Praise “You’re freezing. Come upstairs. I have a fire going in the drawing room.” Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Copyright

What the critics had to say about Emily French’s first book

—CAPTURE

“...fast-paced, action-filled, and beautifully romantic...”

—Affaire de Coeur

“Emily French writes of tribal living in primitive North America with starling intensity...The sexual tension never ebbs...”

—Romantic Times

“...a touch of mysticism and spiritualism adds to the eerie feeling that her audience is living this novel.”

—The Talisman

“5s.”

—Heartland Critiques

“Put Capture on your must read list; it is a gripping tale of survival and love.”

—Rendezvous

“You’re freezing. Come upstairs. I have a fire going in the drawing room.”

Seth Weston just stood there for a moment Doubt crossed his face. In a strange kind of elfin way, Sophy van Houten seemed timid and embarrassed, yet he knew she was playing a game. A dangerous game.

Not only was she flirting with her looks, she was dangling her money as bait. She was even breaking conventions and inviting him into her private drawing room. It was incredible what a wealthy woman would do for amusement.

He quickly weighed his chances of backing out and laughing the whole mess off as a joke, yet something stopped him. Looking down at her, he realized that Sophy interested him. Her eyes were huge with some carefully concealed emotion. As if it had taken an astonishing amount of nerve to confront him. For the first time in months, genuine delight flared in his blue eyes....

Dear Reader,

Emily French’s first book, Capture, was released in 1994 during our popular March Madness promotion and earned the author some wonderful reviews.

Ms. French’s second book, Illusion, is the emotional story of the growing love between a couple drawn into a marriage of convenience that is threatened by embezzlement and extortion. We hope you will enjoy this intriguing story.

In Lion’s Legacy, the third book of Suzanne Barclay’s Lion Trilogy, a Scottish warrior is hired to protect a tower from English raiders, only to discover that his benefactor has nothing to give him in return for his services but the hand of his unwilling granddaughter.

Diamond is the first in award-winning author Ruth Langan’s new Western series, The Jewels of Texas, which features four sisters who think they are only children until the death of their father brings them all together at his ranch in Texas. And in our fourth book for the month, Twice Upon Time, Nina Beaumont’s second Harlequin Historical time-travel novel, the author weaves an exciting tale of an ancient curse and a passion too strong to be denied.

Whatever your taste in reading, we hope to keep you coming back for more. Please look for Harlequin Historical novels wherever books are sold.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325. Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Illusion

Emily French

www.millsandboon.co.uk

EMILY FRENCH

A living passion for the past, combined with the sheer joy of writing, has lured Emily French away from the cold ivory tower of factual academia to warm, heartfelt historical romance. She likes her novels to be full of adventure and humor, her heroes to be intelligent and kind, and her heroines to be witty and spirited.

Emily lives on the East Coast of Australia with her husband, John. Her interests are listed as everything that doesn’t have to do with a needle and thread.

To Wayne Pierre Beattie and

Thomas Carroll Geoghegan

soldiers both

who saw service in Vietnam and World War II

and to whom freedom owes a debt

What if we fly

on ethereal highs

through cloud-soft illusions!

Our dreams are welded

to burning desires

flares in the mind’s sky

...meteorites!

The author acknowledges kind permission to use the extract from the poem, “being in love,” by Heather Farmer (Of Dreams and Desires, 1993)

Chapter One

Yonkers, New York—September, 1865

“Did anyone ever tell you, you’re a mighty stubborn woman, Sophy van Houten?”

Taking several deep breaths to choke back the sobs that were threatening to well up in her throat, Sophy focused very hard on the street scene outside the window. She was not one of the indomitable van Houtens for nothing. She would give a good account of herself if she had to. Resist as long as she was able.

The van Houtens had always been proud. Their lineage could be traced to the settlement of Manhattan. As the only child of a wealthy industrialist, she had been given every material advantage, but she was not spoiled.

During the dreadful years of the war, she had put her talents to good use. She was not one of those women who had never faced anything more momentous in her life than a decision of accepting or refusing a proposal of marriage.

Sophy van Houten was known to be extremely fastidious. She had danced and dined her way through New York society without once having been tempted to wed. Now, circumstances beyond her control dictated that she marry, and with no further tarrying.

Her face darkened. “Why should I be forced into a marriage I do not want? They freed the slaves, but not the women!”

“Sophy!”

Shoulders stiff and squared, Sophy wrapped her arms protectively around herself. It was a posture she often adopted when she was upset. “Money! Money! It is not the ‘root of all evil,’ it is the cause of all distraction and worry! I hate men!”

“Nonsense!”

There was a tight feeling in the region of her heart. “It’s true. They’re all the same. Wanting to get their hands on me—or my money.”

“Sophy!”

She scowled. “I have no wish to be a social butterfly, nor am I cut out for constant charitable works. I want to be gainfully employed, using my God-given talents, though I am sure the stuffy old-fashioned financiers in Wall Street would not give me a job,” she added darkly.

Turning, she shot her companion a quick, questioning glance and then smiled crookedly. “A woman must know when to bend, or else she will surely break. I really have no alternative, do I?” Her chin rose defiantly. “I’ll get married, Aunt Ella, but it will be on my terms.”

“Sophy!” The other woman, perched like a nervous bird on the edge of a large wing chair, admonished her again in breathless apprehension. “Even though your father tolerated your idiosyncrasies, and understood your natural reluctance, he still wanted you to marry. The trustees are only doing their duty.”

Sophy spun impatiently and strode toward a large mahogany desk on the other side of the comfortably furnished room, which was lined with books and showed every evidence of luxury and wealth.

“Their idea of duty leads to constraint, and constraint stifles compassion. Have I no duty to myself? Why should I sacrifice my independence, be snared like a silly bird by that reptile word duty?”

Picking up an embossed letterhead, she marched across the Persian rug toward her aunt and ground out between set teeth, “Listen to this hogwash! ‘After due care and consideration of your proposition, the trustees do not consider your request for funds to be either expedient or for a worthy cause.’ What a load of drivel!”

“Now, Sophy, that is a wicked way to talk.” Ella van Houten could scarcely gasp the words. “Try not to be so...so passionate, dear.” Putting her hand against her chest, as if she feared she might have a heart attack, she said faintly, “You know that your uncle Schuyler and my dear brother, Heinrich, act only in your best interests.”

“Aunt Ella, it’s ridiculous. My uncles’ living will controls Father’s dead one. I am bound hand and foot by invisible threads, a conspiracy of those who profess to love me. You know I always looked after Father’s investments. He trusted me to make good any cash given to ‘worthy causes.’”

“I agree, Sophy, and you never once failed your dear father’s trust,” Ella van Houten replied wearily. Knitting her brow, the elderly woman continued, “Nicholas believed that whatsoever a man sows, that also is what he reaps, for the reaper and the plowman are one.”

Sophy crouched and added a log to the fireplace. “Don’t go all cryptic on me now, Aunt Ella. I know it’s vulgar to talk about money, but you know none of the men who offer for me so ardently would be at all keen if I were not a wealthy heiress,” she retorted, trying to keep her tone light. “I have rejected so many offers I have lost count, but not one heartbroken suitor was among them!”

Her aunt smiled pensively, feeling a tug of affection and appreciation for Sophy’s prosaic attitude. Rich, beautiful, witty but stubborn to a fault, naturally she had admirers in plenty, but so far she had refused to marry any of them. She had never said so, but Ella knew that her niece had hoped to marry for love.

It was a shame that women were so bound and restricted by custom and the laws of society. With her secret core of romance and color, and a lack of convention that distressed only the unimaginative, Sophy had much to offer.

Ella’s eyes softened. Sophy did seem very slender and frail in the firelight. The mass of shining hair, looped in a fashionable swirl, seemed too heavy for the finely molded head.

Yet there was something vital and vibrant in the contours of the face, the straight little nose, the arched eyebrows and generous lips. And the large eyes, dark gray with somehow a tinge of purple in them, were bright and intelligent.

“In that case, there is no reason for you not to marry one of them. Surely you will now take your trustees’ advice as to the eligibility of suitors?” Ella questioned dryly.

“Oh, but I have a plan!” Sophy rose to her feet and danced across the room, merriment in her eyes. The decision made, her spirits rose like bubbles in champagne, sparkling, invigorating.

“Those chauvinistic fuddy-duddies are kindhearted and well-meaning, but they are pigheaded, and confuse logic and emotion. What I intend to do is to have them approve someone I choose!”

Her aunt’s expression of patient disgust changed to one of suspicion. “What’s going on inside that head of yours, Sophy? What scheme are you cooking up now?”

“I shall travel to New York City tomorrow. If I tell Mr. Tyson that I will transfer the van Houten funds to Pierpont Morgan’s bank when I come of age if he doesn’t cooperate, he will soon produce a desirable suitor.”

Sophy spoke so violently that her aunt winced. Her niece was small and fragile, yet she was stalking the room and snarling like a tigress after its prey.

Ella realized the great mistake Sophy would make if she were allowed to pursue her fantastic scheme. A rare spirit, cursed with a strange uneasy restlessness, difficult to manage at times and unpractical to a degree, the girl needed an outlet for her pent-up passions.

She hesitated, then said in a low voice, “You have always said you had no wish to marry. A man whom you do not know, a fortune hunter, the type who would accept a bribe to marry a girl he has never seen, sounds a terrible risk.”

“Oh, he will be no problem, merely a trifling drawback. I mean to be rid of him,” Sophy replied airily.

“Divorce is not condoned by the church! Would you jeopardize your soul for a whim, Sophy?”

Sophy grinned wickedly, then sighed. “No, Aunt Ella, I would not.” She spoke in the quiet, unhurried tone her aunt was used to hearing. “The idea of being married to a man who wants me only for my money is like living in hell. It betrays everything I believe in, all my dreams, all my ambitions, all the things that I have lived for these past five years.”

She fell on her knees beside her aunt. “But, Aunt, the alternative is even more mortifying.” She smiled a rather wistful smile. “Having a fortune carries a moral obligation to others, and so many people out there need help.”

Ella stared at her niece. “Maybe if you suggest to Mr. Tyson that your preferences lie with someone in need, then he will be more sympathetic.”

Sophy’s head came up and the calculating look reentered her eyes. “Aunt Ella. How clever of you! What a brilliant idea!”

Aunt Ella groaned.

“Marry Sophy van Houten!”

The man staring blindly into the rainwashed darkness gave no indication that he had heard the banker’s theatrical statement. Forehead crinkled in thought, he seemed oblivious to his surroundings.

Matt Tyson watched his client’s profile for a moment, took in the tension around the eyes, the grim, set mouth with deep lines at the corners. The sort of face, young yet old, to which he had grown accustomed in the four long years since the start of the War between the States. The genuine concern he felt for his friend gave him courage. He decided to push the point.

“Marry Sophy van Houten! That’s the answer! You’d get voting rights to her railroad stock, plus a wife who’d be no trouble at all. Always dutiful. Pretty manners. Good family.”

The silence in the room was more thunderous than sound. Seth Weston’s face was an unreadable mask; only the angry muscle flexing at the jaw admonished the banker. Minutes lengthened.

Matt tapped the desktop with his fingertips, brows creased in growing consternation. Finally, he sighed and continued. “I’ve known Sophy van Houten for years. Bright girl, no problem to her father. Old Nicholas used to keep her busy looking after...”

Marry Sophy van Houten! The words ringing in his ears, Seth Weston swallowed hard and tightly clenched his jaw to prevent an outflow of sarcastic words. Outwardly, his calm demeanor showed none of the disquiet he felt. The truth was he felt more than a little disgruntled. He felt off-balance. Marriage! Hell, he’d sooner roast in hell, or face a firing squad, than marry!

True, he could not remember ever having met Sophy van Houten, but the last thing on earth he wanted was a wife. If he needed a woman, he only had to take himself off to Greene Street. No need to saddle himself with a permanent fixture. A wife would demand more of him than he could give.

