uncertainty shoot through him.

‘I was under the impression that you were holding out for considerably more money from him.’

‘Holding out for … Oh, you are a friend of his,’ she retorted bitterly, ‘so it wouldn’t matter what I said. But do you really think I would contemplate a proposal of any kind from Lord Jarvis?’

Adam shrugged. ‘Jarvis would offer a solution to your problems. He’s not as rich as I am, but he does have a title. And, oh, I believe his family goes back almost as far as yours, although there might not be a duke in the family …’

Belle had stepped shakily away from him. ‘You are hateful,’ she whispered. ‘Mr Davenant, I will find some way to pay back the money my brother owes, I swear. But you’ll understand, I hope, if I tell you that I can no longer bear to spend another moment in your presence.’

He shrugged. The taint of Miner Tom. Well—let her face the consequences of her and her brother’s damned arrogance.

She was already making for the door when he saw something sparkling under her dark lashes. Tears.

‘Stop,’ he said.

She turned. She was almost broken, he suddenly realised; he saw it in the paleness of her cheeks, the trembling of her fingers as she crammed her straw bonnet over her dark curls.

Something dangerously like pity twisted at his throat.

‘Jarvis is not my friend,’ he said curtly. ‘He was here on a matter of business and, believe me, that was almost more than I could tolerate. What exactly happened between the two of you?’

She lifted her eyes steadfastly to his. ‘Two years ago Lord Jarvis invited me to his house on the pretext of investing in my business. He made me an offer that I found … obscene. Though—’ Oh, what was the use? Belle was shivering. ‘You don’t believe me, do you? You still think I’m in the market for … That I visited you to … Oh, I’ve been so stupid. I should never have come here.’

Not now she knew who he was. Adam started towards the door. ‘Unlike Jarvis,’ he said, ‘I don’t—ever—force myself on unwilling females. You came here of your own accord and you’re equally free to leave.’

She started towards the door, then stopped. ‘But—’

‘As for those sheep,’ he went on pitilessly, ‘I’ll get my secretary to send you a bill so you can pay me for them. You told me your shop was flourishing, didn’t you?’ He was holding the door open for her.

Belle froze. Her shop—flourishing? Oh, Lord, this was bad. What could she do? He’d offered her a solution and she’d discarded it.

Think again, Belle.

She heaved in a great breath. ‘Mr Davenant,’ she said.

Now, Adam wanted this woman and her insults out of here. But something was happening. Some new desperation in her voice riveted his attention. ‘Yes?’

‘Mr Davenant—what if I were to consent to becoming your mistress after all?’

What? What in hell …?

Suddenly she’d tugged off her straw bonnet and tossed it to the floor again. He closed the door. That hat would be lucky to survive the day, thought Adam rather dazedly. Then she was sidling across the room to him and lifting her sweet face with its tempting rosebud mouth to his and—

Hell. She’d raised her arms to run her fingertips along his broad shoulders.

‘Mrs Marchmain,’ he began.

His voice was thick in his throat as her small hands tugged him closer. That delicate scent tickled his nose again—lavender soap, he guessed. He could feel the warmth now, of her tender body; her nearness was turning his blood to fire and making his pulse throb. He reached out his big hands to take hers and hold them away.

‘I thought,’ he grated at last, ‘that you were going to repay me from your business.’

Her voice was husky. ‘Perhaps I’ve had second thoughts.’

She was playing a mighty dangerous game. Adam swore under his breath; Jarvis had warned him she was a conniving minx, damn it, and Adam wasn’t one to be toyed with. With a low growl—half of anger, half of lust—Adam pulled her to him and let his lips capture her soft mouth.

And Belle’s world spun until she no longer knew if she was on her head or her heels. In this man’s arms, she didn’t much care either way.

Faced with that open door and his chilly dismissal, it had struck her most forcefully that—like a drowning seafarer—she couldn’t afford to be choosy about her rescue options. Pay him back from her shop? Dear Lord, she’d no idea how much a flock of sheep cost; she did know that if this man wasn’t going to show mercy she and her brother were sunk.

It wasn’t as if she was a youthful, shrinking maiden. One by one the frantic thoughts raced through her brain. Other women do this. In fact, he assumed that was why she’d come to his hateful abode in the first place. Other women use men of influence and wealth to get what they want—why shouldn’t I?

The trouble was that he didn’t repel her as Jarvis did. Far from it. The instant his firm, demanding mouth started caressing hers, she forgot she was supposed to be in charge. She forgot he was her enemy. All she wanted was more.

The sweetness of his kiss pulsed through her veins. As his strong hands caressed her she could feel the heat of his body against hers; then he coaxed her lips apart and deliberately set about ravishing her mouth with his tongue. She could taste the maleness of him. He was filling her senses, branding her with shocking demands.

She’d meant to fake her response but, dear heaven, this was no pretence. Her hands instinctively curled tighter around his heavily muscled shoulders; somehow she could not get close enough to him. When he grasped her waist and hauled her against him, she felt his rock-hard arousal pressing against her stomach and it stopped her breathing. Stopped her thinking.