The war had turned him topsy-turvy. He was drained, an empty vessel. No, not empty. Filled with bitterness, like sour wine. Women were shrews anyway. He had yet to meet a woman who was loyal and loving, tolerant and resourceful, who was neither cold nor subject to fits of jealousy. There was no such creature.

Seth became aware, slowly, that the banker was still talking.

“—and Cornelius Vanderbilt would pay handsomely for that stock. Marry Sophy van Houten and you can clear the mortgage on the factory and introduce those innovations....”

Marry Sophy van Houten! Seth sucked a strangled breath through his teeth, made an impatient movement of his hand and slowly turned away from the window. With a quick, uneven step he made his way to one of the bentwood chairs flanking the banker’s desk.

“Vanderbilt already has control of the New York and Harlem Railroad,” he cut in curtly. “Moreover, I imagine Miss van Houten would have something to say about marriage to a broken crock of a man who plans to immediately sell off her stock. And besides—” he paused on the excuse of placing his long ebony cane on the desk and lowering himself into a chair “—I don’t think she and I would suit.”

Matt Tyson leaned forward, his face frowning and intent, rested his elbows on the polished mahogany surface and raised an eyebrow. “Why ever not? Told you, Sophy’s a nice girl, sensible, intelligent... and she has lots of other attraction.” He jerked his head meaningfully toward the iron door of the bank’s strong room.

“I’ve nothing against Sophy van Houten,” Seth hastened to assure the banker, a coolness in his voice. “She’s probably all you say, and charming company for a social evening. I simply do not wish to be married.”

Matt gave Seth a considering look. “Don’t misunderstand me, Seth.” He picked up a pen and rolled it round in his fingers. “You need the money Sophy can bring you. Marry her and you’ll retain your empire and your dream. A man with brains could come out of this mess richer than Midas.”

Seth winced, stretched out his legs and wearily leaned his head against the fanned back of his chair. “I know,” he said with a sigh.

The banker moved his head in a gesture of disbelief, and the skeptical look congealed into a baffled frown. “Hell, man, use your gray matter! I’ve known you since school. What’s happened to you?”

“Four years of a damn war that has divided this country so’s I don’t know how the scars’ll ever mend, a factory that leaks profits like a sieve, and a leg that is useless. That’s what’s happened.”

Matt could hear the edge to his friend’s voice, hard and sudden, like fine-honed steel. He knew Seth Weston was consumed with a deep anger. He also knew Seth Weston was no fool.

“You can’t turn back the clock, Seth. Count your blessings and you’ll find you still have more than most. The war’s over. We must repair the fabric of this nation. Even without Lincoln at the helm, I’m confident that Andrew Johnson can create a new and stronger Union.”

Seth’s mouth twisted faintly. “If he doesn’t fall out with Congress first. If he does he’ll limit his tactical choices for reconstruction.”

“At least you’ve got a choice.” Matt straightened up, his brown eyes serious. “I’m going to lay it on the line, my friend, and this is as painful for me to say as it is for you to hear. If you’re mule-stubborn enough to ignore my advice to marry Sophy van Houten, then the bank will be forced to foreclose on your mortgage.”

Seth stared. “What?” He had heard, but he didn’t believe his ears.

“No more credit, Seth. You’re overextended. Hard cash is what you need right now. There’s an heiress in Yonkers ripe for the plucking. Take her, or you’ll have to liquidate half your holding. You might not be poor, but it’ll be a long crawl back to where you are now.”

Seth heard the finality in the banker’s calm statement and repressed a shiver of rage. Without a word, he slowly uncoiled his vast length from the chair. He walked toward the door, gait slightly uneven. He was still three feet from it when he turned, leaning heavily on his cane. He could feel himself trembling as his mouth compressed with bitter fury. Danger simmered in the depths of his eyes, but his voice, when he spoke, was cool and controlled.

“I’ll call on Miss van Houten in the morning.”

As the door closed behind his friend and client, Matt Tyson leaned back and grinned. Seth Weston’s wrath was terrifyingly splendid. Such a man, seasoned to war, to hardship—and yes, even to women—was just what Sophy needed.

Over to you, Miss Sophy van Houten. Challenge an old dog, would you? Sophy deserved what was going to happen to her. Did she really think she could get away with blackmailing him? She needed to be taught a lesson. And Seth Weston was just the man to give it to her.

The door opened slowly to reveal a short, plump, middle-aged woman dressed in a plain gray gown with a white starched apron. In the middle of the room sat Sophy, dark head bent, lips slightly parted, writing. The scratching of pen on paper was the only sound to be heard as she entered a total on her inventory sheet with a flourish.

“What is it, Tessa?” Her voice was soft and calm, but sable eyebrows rose at the interruption.

Smoothing her apron with a reproachful gesture, the older woman set a vexed mouth, before she offered dourly, “Sorry to disturb ye, Miss Sophy, but there’s a gentleman downstairs says he’d like to see ye.”

Sophy van Houten lowered her head again to her journal, sighed and laid her pen aside.

“I’d hoped to finish my accounts this morning. He didn’t say what he wanted, I suppose?”

“No, I never asked.” Tessa’s voice was severe as she continued, “Ye’ll ruin your eyes with all that book work.”

Sophy’s smile was brilliant and an imp of mischief glinted in the gray eyes. “How old must I get, Tessa, before you will realize that I am no longer a green girl?”

Tessa’s round face shone with indignation as she remained standing close by the door. “None of your lip, young woman. Ye’ll always be a bairn to me. Shall I tell him to come back later, Miss Sophy? No respectable person comes visiting at this hour, or in this weather! It’s only ten minutes past the hour of nine! Positively indecent!”

A small smile touched Sophy’s lips at the servant’s impertinence. Tessa Fraser had a bad habit of thinking Sophy still needed a nursemaid. It came with twenty years of loving and caring.

“Don’t fuss, Tessa. I am not about to be ravished in my own house. This is 1865, after all. Show the gentlemen into the parlor, please. I’ll be down in a moment.”

Sophy’s thoughts spun round in her head like windmills as she carefully wiped the nib of her pen, closed the journal and slipped both into a drawer. Perhaps Mr. Tyson had sent someone? He had seemed quite certain after their little talk two days ago that he would be able to find a suitable prospect.

Since then, she had discovered several flaws in her plan. She touched her lip with the tip of her tongue. Perhaps it was not too late to back out of her hastily conceived strategy?

Needing a moment to consider how she could squash her rash scheme, Sophy unlatched the French window, and stepped outside. Droplets clung to the ironwork balustrade. The view below was flat and uninspiring. A dark canyon of street, and stark black elms outlined against the dull gray sky. Sophy grimaced. Winter was early this year. A wind slanted the rain, blowing a mist into the room.

It reminded her of the gray mist in Mr. Tyson’s banking chambers two days earlier. He had sat there, the smoke from his cigar veiling his eyes, and listened to her. She was sure his brown eyes had been alight with mischief when she had carefully explained what she wanted. But he had been very polite.

Of course, while she had not told any direct lies, she had not been exactly truthful either. She had just let Mr. Tyson assume she was fulfilling her father’s wish that she wed a man who needed her. Where was the line between lie and truth?

It was a little late to issue warnings to herself. Fastening the window latch, Sophy straightened her back, tilted her head proudly and headed for the parlor.

Only nine-twenty! Staring into the face of an ornate ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, Seth Weston asked himself for the hundredth time why he had allowed his ungovernable temper to trap him into traveling all the way to Yonkers.

For what? Dismissal? Ridicule? He’d heard Sophy van Houten had rejected so many suitors her father had laughingly declared she would die an old maid..

Within weeks of Lincoln’s assassination, her father, returning home on the Sultana after arranging the return of Union soldiers from Southern prisons, had been killed when the steamer exploded on the Mississippi. Now she was left quite alone, the old maid her father had predicted, before she was twenty. Also a very wealthy one.

Seth shivered, bent and poked the ashes in the grate with the silver tip of his walking stick. No warmth there. Cold. Cold as last year’s love. Probably as cold and frigid as the van Houten woman. Another shiver ran through him. Hell, it was chilly even for October. He should leave now, before he made a fool of himself.

Instead, he removed his hat and gloves, drew the collar of his jacket higher about his neck, straightened his shoulders and faced the door to await his nemesis.

Small sounds indicated her arrival, light footsteps crossing the hall, a soft musical voice requesting coffee, the rustle of fabric. Dark against the open doorway appeared the shape of a woman dressed in black. She was small. He doubted she reached five feet.

She stood there, perfectly still, a dark shape around whose head the lamplight fashioned a halo of flashing daggers that pierced him with unease. Seth heard her soft exclamation. For a moment she stood there, hand gripping the doorknob as though it were a iifeline. Then, with another exclamation, she swept toward him.

Entering the parlor, Sophy gave an involuntary gasp of surprise and stopped in confusion. Here was a new type, someone she had never seen before. Her heart was in her throat, pounding.

The lean, darkly powerful man who stood aggressively across the room from her was handsome, but there was an uncompromising severity about his dark eyebrows and the hard, controlled line of his mouth. A long, straight nose and firm chin added strength to his features.

Some interesting lines marked his finely chiseled face, giving it an elegant maturity. It was the face of a man who had stood at the doors of hell. Sophy looked at the tall length of him, the splendid breadth of his shoulders, the stiff-legged stance and ebony walking stick.

Stunned, her hand tightened on the doorknob to prevent it from going out to him. Eyes of brilliant blue met hers with some indefinable expression in their depths. Hard. Calculating.

A ruthless man, Sophy decided, and a relentless one. He would go where he wished to go, do what he wanted to do, with implacable will and drive. Her stomach lurched, and for a moment a strange, unfamiliar sense of dizziness almost overwhelmed her.

Sophy was looking for something in life; she did not know what. All the men she had met she could rule. None of her would-be husbands had made her feel as this one did!

She tore her eyes from his assessing gaze with a distinct effort, directing them toward the empty grate. For a moment, she battled with an odd uncertainty. Then she began to breathe again and coherent thought replaced the drumbeat in her head.

Sophy strode forward, hand outstretched. Her slender body moved quickly, and she walked with a purposefulness that few women possessed.

“Good morning. I’m Sophy van Houten. What can I do for you?”

The words were no more than a whisper, and seemed to come out in an exasperated rush. Her heart was pounding so hard, she could scarcely breathe. She looked up at him, but not as far as his eyes. She avoided his eyes. Instead she looked at the slant of his jaw, the wide, uncompromisingly masculine mouth, the curve of his upper lip.

Hell, she couldn’t even look him in the face! All he could see was a swirl of black hair, shiny as a raven’s wing, concealing most of her face. Seth wondered why he felt a vague sense of disappointment. His mouth tightened. Surely she had been aware of his disability when she put forward her audacious proposal to Matt Tyson? Or was this some trick?

His suspicion was a weakness, momentary and unwelcome. But he could not stop the thoughts that buzzed round in his head as he accepted the hand waving vaguely in his direction.

The instant pressure, warm and firm, was like a bolt of electricity to his system. Her head jerked up. Around its edge glowed a shimmering halo. Seth jerked, released himself and fumbled with the collar of his jacket, which, for some reason, suddenly seemed too tight. Even his voice sounded hoarse, as though he had a sore throat.

“Seth Weston. I called to... that is, I was at the bank yesterday going over my affairs with...”

Sophy’s eyes widened at the deep, well-modulated voice, which clipped the words with the precision of an executioner. It was a voice that carried the authority and menace of a master. It would seldom need to be raised.

She rubbed her hand against her skirt to rid it of the nerve-tingling sensation his cold flesh had generated. The tingle grew, radiating out to encompass her entire body.

Face aflame, Sophy feared she looked ridiculous. Breathing raggedly, a strange knot deep in her throat, she blurted, “You’re freezing! Come upstairs. I have a fire going in my drawing room. We can talk there.”

Seth Weston just stood there for a moment, as though he didn’t understand the language she spoke. Sophy knew she was gabbling, but she had to do something to dispel the tension. She shrugged, trying to appear calm and disdainfully unconcerned.

Doubt crossed Seth’s face, but only for a moment. In a strange kind of elfin way, she seemed timid and embarrassed, yet he knew she was playing a game. A dangerous game.

Not only was she flirting with her looks, she was dangling her money as bait. She was even breaking conventions and inviting him to her private drawing room. He thought he saw her game. It was incredible what a wealthy woman would do for amusement.

He quickly weighed his chances of backing out and laughing the whole mess off as a joke, yet something stopped him. Looking down at her, he realized Sophy van Houten interested him. His probing gaze burned into her tense features.

She had a little pointed face and her eyes were huge with some carefully concealed emotion, as if it took an astonishing amount of nerve to confront him. For the first time in months, genuine amusement flared in his blue eyes.

Sophy took a step forward, about to take his hat and gloves, just as Seth shifted his weight to one hip. In her haste, she accidentally pressed against him. For some reason, this seemed to knock him off-balance, and he grabbed her shoulder to right himself. Sophy’s eyes flew to meet his. Both went rigid with shock.

The clock ticked in the silent room.

Eyes more violet than gray, as fathomless as the sea, fringed by dark, long lashes, widened to an impossible extent. Seth did not think he had ever seen such a look of gentle allure in a human being before. He was suddenly taken with a longing to see those eyes darken with passion.

For a long moment he stood as though paralyzed before he swallowed a faint sense of chagrin. For an instant, he had glimpsed the promise of a wife, and children he could love and cherish.

An illusion. A dream. Dreams were for children... and fools. The thought brought a strangled sound from his throat.

Sophy came out of her state of stunned immobility. As though she had been scalded, she stepped back abruptly, and the color deepened in her cheeks. Her eyes flashed between the soft lashes.

Seth watched her. His sharp eyes saw through people. He knew she was nervous, and not stupid, and he wondered what caused this state of mind.

His eyelids drooped a fraction as his eyes shifted to the curving lips of a full, shapely mouth. The underlip, edged with a trace of moisture, was drawn over the upper, as though she were thinking deeply.

Sophy was. She didn’t know what was happening to her, but something liquid seemed to be collecting deep inside her. A new experience to meet someone who could make her feel so strange! If her stomach kept turning somersaults, she would have Aunt Ella prepare one of her potions!

“First door on your left. You go on up. I’ll just tell Tessa to bring the refreshments there.”

Sophy’s light, musical voice sounded distracted to her own ears, but she did not want to humiliate Mr. Weston by making reference to his affliction. While issuing instructions to the maid, she watched him surreptitiously as he made his way up the stairs.

He limped, barely able to move his right leg, and there was a way he held his shoulders that made her think every step he took was painful.

Every instinct urged her to offer assistance to her visitor to mount the stairs, but she knew pride would result in an angry refusal. So she allowed him five minutes before she ran lightly up the steps. He was standing composedly by the fire in her drawing room.

“Warmer in here, isn’t it? I’ll leave the door open so all will be correct.”

Sensing his instinctive withdrawal at the comment, she waved toward an antique silk-upholstered sofa. They did not speak again until coffee had been served, each busy with private, uncomfortable thoughts.

How neatly he had been backed into a corner by Matt Tyson, Seth reflected bitterly. A yoke of matrimony hanging about his neck to weigh him down, or the loss of all he had labored for over the past ten years. He couldn’t let that happen, whatever the cost.

Sophy absently stirred her coffee. The war was over. Had been for nigh on six months. Yet still the legacy of misery lingered. She did not know how much excruciating agony Mr. Weston must have undergone, but he still seemed in pain.

Sometimes the test of courage was not to die but to live. It would be good to ease this man’s hurt. Deliberately she took a grip on her thoughts and looked up at him through her lashes.

“Did you want to tell me the reason for your visit, Mr. Weston?”

Seth watched her face for a long moment. His blue eyes seemed to see right through her gleaming head. Then he appeared to reach a decision. Leaning forward, he set down his cup on the low cherrywood table, an air of sudden determination in his eyes.

“I wanted to talk to you, Miss van Houten, on a very personal matter. With the war and all—” indicating his leg “— I’ve been out of commission for two years, and become a social hermit, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, I suppose you have,” Sophy replied slowly. A fleeting smile touched her lips, and she looked him straight in the eyes. “I promise to do whatever I can to help you.”

“I know it’s asking a great deal, but...”

Hell, this was more difficult than he’d thought. Damn, but Matt Tyson had put him in one hell of a spot, Seth fumed. Another six months and he could have traded out of his financial quagmire.

“Go on, Mr. Weston.”

Seth ran his fingers through his hair. He didn’t have another six months and Sophy van Houten was looking at him so intently, with such unblinking fervor, he felt as though she were reading his mind.

She sat, hands folded in her lap as she waited politely. He was aware she had rejected dozens of offers of marriage. His would be another. It seemed a calculating look had entered her cool gray eyes.

She was probably enjoying herself immensely! Fresh as the violets tucked into her belt, she appeared a product of the present day’s spoiled, overindulged young womanhood. Such a creature could be of no interest to any thinking man, except for one aspect, and he was much too busy to bother with such things at the moment.

“In order to be honest, I shall tell you I have numerous assets, including several factories, but no ready cash for working capital. The trouble is that even with hard work and a lot of luck, it will be years before modern manufacturing methods can be introduced.”

Seth looked at her just a trifle savagely as he leaned forward in his seat, absently kneading his right thigh. His resolve was diminishing with each passing second.

Fresh autumn air, gray eyes and pink velvet cheeks, to say nothing of a Cupid’s bow cherry mouth that owed nothing to artifice, were upsetting factors. The most insane desire flooded him to kiss those dusky eyelashes and crush the little fragile body in his arms.

As he pulled himself together with a jerk, a scowl settled upon his stern face. If he wanted her fortune, he would have to marry her. He looked at his hands and took a deep breath.

“It goes against the grain to appear mercenary, but it’s been borne in upon me lately that the only real solution for me is to acquire access to a reliable source of funds. To be blunt, to marry an heiress.”

Sophy’s eyes widened in shock. His honesty touched her. All her previous offers had been accompanied with vows of undying love. This man offered no such commitment.

Here was the first man who was plainly not dazzled by her. She had been hoping for this, but she had not expected it. A faint blush started over her cheeks and she began to speak, but he silenced her with a wave of his hand.

“I do not want to marry except for the reason I’ve given, but I’m not in love with anyone.” His lips curved wryly, revealing even white teeth. “Don’t believe I could be. All the romance was knocked out of me long ago. So, well, what I’m leading up to, Miss van Houten, is this. Would you consider marrying me?”

Chapter Two

The question hung in the air. Sophy sat as still as death while she felt her face grow scarlet and then drain of color. Pricked by a sudden doubt, she waited to recover herself before she answered.

“I, too, would like to be honest with you, Mr. Weston. While my father was alive I became accustomed to organizing my own finances. However, my trustees feel that these same funds would be better utilized under the firm control of a husband. I don’t relish the idea of giving up my freedom.”

Sophy’s voice was deceptively calm. Her cheeks were wild roses once more. The thought of being made to play the role she despised so completely infuriated her. Her vexation gave a new charm to her glowing face.

Seth could not fault that sentiment, even if it was a radical one for a woman. “I, too, would want the advantages of being married, without giving up anything of myself,” he assured her.

Sophy’s eyes snapped toward him. For a moment she studied his face. The marks of the past four years were on it, a disturbing intensity in the strong features. While she did not want to appear reluctant to become his wife, she could not help but worry at the bitter edge of cynicism in his voice, the contained tension of his body and the despair reflected in his countenance.

To her surprise, Seth Weston became distinctly uneasy under her assessing scrutiny, and moved restlessly.

For a few seconds they sat looking at each other and then, almost roughly, he said, “Miss van Houten, I had thought this over, of course, but I didn’t realize how it would all sound until I spoke those last words. I think the proposition I just made you is actually insulting, and I hope you’ll excuse me. It was an impulsive thing to do and I’m ashamed of it. So forget it. I’ll see myself out.”

He had the silver knob of his cane in his hand when Sophy found her voice. “Mr. Weston, I would like to accept your offer.”

Seth’s head came up. “You mean you’ll marry me?”

He leaned toward Sophy, his eyes narrowed, as if taking her measure, a measure that somehow puzzled him.

It did. The woman was rich and exceedingly attractive. Why connive an arranged marriage with a man she didn’t know from Adam? He found himself watching her mouth. On lips firm and full, a soft, mysterious, somehow inviting smile bloomed. Behind their protective lashes, a secret, pleased look flared in her eyes. It was an echo of her sensual smile. Seth felt his features lock into an unrevealing mask.

Sophy smiled faintly, finding it difficult to conceal a strong sense of elation. She had succeeded in her plan to break the trust. Now she would have only a single male to contend with... her husband.

Husband. The word made her insides squeeze all sick and scared. Husbands usually meant knowing each other in an intimate way! Sophy felt her stomach leap to her throat.

Husbands meant babies! Her stomach flipped again. Her whole body stiffened, and she felt her panic growing. Maybe he wouldn’t want her in that way? Maybe he would be content with her money? Her words were sober, but her eyes betrayed her.

“You’ve made your points very clearly, Mr. Weston. One thing, though, you didn’t mention. Since this would be a marriage of convenience, did you mean it would also be what I believe is called a ‘marriage in name only’?”

Seth paled. A frown creased his broad forehead into a network of lines, and something undefinable flickered in his eyes. He looked off over her head. There was a long pause. Sophy began to suspect she had offended him.

“Well, no,” he said slowly, his voice soft, deep as summer midnight, richly textured as plush velvet. “I didn’t mean that, I guess.” He stretched out his weak leg, absently rubbing his thigh through the fabric of his trousers.

Sophy nervously touched the round silver disk suspended from a delicate chain at the base of her throat and stifled a pang of fear. How had she expected him to react? The truth was, she hadn’t thought it all through that far. Just as she hadn’t considered she was being totally unreasonable in expecting him to forgo the expectation of a normal marriage and children.

She needed to think logically and calmly about the situation. Perhaps if she told him the truth, he would understand. She drew in a quavery breath, searching for cushioning words.

“I want only honesty between us. You seem to understand my situation, and I had hoped to come to some arrangement with you.” Sophy managed the words with a steadiness that surprised herself. Inside she was a bundle of agitation and chaotic thoughts.

Seth looked at her curiously for a moment, his interest heightened by her sudden diffidence. Sophy’s eyes were on his face, but he felt as though she did not actually see him.

There was a darkness in her eyes, a fear in her face that he had seen before only in the eyes of men going out to battle. Then she held out her hand. He looked surprised at the gesture but took the slim fingers in his own large ones. They were icy cold.

“What is it?”

There was a deep note in Seth’s voice that reached out and touched Sophy, bringing her back to reality. Suddenly her eyes were focused on his, and for a moment both of them were very still. His strongly magnetic eyes seemed to enter her very being and cause some strange fluttering near her heart.

She waited, aware of a breathless feeling. Her fingers trembled in Seth’s large hand, and she knew he must have felt it. The lines around his mouth deepened, and a muscle flickered in his jaw. His voice was steady, without emotion. “I cannot help you, if I don’t know what is wrong.”

His fingers tightened on hers, and he smiled, but his eyes gleamed with an unreadable emotion. Sophy’s senses reacted to the subtle force of his personality. There was a cool perception and an underlying intelligence in Seth Weston that she would do well to acknowledge. Deception or lies would not sit well with such a man.

She licked suddenly dry lips. “If it would not... inconvenience you too much, Mr. Weston, would you consider a marriage in name only?”