Her response was primeval and passionate. She plied her tongue in his mouth, tasting him, shuddering as he thrust his own tongue between her lips in measured response. She yearned to press her aching bosom closer to the hard wall of his chest, then gasped aloud because his hand, warm and strong, was cupping one desperately sensitive breast, his thumb teasing her stiffened nipple through the silk of her gown, rubbing it gently to and fro until she was crying out for more …

Then he drew away.

Belle swayed where she stood. Needing the warmth of his arms around her. Missing the heat of his hard male body.

He said levelly, ‘This is an absurd situation, Mrs Marchmain, and both of us know it.’

She gazed up at him, imagining she saw a glint of concern in his dark grey eyes, but if so it was quickly gone. She felt as wretched as she’d ever felt in her life. ‘Absurd? But, Mr Davenant,’ she said with a forced smile, ‘I was merely indicating that I’d had second thoughts about the offer you’d made earlier—’

‘I was damned wrong to make that offer,’ he broke in harshly. He was making for the door again, straightening his coat. ‘Mrs Marchmain, please forget my proposition. You were foolish to come here alone, foolish to make yourself so vulnerable.’

She gazed at him, white-faced. ‘But what about my brother, and …?’

‘You can tell the young idiot he owes me nothing for my livestock,’ Adam rapped out. ‘The matter’s dealt with. Finished.’

Belle drew back as if he’d hit her with a sledgehammer. ‘So you’ve got your revenge,’ she said steadily.

‘What?’ His hand had been on the door; now he swung round to her, his jaw set, his eyes ominously dark.

She shrugged and lifted her chin. ‘I was desperate and you realised it. You’ve achieved my humiliation—that was what you wanted all the time, wasn’t it?’

Adam said through gritted teeth, ‘You misunderstand me.’

‘On the contrary—’ Belle’s voice shook now ‘—I think I understand you only too well.’ Not even Jarvis had made her feel as wretched as she did now.

She saw him utter some low expletive under his breath. Then: ‘I’ll call my carriage for you,’ said Adam curtly, turning to the door again.

She looked distraught. ‘I would prefer to walk. In fact—I insist on walking!’

He threw her one last, withering look. ‘There’s a fine line between independence and sheer stupidity. I repeat: I’ll summon my carriage.’

As the luxurious coach moved off Belle was aware that the thunderclouds had passed overhead and once more the sun shone brightly in the late afternoon sky. She was still able to move, she was able to breathe. Yet it seemed as if nothing was working any more. It reminded her of how she’d felt when they came five years ago to tell her that her husband had died. The world went on, but for her nothing could be the same.

Belle was crushed and humiliated by what had just occurred, yet it was her fault for breaking all the rules—not just of civilised behaviour, but of survival. Davenant was a cruel man with massive power; she’d insulted him badly in Somerset and he’d not forgotten. Men like him never did.

Today she’d stupidly attacked him again and he’d swiftly resolved upon the most devastating revenge possible. Without pity he’d provoked her into the ultimate degradation of offering herself to him. In response he’d proved to her with lethal finality that it took only one touch of his firm lips for her to melt helplessly in his arms—then he told her he didn’t want her after all.

It was done with utter and casual contempt, because all he really wanted was to be rid of her and her brother as swiftly as he could.

But—what would have happened if he had accepted her offer? If he’d carried on kissing her, and …

It simply didn’t bear thinking about. She looked around at last, recoiling with a shudder from the rich velvet seats, the satin linings of this luxurious carriage. She’d rescued Edward from the threat of prison and her enemy had got his revenge in spectacular fashion. Her whole body still trembled from his wonderful caresses.

And she felt as wretched as she’d ever felt in her whole life.

Arriving back at her shop just before five, Belle slipped in through the back door, hoping to get upstairs and restore herself to some sort of calmness before joining Gabby in the shop.

But Edward was there, pacing the tiny office at the back with the door open. He sprang towards her as soon as he saw her.

‘Well? How did it go with Davenant?’ he said importantly. ‘I have to set off back to Somerset tomorrow, to poor Charlotte, so I need to be sure that it’s all sorted.’

Wearily Belle joined him and shut the door on them both. ‘How did you know that I’d been to see him?’

‘Oh, I called earlier and heard that Matt had borrowed a carriage for you. Did you twist Davenant round your little finger, sister mine?’

Actually, Edward, it was all rather a horrid surprise. I found out that I’d met him before. I let him kiss me. I made an utter and complete idiot of myself.

Belle gazed at her younger brother. What in the name of goodness would he say, if he learned Davenant had suggested just now that she be his mistress—then changed his mind?

Edward would splutter. He would spout about their family honour and Davenant’s lowly background, and, dear God, Belle couldn’t face that ju st now.

‘It is indeed all sorted,’ she said tonelessly. ‘He’s agreed to forget about those sheep you stole.’

‘I didn’t—’ he began.

Belle just looked at him and his voice trailed away. But being Edward, he quickly recovered. ‘Big of him to say he’d forget it,’ grumbled her brother, ‘considering those sheep were on land that should by rights be mine!’

She whirled round on him. ‘Edward. You put me in an almost impossible position, by telling me he paid you only two hundred guineas for that land, when, in fact, he paid you two thousand. How could you?’

He flushed slightly. ‘Whatever, Belle, the fellow’s no right to give himself airs.’

‘That fellow could have put you in a debtors’ gaol!’

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