There was a distinct pause, then Seth asked cautiously, “Are you afraid of me, Sophy?” The question hung in the air between them.

“No.” Abruptly, she felt a searing need to share her secrets. She swallowed and gathered her courage. If they were to start off their married life right, she was going to have to be honest.

“As a charity worker in the army hospital, I helped tend hundreds of wounded soldiers, both Union and Confederate prisoners. The agony and misery I witnessed affected me deeply. I have sworn that I will never bear a child and so perpetuate the terrible things that brother can do to brother.”

The harsh contours of Seth’s face seemed to harden at the depth of despair in her voice, but he did not release the grip on her fingers. “The idea still distresses you?”

She frowned uncertainly. “No. But I made a solemn vow. One which I intend to keep.” Her fingers flexed against his palm. “Now that you know I will never give you a child, do you want to withdraw your offer of marriage?”

Seth’s eyes narrowed to blue slits as he examined her face carefully. Her eyes were wide, reflecting an appeal of which she wasn’t aware as she waited for his reaction.

He found his gaze drifting to her mouth, observing the way the lower lip slid beneath small white teeth. Was the action to prevent its trembling? Or a contrived expression of mystery, sensuality and allure? Whichever it was, Sophy van Houten was not what he had anticipated.

He had expected a weak, easily led woman, helplessly adrift without the support of her father, and instead here was a creature who, though she looked fragile, possessed a devastating candor, an integrity, that set all his preconceived notions of women in a spin.

Humor flickered briefly in the set features of his face. “Is that all? You don’t want children? That is your terrible confession?”

Sophy’s chin rose at the trace of amusement in his voice. “I am constantly told I am too unconventional, too reckless, that I must curb my foolish thoughts.” A little ghost of a smile touched her lips. “I am also aware that, even in a city that prides itself in being on the cutting edge of the new morality, to go against custom is to invite ostracism.”

“Money will open most doors, and we’ve just finished four years of bloodshed to confirm all men are born equal.” He slanted her an odd glance. “In any event, one man’s rose is another man’s cabbage. It seems we have things in common, after all. Children are not high on my list of priorities from this marriage.”

Recognizing in the simple statement both the truth and the utter insufficiency of the words, Sophy closed her eyes for a moment, relief surging through her. He had no intention of withdrawing his offer, she thought, with a trace of wonder. It was comforting and slightly scary, but it also gave her an oddly warm feeling right behind her breastbone.

Silence fell around them. Sophy stole another look at him, wishing she could sit here and savor this warm, comfortable feeling for the rest of time. Her fingers quivered a little in the warmth and strength of his clasp, and she smiled brilliantly up at him.

“We can call it settled, then?”

Seth went still. The unnatural quietness in him was unnerving. Deep down, it sent prickles of a very primitive, very feminine alarm through her.

“Not quite.” His voice was gentle. “There is one detail I would like to clarify. It might not be fair to either of us to commit ourselves to the arrangement you propose on a permanent basis.”

Sophy marveled at the perfectly neutral tone of his words. Whatever happened, marriage or no marriage, would not be a neutral event to her. She leaned forward earnestly, breathing tremulously, searching his face for hidden meanings.

He was watching her with a startling intensity. “I know that you consider this marriage to be founded on necessity, so I am prepared to wait until you feel comfortable enough to fulfill the...er, shall we call it, duties of a wife.”

His thumb stroked the back of her hand, tracing the lines of the bones there. “I’ve tried to make it plain that I can’t give you romance. That part of me does not exist anymore.” His jaw tightened. “But I promise to be a faithful husband, Sophy, and I will not act the cuckold. Do you understand?”

Sophy could feel the tension emanate from his body, a tangible thing, matching her own. A deep wariness and a grim determination lit his eyes, as if he were silently setting down the rules of war. The challenge was there, in his eyes, waiting for her.

With a feeling of sliding from a great height, she responded, her fingers tight on his. The suggestion of warmth and laughter that was reflected in the curve of her mouth became a full-blown smile.

“Yes.”

It was all that she could manage, that one syllable, but nothing could halt the rush of red into her cheeks. She had won a glorious victory! The matter of marital intimacy had been satisfactorily resolved. She had control of herself and the situation.

Realizing suddenly what he’d agreed to, Seth pulled his hand from hers as if her fingers were a sheaf of snakes. Damn her to hell! Had he consented to a marriage he did not want simply to save a factory? Sold his soul to the devil for thirty pieces of silver?

No. Not quite true. Most men would kill for a smile like the one she had just given him. The smile that was on her face was like the rising of the sun. A sweet, feminine gift, which dazzled the senses.

For a second, he’d stepped into an illusion, allowing it to enclose him so completely that he’d felt her delight as if it were his own. And, in reality, the kind of marriage she was offering was precisely the type to which he was most suited.

They each had something the other wanted, or needed.

Sophy moved restlessly in her seat, hurt at his abrupt withdrawal. She wanted to leave her hand in his, warm and safe. The pain seemed to grow round her heart, but there was self-deprecation too. She should not have dared to show such foolish emotion before him. She glared at Seth as he poured fresh coffee from the porcelain pot on the cherrywood table.

An odd smile edged Seth’s mouth as he looked into those well-spaced gray eyes. He raised an eyebrow at her and held up the pot in salute.

“Well, Miss van Houten, it would seem that you and I have ourselves a marriage contract. I hope you consider the bargain worthwhile.” He shut his eyes in brief irritation when his leg protested angrily at the movement. He shifted position gingerly. “Would Sunday week suit you?”

“Whenever you wish. I won’t change my mind,” she said gravely, accepting the cup he passed to her.

Seth gave her a sharp look as though to detect levity, a slight frown hardening the lines around his mouth. When Sophy’s eyes solemnly met his fierce blue ones, her whole body went tense.

There was something about the way he looked at her that confused her. Something shrewd. Something dangerous. The taut strain in him was etched around his eyes, making her want to lift her fingers to soothe away the lines. A nervous tremor skittered along her nerves, and she tore her eyes from his, breaking the spell.

“I’ll wait on your uncles tomorrow to make the necessary arrangements.”

Relieved, Seth realized his voice was even, as though he were in full command. For a moment those soft gray eyes had stirred feelings that were strange and unwelcome, yet pleasurably compelling. It was a long time since a woman had so disturbed his equilibrium.

Sophy lowered her eyes demurely to the contents of her coffee cup. Thinking she shouldn’t even be considering the suggestion and knowing it was already starting to tantalize her, she glanced up at him through lowered lashes.

Setting down her cup with great care, she put her small hand to her mouth, shocked by the heady notion. It would be a bold move to try to squeeze further concessions from him, but why not enter into marriage on terms favorable to the wife?

Her mouth tilted slightly at the corners. Fortune sides with him who dares. She tried to make her voice bland. “I would like to continue with some projects I’ve been working on, maybe even undertake some new ones.”

Seth’s eyes met hers over the rim of his cup. Sensing his annoyance, Sophy sat up a little straighter, and blinked owlishly. Her voice was a shadowy breathless sound. “No questions, no reproaches, no comments even from a husband.”

Seth set down his cup, the firm line of his mouth hardening slightly. From the displeased expression on his face, Sophy could tell he found her demands excessive.

Sophy blinked, uncertain of his sudden change of mood. Maybe she should compromise, just a little? She wet her suddenly parched lips with the tip of her tongue and hurried on before she lost her courage. “And I promise no tears. I’ve heard wives cry a lot to gain their points.”

Seth’s features were forbidding as he studied her. Sophy’s jaw muscles went tight. His gaze seemed to penetrate into the very heart of her, as if he were trying to discover her deepest secrets.

He stared at her for a moment, then he laughed. A short, sharp expulsion of air. But definitely a laugh. To his ears the tone sounded surprisingly rusty, but then it had been literally years since he had laughed out loud so spontaneously.

“I couldn’t stand that! Anything more?” His question was more curious than anything.

Sophy shook her head slowly. “No.”

He eased his leg back against the sofa, watching her, a cool, flicking assessment in his bright blue eyes. Sophy could feel the probing inspection as if he had reached out and touched her.

Something feminine and disturbing flowed down her spine. She shifted uncomfortably, unable to look away from his suddenly hooded gaze.

“I take it that this is the end of our negotiations? That you will not come up with new demands and stipulations every other day?” His voice was steady and calm, though she could feel the coiled energy in him.

Sophy felt herself blush at the gibe, but she felt a sense of relief that he was willing to ignore the tension flowing between them. She had to establish firm terms and conditions in her relationship with this man, or she would be lost. She lifted one shoulder and shrugged dismissively.

“Of course not.” She moved her head once in denial. “I simply wanted to have things cut-and-dried before you committed yourself. There is one more thing, though.” She was annoyed to recognize the hint of uncertainty in her voice.

“Let’s hear it.” There was resignation in his tone, but wry humor flickered behind the dark lashes and tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Sophy drew in a deep breath and let him have it. “As I mentioned earlier, I was actively involved in many of my father’s financial dealings. I would like to learn all I can about textile manufacturing as well, assist where I can.”

There was a charged silence while Seth digested her proposal. He sat there, looking as if he were reflecting on his response as he idly ran a finger around the rim of his coffee cup.

Sophy eyed his lowered lashes, a queer feeling in her stomach. It was like a great bubble that threatened to expand and explode the fantasy she had begun to weave about the nature of this man.

It was this element of uncertainty that caused the powerful effect on her. Her heart beat a slow thud, pressing the bubble up behind her breastbone, pounding a thought into her brain.

Had she made a terrible miscalculation?

The silence was becoming more than a little frightening when he looked up suddenly, his decision made.

“Fair enough. I have no objection. If you accept that I reserve the right to try to influence your decisions, you have a deal,” he agreed easily.

The small victory banished Sophy’s apprehension. Once again she felt in charge of the situation. The notion was strangely satisfying. Sufficient for her to proceed recklessly.

“As my wedding gift, Mr. Weston, I intend handing over my father’s entire estate to you. It is not insubstantial and will make the payment of your debts infinitely easier and any plans for expansion less troublesome. Unless you have any objections, I shall retain only those assets and funds I have acquired through my own endeavours.”

Seth gritted his teeth, reached for the cane and started to get to his feet. And he had thought she was vulnerable, a target for fortune hunters like himself!

An uneasy shiver feathered his spine and he shook his head. He had a gut feeling she was not going to be the biddable, obedient wife Matt Tyson had promised.

“The idea of a wife who drives a hard bargain intrigues me, Sophy van Houten.” He slanted her a deliberate glance. “It’s going to be interesting being married to you.”

He had never envisaged that married life was going to be a pleasant experience, not by any stretch of the imagination. The point to recognize was that Sophy van Houten was only a woman, and an unseasoned little squab at that.

He had merely to show her who was in charge, and all would be well. Seth Weston was a man used to giving orders, and to seeing them obeyed.

Time enough after they were married to bring her to heel. He had other things to do today. He was going to visit Wall Street and give a certain banker a small but hopefully salutary piece of his mind.

Sophy’s eyes were bright and steady with exhilaration as the door closed behind him. Every hope she had ever held was blossoming afresh.

Her prayers were answered. All she had ever wanted was within her grasp. A small voice within her whispered, Be careful not to ask for what you want. You just might get it.

It spun through her mind that, if she were wise, she would leap up and run from this marriage as if the yawning pits of hell gaped at her feet. But Sophy knew how often the gamble was worth the risk.

The game was never lost till won.

The day of the wedding was one of October’s smiling ones, still and unseasonable, almost warm. There was the feel of a gentle determination in the air, of tenacious life, a movement, a subtle tremor of restless nature, beneath a shining sun. The curtains were pulled back from the bowshaped windows, letting the light spill into the dressing room.

Standing in front of the long mirror, Sophy gave her hair a final pat, and her delicately arched brows pulled together in a frown. Would she be a disappointment as a wife to Seth Weston? He had made it perfectly clear it was only her coin he wanted. It wouldn’t have mattered if she were a hunchback with four eyes, her wealth was attractive.

There was no reason for her to feel as strangely unhappy and uneasy as she did. After all, she had agreed to the wedding bargain. Her only doubts lay with the unknown quantity of Seth Weston and her growing awareness of him as a man. Sophy touched the tip of her tongue to her lower lip, suddenly nervous.

Her maid gave a knowing grin. “Now, don’t ye be fretting over something that hasn’t happened yet. Things have a way of working out.” Giving Sophy a caress on the cheek, Tessa adjusted Sophy’s cap.

Sophy had finally settled upon black silk and lace for her wedding attire and a small cap, black, embroidered, with just enough veil to suggest the bride.

“I guess you’re right, Tessa,” she conceded. She wished she had asked Aunt Ella about the intimacies of marriage, but she had not wanted to embarrass her straitlaced aunt.

“Have you never wished to marry, Tessa?”

“Nay, lass. My clan were poor. From the day I arrived in America, I belonged to Nicholas van Houten and his bonny lassie. They were all the kin I ever needed, just as yon man will be your life.”

Sophy stood helplessly. A thousand thoughts possessed her, none of them rational enough to voice.

Seth Weston...

She had not seen her fiancé at all during the two weeks preceding the wedding. Only a brief message with Matt Tyson to say the marriage contract had been drawn up, and, if it fulfilled all her conditions, would she please sign as necessary.

There had been other callers, including her two uncles and her cousin. Uncle Schuyler had seemed relieved that he would soon be able to discharge his final task as trustee. Her mother’s brother had never wanted such a responsibility in the first place. Sophy, with her independent ways, made him uncomfortable, but he was determined to do the right thing by his niece.

He had pompously declared Seth Weston to be a man of excellent character, who would safely see to Sophy’s welfare. He had also sadly reflected that it would have been more seemly if dear Sophy had respected the customary period of mourning before committing herself to marriage, and left.

Sophy had a sneaking suspicion that Uncle Schuyler was secretly impressed that Seth had survived the bloody battle of Gettysburg and still remained a respected textile manufacturer.

While Uncle Heinrich wished her well, he also considered the haste unseemly. Did she not feel the weight of remorse? he asked trenchantly. Did her conscience not trouble her?

A pained expression on his face, he closed his eyes, muttered a prayer for forgiveness, then made the caustic observation that Seth Weston would regret tying himself to such a willful baggage.

But Uncle Heinrich also felt under obligation to see that his brother’s daughter was married well, and pronounced Seth to be a man of honor who had fought bravely for the Union. Any man who could control a regiment of soldiers should be able to control one small woman.

It was left to Cousin Pieter to ask her bluntly if she loved Seth. Sophy flushed, unable to reply. Pieter believed in the cause of freedom, not only for black slaves, but for women. What could she say now?

That love was an illusion, cut to the measure of one’s own desire? That her desire was for independence, not love? That she was desperate for freedom? That Seth Weston was willing to give that freedom to her?

Pieter’s eyes had narrowed with suspicion. Sophy gulped, gnawed at her bottom lip, trying to figure out how she could distract Pieter’s thoughtful attention.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned since Father’s death, Pieter, it’s that I don’t want my life the way it was. I want more,” she ground out, her throat tight with tension. “I’ll make Seth a good wife if it kills me,” she vowed, “or if he doesn’t kill me first!”

The sound of church bells, ringing as clear and crisp as the autumn sky overhead, accompanied Sophy as she entered the sacristy of the old church at Sleepy Hollow.

Sophy had difficulty in concentrating on the service. She thought it might have something to do with the potion Aunt Ella had given her earlier to quell the butterflies in her stomach.

As she entered the church on her uncle’s arm, her whole being was concentrated on the man waiting at the altar.

Seth Weston...

It was quite remarkable; she knew without looking up the very moment he turned his head to look at her, and felt his start of surprise. At the last moment, she had impulsively plucked some late-blooming roses and pinned them to her cap. A novel touch. Incongruous. Defiant.

The wreath of vivid red roses lent a sweet, pungent scent to the air as she stood before the pastor and prayed for God’s blessing on the marriage. The minister opened his book and began to address the congregation.

“We are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in the bonds of holy matrimony....”

Seth was conscious of the slight figure standing at his side. Whoever heard of a bride wearing mourning black—and red roses? Not exactly proper. In fact, downright unconventional! Like a reflection on water, his first impressions of Sophy were beginning to waver.

That sort of picture did tend to ignore the small irregularities. A dangerous mistake. Although it was only a tiny error in the mental image of her that he had fashioned, it bothered Seth.

A seasoned campaigner, he knew little mistakes, small pieces missing in the puzzle, could lead to much bigger and more dangerous miscalculations. There were still too many unknowns in the mystery that was Sophy van Houten.

No. Sophy Weston. He made a quick adjustment in his mental construct of his bride. His bride. Hell, what on earth was he doing here? It was too late now to get out of it, but he had a feeling that someone had set a trap for him and he had fallen into it.

“Wilt thou take this man to be thy wedded husband... for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer... in sickness and in health... to love, honor and obey... ?”

Confusion and a strange kind of fear thudded with Sophy’s heart, which was pumping in quite an uncertain manner. As Seth’s fingers closed over hers, her insides churned and she felt a deep throbbing wave of excitement. It was startling and disturbing to react as strongly as this to his touch.

I shouldn’t be here, she thought, staring blindly at the preacher. She knew nothing of love, so it wasn’t so bad that they didn’t love each other. Seth was marryring for security and she was making a respectable bargain, the kind many women in her position struck. It was just that she felt uneasy. Besides, it was too late now to change her mind.

Sophy felt a moment of panic, and her throat was so tight that the “I will” demanded of her would hardly come out.

There! It was done! She was married to Seth Weston.

Seth Weston...

He stood beside her, in stiff military style, a soldier girded for battle. She heard his responses, firm, strong and, in some way, completely impersonal.

Somehow, that bothered her. An unaccountable tension gripped her. She felt as though she were standing on the brink of a very wide, very deep chasm.

“—what God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”

Lost in thought, Sophy scarcely realized the ceremony had concluded. Seth, too, stood as if made of stone, not moving, staring into space. The silence was awkward.

Finally, Cousin Pieter, who had acted as groomsman, gestured toward Sophy. “Go ahead and kiss the bride, Seth.”

Sophy was overwhelmingly conscious of the tall, powerful figure at her side. Face aflame, she forced herself to meet her husband’s eyes. A quickening shivered through her middle. She attempted a smile, but her mouth felt soft, tremulous.

The deep glow in his eyes was suddenly so intense that she was forced to look away or be scorched by the heat. Why was he looking at her that way? It was vaguely unnerving, and it took a great deal of courage not to step back. Instead, her small, pointed chin rose in challenge.

Seth paled considerably. He drew in his breath sharply, and his eyes blazed with the sizzling heat of a lightning bolt. Then he appeared to reach a decision. Sophy had the feeling that he always made decisions that way, quickly and surely.

What would it be like to be kissed by him? Sophy’s eyes widened. She knew he was going to kiss her, and she knew she wanted him to.

Yet, at the same time, she felt trapped, unnerved by the strange feelings coursing through her. The quickening rippled outward from her belly, into her limbs.

I can’t, she thought in panic. She sucked in a quick breath, and turned her head sideways. Seth’s breath was soft and warm in her ear and she felt chills on her arms as his moist lips landed just above her earlobe.

Sophy could see the sudden flush on his cheekbones, and his blue eyes seemed to see right through her head. Crystal eyes, frost eyes. And they were filled with a brilliance that subtly invaded her being, causing her to shiver, to remember that her first impression of him had told her that he could be a dangerous man.

She watched Seth’s mouth draw downward, his weight shift to one hip, heard his intake of breath, which mocked her.

“I beg your forgiveness, Mrs. Weston. My aim is not what it was.” There was something slightly contemptuous, or was it scorn, in his tone? She looked up at him and saw in his eyes an almost blazing anger that was quite unmistakable.

Startled by the extent of his reaction, Sophy’s throat tightened on a sudden urge to cry out. She had not intended any offense. It was merely a spur-of-the-moment act of self-defense. So why did she suddenly remember one of Aunt Ella’s maxims? Who digs a pit shall fall therein.

Chapter Three

“Teatime, Sophy.”

Intent on her work, Sophy was busy cleaning out the numerous drawers of her tall Empire secretary. She gave the maid a quick smile.

“Put it on the table, thanks, Tessa. I’ll join you in a minute, Aunt Ella. I’m just about finished here.”

Boxes of books and papers, all precisely wrapped and labeled Mrs. Seth Weston, were neatly stacked, awaiting the removers.

Mrs. Seth Weston.

She frowned. What a mess, a frightening, overwhelming mess her life had become. Nothing was going as planned. Even her wedding day had not gone as anticipated. It seemed as though she had taken a wrong turn and, without warning, found herself on the lip of a great abyss.

From that moment in the church when Seth had faced her, his eyes twin blue flames, the marriage had been a debacle. For a shattering second she had been torn between running into her new husband’s arms and running as far away from him as she could.

True, he had been a perfect gentleman. She could not fault his manners. A small smile curving his mouth, he had bowed, brought her hand upward and kissed the delicate flesh on the inside of her wrist, before placing it on his extended arm.

There had been something in that smile that wrung an instant response from her, something intimate that she was too inexperienced to define. Blood-pulsing. Nerve-tingling. As though he knew of, and understood, her dilemma perfectly.

She had groped for something to say before they turned to greet their guests, but it was too late. Whirling in upon itself, her mind paralyzed her tongue, and the moment passed.

Color flowed under her skin, staining her cheeks a dull pink at the memory. She’d been scared by that kiss! Terrified by the churning inside her. In vain she tossed the memory aside, but perfunctory though the gesture might have been, the spot he kissed still tingled and throbbed.

Tossing a sheaf of notes into the wastepaper basket, Sophy had the uncomfortable feeling that she had been outmaneuvered. It was difficult to recall, even now.

Dredging it up was like opening the edges of a slowly healing wound and probing for the nerve. Although he held her arm, she had not dared to look at him. She was conscious of his nearness, conscious, too, that he was tense.

The relief was there in her eyes when a servant had handed Seth a telegraph. She knew it, but couldn’t disguise the emotion when he paused in the act of reading the message, and met her eyes very directly. His blue eyes narrowed, he explained he had to leave for Chicago immediately.

That had been two weeks ago. The days had passed for Sophy in a flurry of activity as heavy trunks were filled to overflowing. Seth had decreed that Richard Carlton, his New York agent, would give any assistance she might need.

“Drink your tea, Sophy. You’re looking quite pale.”

Aunt Ella sat on the edge of the settee, ramrod stiff. Sophy’s ceaseless activity was disturbing to say the least.

“If I stop now, I’ll never get everything organized.”

Sophy locked the center drawer of the walnut writing desk and dropped the key into her capacious apron pocket. The closer the hour of Seth’s return, the more apprehensive she was becoming.

She was not quite certain what she had expected from this marriage, but she knew she was feeling a decided sensation of pique and neglect. Whoever heard of a husband going off the very day of the marriage?

“What’s the matter?” Despite her rigid back, Ella’s teacup rattled in its saucer, belying her calm. “Are you regretting your reckless decision to marry in haste, my dear?”

Sophy laughed lightly. “No, of course not! I simply want to have all my personal bits and pieces unpacked before Seth returns.”

By keeping herself frantically busy, she was able to keep her uneasiness, her doubts, at bay. But despite her attempts, one question throbbed in her brain. Had she made a dreadful mistake? After all, she hadn’t made a very good start. She knew so little about the man. Still, it was said that all things in life balance themselves out. She hoped so.

Timidly, Ella expressed her own reservations, “Perhaps it would have been better if you had considered the consequences of marriage, Sophy. A woman is only a secondary consideration to a man beside his work, or where his interests are concerned.”

“It’s too late to fret, Aunt Ella. We must deal with reality. The deed is done. Until death us do part. ”

Sophy dismissed her aunt’s qualms with a facetious shrug, and picked up her cup. Her nose crinkled at the dark, syrupy brew. Sometimes, Aunt Ella’s concoctions tasted quite poisonous. There was a brief silence between the two women as Ella drank her tea and Sophy contemplated how she was going to greet Seth.

Would it be permissible to kiss him? In her fertile imagination, she could see Seth holding her gently, stroking her hair, murmuring soft endearments. Beyond this point, there was no form or substance, only an ill-defined longing which made her weak. Mostly because she was a bit vague about the next bit. She had only a dim knowledge of sexual matters, and was not at all sure what “doing your duty” entailed.

Unable to sit still, Sophy wandered over to the one set of bookshelves that had not been denuded. Idly she plucked a thick, red, Moroccan leather-bound volume off the bottom shelf.

A small package fell from between the pages, to land with a thud on the carpet. She instantly picked up the packet, and warily turned it over in her hands.

Ella sat her saucer on the table in front of her. The cup rattled again, and her back straightened even more. “What is it, dear?”

Sophy carefully undid the knotted red tape and unrolled the folio. Pressing it flat against the desk, she stood studying it for a long moment. Eventually she looked at her aunt, dark brows raised in curious question.

“Did you know Father owned property in Greene Street, Aunt?”

To her surprise, Ella blushed and looked away quickly, as if she was anxious not to let Sophy see her expression. It was almost as if she knew something.

“Nicholas never discussed business with me.”

Sophy frowned over the faded ink record of ownership. It was hard to believe that her father kept secrets from her, or that Ella might have been privy to that information. So it was with deliberation that she faced her aunt.

“I remember he often mentioned appointments he had in Greene Street. Once when I wanted him to put a proposal to John Rockefeller regarding an investment in the Cleveland oil refinery, Father said it was ‘a convenience and a delight’ to transact business there. Do you know what he could have meant?”

Just as deliberately, Sophy studied the older woman’s reaction. Ella’s expression was closed and she looked uncomfortable, even as she shook her head.

Relentlessly, Sophy continued, “This seems most mysterious. I think I will visit Greene Street. Don’t you think that will be amusing?”

“No,” Ella replied with the gloom of one who knew that, like Pandora, Sophy might do best not to pry.

The night was almost silent, except for the tick of the tall clock set in the angle of the stairs, and the muffled hiss of the gas fire, which burned softly in the grate. Sophy came awake suddenly. Something had disturbed her.

Was there a noise? The question remained unanswered. She wasn’t sure whether it was a sound, or whether it was the beating of her own heart.

In any case, she was awake. Better to investigate than to lie in bed worrying. Her mouth a little dry, her heart beating a little faster than usual, Sophy searched for a weapon. Picking up a silver candlestick, she crept down the stairs and along the corridor, toward the soft, muted sounds she now identified as coming from the kitchen.

She heard her own footsteps echo on the marble hallway. They seemed to echo very loudly. At the kitchen door, Sophy paused, straining to pick out any movement. A slender, uncertain little figure, she stared wide-eyed into the gloom. Relief flowed through her as she recognized the tall figure and gleaming head of her husband.

A wide smile lit her face. She was too delighted to do anything but exclaim breathlessly, “Seth! I didn’t know you were back!”

In the dim light, Seth’s elegant broadcloth suit glimmered richly like polished obsidian, and his crisp white linen shirt created an illusory pedestal on which rested the chiseled form of his handsome head.

“Didn’t you?” A trace of amusement flitted over his face at the obvious pleasure she did not know she had betrayed. “You must have missed me, to greet me so enthusiastically,” he added softly, indicating the silver weapon still clutched in Sophy’s hand.

Self-consciously, Sophy thrust the candlestick onto one of the kitchen benches. “I thought it was a nocturnal intruder.” The words came out in an unsteady rush.

“You look...mussed. Did I waken you?” As he moved toward her, his halting stride unhurried, his face was shadowed.

Sophy cared little for his words, only his presence. She smoothed her hair, feeling such a flood of warmth and pleasure that she felt weak. “It doesn’t matter. Welcome back.” Her voice was shy as she gave him her hand.

Seth’s jaw muscles went tight. In dishabille, her feet bare and with her hair flowing like a length of ebony silk about her shoulders, his wife looked very young and very fragile. Like a drop of morning dew waiting for the sun. The illusion of sweet, trembling innocence was heightened by her demure, white cotton negligee, trimmed with broderie anglaise.

Mildly irritated, he realized something about his pixiefaced wife had gotten to him. The determined lift of her chin, the mouth wide and ready to smile, the sweet clarity of her eyes drew him.

Curse her. Curse her. Curse her. She had already stripped him of his pride, his self-respect. Never in his life had he envisaged marrying a woman for her money, or having a wife who was richer than himself.

He had to be strong, or he was in danger of losing his honor, as well. The answer was simple. He must overcome this weakness induced by a pair of guileless dawn gray eyes and three years’ abstinence. Resist the temptation to press himself against her, beg her to let him make love to her.

He took a slow, steadying breath. Hell, where had that idea come from? It put him off-balance. He smiled in selfderision, taking her hand to his lips in a practiced, masculine gesture.

“It is nice to be back, Mrs. Weston.” His voice was low and thick.

Sophy’s brain was awhirl with delicious confusion. She had forgotten the sound of his voice, the low but distinct quality that seemed to intimate much more than the simple words he spoke.

It shook her to her core. She trembled involuntarily, and she could not think why. “I daresay you are tired after the rail journey from Chicago,” she heard herself say, still somewhat unsure of herself.

He let go of her hand and bowed slightly, as if he were a mechanical doll. “I am, a trifle.”

His voice was dry, but before Sophy had time to dwell on it, he had adroitly changed the subject by asking about the possibility of getting a hot drink.

Sophy studied Seth in silence for a moment, noting the tautness of weariness around his mouth and the shadowed hollows over tired eyes. A rush of compassion made her forget his neglect, whether it was real or fancied, and want to assuage that utter exhaustion glimpsed in his face.

She struck a match and lit the gaslight, adjusting the jet on the wall sconce, an air of sudden determination in her eyes. “Sit down and make yourself comfy. I’ll make some coffee.”

His brows went up. “Here?”

“It’ll only take me a minute to make some. Would you like something to eat? Some cold meat? An omelet?”

“You can cook?”

He made a faint curl of his mouth, not quite a smile, but not quite an insult. Sophy’s answering grin was both taunting and triumphant.

“I’m not just a wealthy heiress. Not only can I cook, but I’ve a talent for organizing business affairs. I am a master when it comes to keeping accounts and I have a gift for solving riddles and puzzle. That’s how I know you’re hungry now.”

She pertly tilted her head to one side, studying him, her eyes wide with a quaint mixture of concern and eagerness in their depths. Their message all but shattered his reserve, and her gamine smile touched a place within him that no one had touched for a long time.

Seth felt as though he had received a blow. He felt the impact deep in his body, and winced. It was as if something vital had disintegrated inside him, collapsed in on itself, solidified and condensed in his loins, taking what he had of himself with it, leaving an empty shell that stood there like an idiot, unable to function.

He released a soft rush of breath, and smiled whimsically. “I hadn’t realized the extent of your accomplishments. You’ve whetted my appetite. I’d love an omelet.”

The quiet words broke the spell they had been bound in, and Sophy set to work briskly. As she calmly broke eggs into a bowl, she was pleased the kitchen was a modern one, with a new gas cooker and icebox, even if, somehow, the room seemed smaller when Seth was in it. Certainly there was a sense of unreality in having him sit there, watching her prepare a midnight snack.

Seth seemed disinclined to small talk, content to sit in silence, regarding her with an enigmatic expression.

That steady, silent regard began to wield a strange effect on Sophy, making her feel awkward and unsure of herself. Her heart began an erratic thumping, and she felt hot one minute, chilly the next. A long breath escaped her lips, and she felt light-headed. When their gazes collided, she found she could not tear her eyes away from his.

Seth leaned his elbows on the table. If he didn’t know better he would say his wife’s fascination was oddly innocent and totally genuine. His white teeth glinted, and his eyes crinkled in sardonic amusement.

“A watched pot may never boil, my dear, but an unwatched omelet will always burn!”

Cheeks scarlet, Sophy lowered her lashes quickly. She found her husband had an unsettling effect. Disturbing. Making her a stranger to herself. Restless in a way that she didn’t like.

What she did like was the way Seth tucked into the fluffy omelet, oozing cheese. His Adam’s apple slid up and down as if he savored every mouthful.

In truth, Seth did. For several years he had been accustomed to camp fare, which, more often than not, consisted of basic army rations subsidized, on occasion, with a scraggy chicken or jackrabbit stew. The cook he employed had neither the expertise nor the desire to embark on any recipe more exciting than boiled meat and potatoes.

“I must commend you on your cooking, Sophy. That was delicious.” He scraped the last morsel off his plate.

“You ought to taste my coq au vin and my boeuf à la mode.”

“When did you learn to cook like that?”

“One of the many indulgences my father gave me was cooking lessons from a French chef.” Sophy knew she was gabbling, her tongue working faster than her brain. “Father paid Marcel’s passage from Paris on condition he stay with us for six months. Marcel stayed for a year, found himself an American bride and now owns a restaurant downtown.”

Seth arched one dark eyebrow. “You look like a bride yourself, all decked out in white, waiting for her husband.”

Instant warmth flooded Sophy’s cheeks. Suddenly she was painfully conscious of him, of his maleness, of all that this night could mean. She stood uncertainly. She did not speak, but simply looked at him, her eyes very wide and pleading in her small face. Her lips trembled.

It seemed an eternity passed before he moved. Slowly, gently, he put his hands on her shoulders, and drew her toward him. The warm masculine smell of wool and leather, and something indefinable, flooded her senses. Sophy’s hands came up and clutched the white pleated folds of his shirt. She saw the brown skin of his throat, and felt the vibrations of his heartbeat through her fingertips.

Instinctively, Sophy stood still within Seth’s arms. The caressing hands slid across her back, warm through the frail barrier of cotton, his touch as delicate as a butterfly’s, as light as down.

Her fears and hesitation fled, and she snuggled closer. His arms tightened. Slowly she let her hands, still shy in their response, slide up to his shoulders. Touching him meant merging reality with dreams.

Seth withdrew from her slightly to stare into her eyes, his own fiercely blue. She quivered in his arms like a fragile, windswept flower. His palms tested the contours of her waist before his hands came back to her shoulders, moving lightly back and forth, over her collarbone, circling lower and lower with each stroke.

The buttons of her negligee gave way beneath his fingers, and he brushed the fine material aside. Sophy’s thoughts became scattered and unfocused. The tips of his fingers trailed across the tops of her breasts, curved down, round, to softly cup the underside of the soft mounds.

It was shocking, and somehow shameful, but very low down, below the pit of her stomach, her organs began to twist and coil, to converge throbbingly in a tightly laced ball. A deep shuddering sigh convulsed her body, which was soft and yielding in a way it had never been before.

Seth whispered something incoherent, and then his mouth came down hard on hers. Sophy clung to him, her mind reeling, her insides quivering. She arched against him, her mouth finding his with answering passion.

She murmured in protest when his lips left hers, but Seth only slipped lower, kissing the hollow of her throat. He made a groaning sound, and his thumbs stroked the rounded flesh.

Sophy pushed in denial of the hand at her breast, but then came a tremulous joy, so strong it was almost painful. A rising, thickening pleasure that drew her muscles taut. The universe shrank to the size of a hand and only his fingers were real. They probed the hardened peak before he drew it into his mouth.

The warm wetness of his mouth, the roughness of his tongue, made Sophy squeeze her eyes shut. She gasped as a bolt of fire pierced her loins, rippled down her thighs, up her belly, leaving her quivering, muscles trembling in a deep, hurting need.

She was going to die! She whimpered and dissolved into his body, raking her fingers through his hair, wanting, needing something only he could give.

The solid strength of his body touching hers made Sophy feel weak. Full-length against him, she was aware of his labored breathing, of every muscle in his long legs, the fiercely masculine outline of his body. His responses became slow and hesitant, as if he feared hurting her, though he made no attempt to camouflage his desire, as he pressed her to him.

Seth was straining her to him so intensely, pressing her curves into the hard planes of his body with kneading, wanting hands, that it came as a shock to Sophy when he suddenly thrust her back from him and held her inches away in a hurting grip that told her how hard it was for him to break contact with her. She glanced up at him in bewilderment, and saw the faint uncertainty in his features before his face hardened into its familiar unemotional mask.

Feeling much like a man caught in a tidal wave, Seth made a desperate attempt to battle against an irresistible force. He had promised to give her time! His body surged with desire. He felt ready to erupt!

There was chaos in him. He couldn’t give in to lust. How could he not? He couldn’t. It was destruction. He was a man of honor. He must resist, give her the time she had asked for. His voice was low and rough.

“Go to bed, Sophy. I’ll tidy up here.”

“Will you be joining me?” Her voice was an airless whisper. Her breath had been taken by an explosion of ecstasy and confusion.

“No. I am travel-weary and tired, Sophy. Let’s leave it at that.”

Silence filled the kitchen. Sophy waited for a heartbeat. For an instant, she felt as though everything inside were collapsing. Her knees were shaking and she felt weak and cold all over, as if the blood were draining from her body. Seizing her composure with a stubborn will, she stiffened her spine. Pride alone kept her chin up.

At last she spoke in a voice that seemed to echo the thundering of Seth’s pounding pulse. “As you wish.”

He watched her go, quietly shutting the door behind her. He had an overwhelming desire to call her back. Still, he kept himself in check. For a long time, he stood there, looking at the closed door, listening for the sound of her footsteps. A very long time. But he couldn’t hear them, for the beating of his heart.

“For heaven’s sake, lass. Whatever’s the matter with ye?”

A face-crinkling frown replaced the morning smile of greeting that had spread over Tessa Fraser’s face as she drew the bedroom curtains.

Sophy shrugged. “Seth came home last night.” The words were flat, without expression, like black stones dropped into a stagnant pool.

“Oh, my precious lamb! Do ye want to tell me about it?” Tessa’s voice was all concern.

“I should never have married him, Tessa. Never.”

Sophy pulled up short. She could have bitten off her tongue for letting that out. Where on earth was her mind wandering? Conscious of her own dissatisfaction, she had been so occupied with her chaotic reflections that she had not given a thought to her words.

“There, there, now.” Tessa shook her head in her inability to refute the vehement declaration. “What’s done is done.” She gently wrapped her arm around Sophy’s shoulders.

Sophy whirled. Thrust off Tessa’s comforting hand. Shook her head in denial. This attraction she felt for Seth made her feel out of control, and it wasn’t a feeling she was at all comfortable with.

“No, it’s not done. Seth Weston has a lot to learn about marriage. He made a bargain. Signed a contract. I am not a weak and pliable creature to be pushed to one side.”

There followed a long moment of silence in which Tessa watched Sophy jump off the bed and insert her feet into the mules beside the bed.

“Merciful heavens! Has he been unfaithful, then? When ye’ve only been married a few weeks!” Tessa’s words were faint, filled with disbelief, matching the surprise in her face.

Sophy flushed to the roots of her hair as a most unladylike certainty goaded her sharp reply, “Of course not! His mother was ill, but that does not mean I am to be left behind like some ornament on a shelf.”

Tessa’s robust face paled considerably, and her lips twitched briefly in a bleak smile. “Aye. ‘Tis right sorry I am, my wee bairn, to find ye so provoked. ’Tis thinking I am that wanting and marrying are two different things to a man.”

Sophy shrugged testily. She managed to curb her tongue and did not answer. There was no need, no reason to make that assumption seem trivial. After all, Seth had what he wanted from the marriage...her money.

What she had never anticipated was that her own emotions would betray her, challenge long-held convictions. But one thing was certain. She had not married to be subjected to the sweet kind of indulgence usually reserved for children or to be treated like some kind of parcel!

Tessa dared no further comments, for she sensed by the brusqueness of Sophy’s reactions that she wished to speak no more of the matter. Instead, she deliberately engaged in an inconsequential one-sided conversation about some phantom creatures invading the kitchen in the night.

As Tessa brushed and styled her hair, Sophy resolutely kept her eyes shut. That way, she could envisage Seth lying across her bed, lazy and content, relaxed in a magnificent sprawl, like a huge jungle cat, satiated with love. Somehow the vision shifted, changed. He was now a medieval knight, ready to defend her honor, her very life.

It was an illusion she could cling to, one she could hold dear. How one converted the image into reality was another matter, especially when love was not a factor in the equation that was her future.

Her father had always advised when in a situation requiring instant answers to trust her inner voices and good common sense. What would he have said to her present situation?

Sophy could almost hear his voice. Well, my girl, pride and arrogance have gotten you into a fine mess! You’re the one who set the limits to the relationship. You’re the one who’ll have to renegotiate. How she missed him!

Resolutely, she turned her mind to more prosaic matters. Like her new project. Her face brightened. Like finding a house in Greene Street.

Sophy drew her brows together in mild exasperation. The warm day had darkened rapidly as fleeting wisps of cloud gathered to form masses of gray slate across the sky, casting a pall over the sun. The wind moaned as it drove clouds into a tumbling, threatening horde above the comb of chimney tops.

The carriage turned into a narrow street where stately brownstone mansions nestled behind grilled-iron doorways. Midway along the thoroughfare, the carriage stopped. Bidding the cabriolet driver to wait, Sophy hurried up the semicircular shallow marble steps, peered at the nameplate and rang the doorbell.

A servant opened the door, took her card and disappeared.

She took a deep, spine-stiffening breath as the door opened again and the servant gestured to Sophy to enter. Though the house was strangely silent, Sophy thought she heard the muffled tones of voices raised, and even the peculiar sound of suppressed laughter.

Entering the drawing room, Sophy stared in awe at the brightly patterned pink wallpaper, the large diamond-paned windows, the lavish mahogany paneling glowing with a rich luster. An exquisite rose-and-gray Aubusson carpet covered the floor, while against one wall a small iron stove glowed, exuding warmth. Hanging over all in the center of the ceiling was a tremendous crystal chandelier.

Sitting among a plethora of pink velvet cushions was a golden-haired woman. Voluptuous. Elegant. Dressed in a low-cut gown of watered silk, a ruffled shawl of bobbin lace over her shoulders. Her legs were covered with a gray woolen rug patterned with pink hearts. She looked up as the door opened, making no attempt to rise.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Weston?” Her voice like warm black velvet, thick with a French accent.

Sophy put down her muff. “I am looking for Madame Bertine. I wish to speak with her privately.”

The woman inclined her perfectly shaped head. “Speak, ma fille. ”

Sophy stared directly into a pair of intense dark eyes. She took a deep breath. “I have come, Madame, because I have discovered my late father bought a certain piece of real estate.” She pulled the ribbon-bound deeds from her reticule. “He then gifted a certain Marie-Simone Bertine a life-interest lease on the property. I want to know why.”

There was a long pause. A half smile glimmered at the corner of the woman’s lips. Perfect lips, sculpted in ruby, curved round flawless ivory teeth.

Finally, she spoke. “It would seem Nicholas van ‘Outen was a trifle old-fashioned. ’E kept some secrets from ’is daughter.”

Sophy could hear the amusement in the woman’s voice. She felt her mouth open, then shut with a snap. “That is preposterous nonsense. I handled all my father’s business affairs. He kept no secrets!”

“Mais non. You knew nothing of this arrangement.” Madame Bertine shrugged off Sophy’s vehemence dismissively, then changed the subject altogether. “You should wear red, ma chérie. It would suit you. You have such lovely skin.”

Sophy glanced at the woman suspiciously for any signs of mockery. Seeing none, she sighed. “I am in mourning, Madame Bertine.” She touched her black silk gown lightly. “Black is a cold, dignified color. One to gain respect in a man, not love. It’s not a color to entice or excite.”

“What an extraordinary girl you are. With your dramatic coloring, and dressed accordingly, you could entice les hommes like bees to a flower.”

Sophy fought the urge to throw back her head and laugh hysterically at this absurd conversation. “I already have a husband.”

A husband whose heart belonged to his business. If only...

Madame Bertine nodded slowly, as if her thoughts were not really on Sophy’s reply. She was silent for a long while. “Red is a very bold color. It stands for something. It makes a statement.” She lost the thoughtful look. “I associate it with the strong emotions, passion, anger, desire, l’amour.”

Sophy felt a lump form at the back of her throat. She swallowed. Fixed her eyes on her wedding ring as a focus.

“I do not know that a marriage of convenience, a business arrangement, requires strong emotions. Though I do like heads to turn when I enter a room.”

No, only one. Seth’s head. If I were in a daring low-cut red satin dress, then he might take me in his arms, press his lips to mine, stir again those strange, fluttering sensations. If only...

“If you want a man to long for you, find yourself a motif. One he will associate only with you. When he sees it, even if you are far away, he will think of you.”

Madame suddenly became interested in the fringe of her shawl. She gave a small sound that might have been a sob. “I surround myself with ‘earts. The ’eart ’as always connoted affection.”

Sophy’s eyes widened as a sudden realization struck her, igniting a flame of suspicion in her mind. She gave Madame Bertine an astute look.

Father’s lacquered cigar box had an arched floral crest pierced with hearts! How could she have been so blind? She tried to suppress her inner excitement, but her high color belied her outward calm.

“Were you my father’s lover?”

Madame Bertine gave another Gallic shrug, and straightened the rug over her knees. “I’ave been the lover of many men, my child. Nicholas van ’Outen was but one of them.”

“But he must have meant more than the others. He bought this house. You live in it!”

“Ah, mais oui. Marie-Simone catered for ‘is needs.” Her eyes met Sophy’s with a suddenly troubled expression. “Nicholas van ’Outen was an honorable man. He would not jeopardize his social standing and risk gossip by taking a mistress while ‘e ’ad a daughter at ‘ome. So ’e compromised ‘is principles and set me up in a business ’ere in Greene Street.”

She laughed gaily as Sophy looked puzzled.

“I see you do not know what I am talking about. It does not matter, ma fillette. Follow the dictates of your ’eart, rather than the logic of the mind, and you will win the prize.”

Sophy closed her eyes, expelling a long breath. She clasped her hands together and defied the logic of her mind. “Madame, could you help me? Could you teach me how to win my husband’s affection?”

Chapter Four

“In spite of Lincoln’s death, there seem to have been...”

Seth let Richard Carlton’s voice wash over him as he idly surveyed the scene below. Suddenly, his idleness vanished. His fingers dug into the polished sill. Surely that was Sophy!

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He would recognize that distinctive walk anywhere. A skip, then a hop. There was nothing sedate about his wife. She bounced. Like an excited pixie.

“—the meaning of freedom remains unresolved....”

Seth craned his neck, searching the crowded street for another glimpse of the woman. A tantalizing swirl of skirts and then she was gone.

Frowning, Seth stared up at the piling masses of clouds, then down at the slowly moving line of carriages. He was sure it had been Sophy. What the hell was she doing in Greene Street?

“—nothing but a ceaseless round of parties these past seven months celebrating the end of the war. Do you agree, Seth?”

“Definitely. Richard, I’m sorry, but I must go. Just remembered something important I must do. I’ll have a look at the inventory lists another time.”

Seth did not wait for Richard to call a servant. He had collected his walking stick and bowler hat and was clattering down the stairs before the agent had a chance to reply. At street level, he realized how importunate he must have appeared. He glanced again at the ominous clouds, and his mouth thinned.

Greene Street was definitely not a place for an innocent young woman. Even Bishop Simpson proclaimed there were as many whores in the vicinity as there were Methodists!

Could Sophy have seemed so untouched, so innocent, if she was indulging in an illicit affair? He couldn’t—didn’t want to — believe it. Headstrong and spoiled, perhaps, but he knew his wife was fiercely loyal. So what was she doing in the area?

Sophy ran downstairs light-footed and flung open the door of the dining parlor. All round the room the gaslights were blazing, and the table was set with an astounding array of crystal and silver. In the center of a simple floral decoration burned one scarlet candle.

Her mouth curled. Seth would soon be home. She felt excited and no longer afraid. It was as if she had shed the last shrinking of anxiety about the future like a discarded skin and was now emerging with wings. A conqueror about to discover a new and unknown land.

There was a wild elation at the knowledge of the marriage act as explained by Madame Bertine. Exhilarated, Sophy spun in a pirouette. As though released by a spring, her wide-skirted gown of stiff corded black silk followed her body’s movement.

The mere contemplation of such delight was too much for her to face just now. She had to push it away from her, hold it off like some dazzling dream that she must not think of yet, Now there was dinner to consider. Now she must join the company in the drawing room.

The cold drizzle had started during the ride back to the house on Fifth Avenue and, an hour later, with the rising of the wind, it was battering at the window of the large drawing room. A maid had just drawn the heavy brocade drapes when Seth came into the room.

A faint chill washed over Sophy at the grim expression on his face. His brows were straight dark slashes in a face so pallid that it might have been hewn from marble. The glance he swept her felt like iced water as the magnificent blue eyes glimmered with strong emotion.

Concentrating almost fiercely upon his wife, he seemed unmindful of anyone else in the room. The silence stretched, broken only by the tap of his cane as he came to her, dragging one leg and leaning heavily on his stick.

The clear shining of the wall sconces seemed to gather about his shapely head in a nimbus of light. The brilliance of it was entangled in the piratical darkness of his hair and there seemed sparks in his jewel-bright eyes.

Forehead furrowed, Sophy stood staring at him through her mothwing lashes. There is nothing wrong, she repeated over and over to herself. Why then was her heart beating so madly that it constricted her breathing?

Their eyes locked.

Seth studied her face with the innate fierceness with which he had applied himself to the preservation of the Union. Abruptly, he felt idiotic, like a madman trapped in the nightmares of his own mind.

He drew a breath, torn between reason and instinct. His wife’s misty gray eyes were wide and shy, her soft lips quivering, ready to broaden in a smile at the slightest provocation. He found himself staring at those lips, waiting.

Sophy clasped her hands together, as they went up instinctively to quell the tumult in her breast. Something flickered in the pools of his eyes, and she felt some of her apprehension dissipate. She smiled, and once more that magical transformation took place, giving her face light and warmth. It was as if the sun had come out.

“Isn’t it splendid? Uncle Heinrich, Cousin Pieter and Cousin Bernard called, in this weather, too, to see how we have settled in. They are to stay for dinner.”

Seth started, his eyes slanting to the van Houten brothers. He shifted a cramped knee, and the preoccupied expression left his face.

“Hello, sir.” He held out his hand, with a brief flash of the smile that Sophy so longed to see. “Pieter.”

His grip appeared strong and confident, but tonight the poor man looked worn-out. He moved with a queer jerking motion as if he were manipulated by strings. Sophy longed to ease his suffering.

The warmth was still in his countenance when he greeted the younger sibling. “How are your designs for a steam engine that runs on roads coming along, Bernard?”

Despite his harsh appearance, Seth had the gift of inspiring confidence. The boy’s ruddy complexion deepened a shade. At fourteen, Bernard van Houten retained the snub nose and the chubbiness of youth, but his mouth and chin were determined to the point of obstinacy, and he had the same direct gaze that characterized his cousin.

“I am working on a prototype using compressed air, piston rods and valve gears.” A thought occurred to him. “Have you seen the hydraulic elevator that Mar. Otis has constructed at Haughwout’sDepartment Store?”

“No, but if you would care to come down to the plant room at Weston’s Textiles, you can inspect our new rotary engine; which is driven by gears.” Seth’s eyes, alight with unholy amusement, met Sophy’s. “If she has nothing better to do, I am sure Sophy would love to accompany you.”

He was speaking lightly, but there was something in the look of his eyes that made Sophy uncomfortable, and she felt a sudden sense of relief when dinner was announced.

A few minutes later, a large uncovered dish was placed in front of Seth. He blinked at the huge crusty pie filled with chunks of beef and redolent of fresh vegetables and herbs.

Sophy’s spirits soared, and her eyes danced as his gaze followed the dish of potatoes mashed with butter, cream, sautéed cabbage and a sprinkle of chopped young onions, which the maid placed in front of her.

“One of the reasons I called so late, Sophy, was because I knew you would invite me to a meal,” Pieter confessed, accepting a good-size portion of pie on his plate.

“Good management of a household leads to domestic happiness.” Heinrich’s voice carried its own conviction. “Sophy was never interested in sensible things like crewelwork and watercolor painting or the pianoforte, so we were relieved when she made friends with Marcel and learned to cook.”

“Much better than stuffing her head with all that mathematics, politics and financial knowledge, which is neither attractive nor necessary in a woman,” Pieter teased, with considerable glee.

Bernard simply enjoyed the food. It was, after all, no use trying to slip the least word into the conversation with Sophy and Pieter becoming immersed in one of their endless arguments on women’s rights.

Sophy glanced at Seth, who had a mouthful of pie and was chewing with enjoyment. He was satisfyingly engrossed in the meal. There was no reason to dissemble, so she took up her cousin’s taunt, a fire of righteous indignation heating her words.

“Don’t be so idiotic, Pieter. The winds of change are already blowing. It won’t be long before women take their rightful place in society.”

The suppressed fierceness in her voice caught at Seth. He looked up, met her misty gaze. She stared at him as if they shared an immediate, unspoken secret. It was a spark, like the new electricity he had seen demonstrated once, a spark that jumped the space from wire tip to wire tip.

For a moment something very soft and vulnerable flickered across his face before a ghost of a smile creased his cheek. Tonight, sentiment betrayed him. Sophy. Her laughter compelled him to share it. Her glance compelled his to meet it.

Pieter grinned at his cousin, his eyes challenging. “Women are all fools, even the smart ones. No, especially the smart ones. They are so determined on outmaneuvering their men that they cause themselves, and everyone else, endless trouble.”

The spell broken, Seth returned his attention to his laden plate.

“How can you say that?” Sophy demanded. “Women react as they do because men give women indulgence as a substitute for justice. I tell you it is not good enough!”

Seth found himself at once irritated and bemused by his wife’s philosophy. Because she used her tongue as a weapon? Because there was an element of truth in her assertion? Perhaps because of the deeper truth, that no man can entirely relinquish all remnants of his own masculinity.

Catching Bernard’s eye, Seth gave him a conspiratorial smile and put a forefinger to his lips. “Why not?” His tone was one of innocent inquiry.

Surprise flashed across Heinrich’s face, and he practically choked on a piece of asparagus.

“Why not?” Sophy tried to restrain her sudden surge of annoyance, failed and launched into her argument. “A woman’s entire future depends on her husband!”

Seth’s eyes, which had been communicating with Pieter’s over the top of her head, came back to her. What a little firebrand she was, so easily touched to the quick, changeable, lashing out. Never lose your advantage. Of course, the colonel had been talking of the battlefield, but the advice was apt here.

“Just as it should be. How else are we to keep our wives in their place? If this idea of universal suffrage gets out of hand, we’ll find women dictating terms to us, and what will happen then?”

“Anarchy and revolution!” Pieter contributed.

“Can you imagine it?” Seth murmured, with an air of masculine amazement that set Sophy’s teeth on edge.

Pieter drained his wine and announced in sepulchral tones, “This movement must be nipped in the bud.”

“Just think what would happen if women were entitled to vote? The infection would spread. Next they’d be wanting to become doctors and lawyers!” added Bernard with enthusiasm.

Sophy, seeing him seething with barely suppressed delight at the gathering dispute, felt decidedly annoyed. Bernard was too young to have any opinions on the matter. And, if he did, he was young enough to change. It would be one of her projects.

“But that is iniquitous! It leaves women with no choice, no pride, no...” She trailed off, realizing she was being baited.

A serene smile touched her lips. “Odious creatures. Do not tempt me into an argument. You promised, Cousins, if I fed you, not to mention universal suffrage or discuss the role of women.”

Seth caught the tranquil smile, and his heart leaped. Perhaps he had been mistaken. Perhaps seeing her in Greene Street had been a figment of his imagination. The mask of politeness that had been clamped down upon his face suddenly split into fragments, and he laughed.

“Promises and piecrusts are made to be broken.”

This time, everybody laughed.

“Isn’t Sophy an angel to put steamed fruit dumpling on the menu?” Bernard appealed to Seth a little later, licking the last dollop of cream from his spoon.

“A veritable angel indeed,” Seth agreed, turning to Sophy, watching the mobile curve of her mouth.

All his doubts came rushing forth, sucked back by memory. The inconceivable happened. The words that had plagued him for hours in his mind sprang from his lips.

It came as quite a surprise to Sophy when he leaned forward and asked, his voice rich and warm, “How did you get on in Greene Street?”

His question had been quite casual, but it had an instant effect.

Utterly shocked, Heinrich van Houten nearly choked on the portion of dessert that he had just placed in his mouth. He managed to splutter just one word, “Sophy!” as if the sky had fallen in.

Bernard made a peculiar sound. Seth thought it was a quickly stifled chuckle. Pieter preserved a tactful silence.

Sophy felt the heat flow into her cheeks as she recalled the scene with Madame Bertine. Swiftly averting her eyes, she played for time. She looked down at her spoon, rubbing her thumb against the embossed silver handle. Her lashes rose.

“Greene Street? What do you mean?”

Seth’s expression hardened. Her hair framed her face in a mass of dark ringlets that cast strange shadows on her elfin face. Candid, clever, guileless face. A strange conflict rose in his breast. Propriety bade him prod her no further, but he felt his anger returning.

With a menace that would have made any soldier tremble, he probed. “Did you, or did you not, go there this afternoon?”

Sophy swallowed. Her heart pounded unbearably at the bitterness in his voice. She thought she recognized what was wrong. In her ignorance, she had blithely visited an area where, she now knew, no decent woman would dare to go.

Seth’s sense of honor was offended. Which was very stupid. She had never doubted the usefulness of knowledge, and Madame Bertine had proved most informative. Of course, she had never paused to see with what coin such information could be bought.

She nodded. “Er... yes, I did.”

He curled his palms around the neck of the glass in front of him. Smiled at her, the merest slant of his mouth. The smile of a beast hot on the scent of its prey. “Well, how did the visit go?”

Sophy recalled Madame Bertine’s sage advice on love, sex and marriage. Her eyes lit up. “It was... interesting.”

Uncle Heinrich gave a deep sigh, which seemed to come from the very depths of his being. Twin blue flames glittered in Seth’s eyes. Pieter ran his eye swiftly over Seth’s face, and raised his eyebrows. Bernard rolled his eyes as he pursued with his tongue an errant drop of cream that was rolling down his chin.

“I see. Do you intend going there again?” His words were level, but his eyes spoke a different message. They were accusing, questioning, as if in some way she had hurt him.

Sophy’s ringlets vibrated. She looked enormously pleased as the affirmation issued from her lips. “Oh, yes. I have another appointment for the day after tomorrow.”

“Perhaps you would like me to accompany you?” There was a lazy, taunting quality in Seth’s voice. He took a sip of his wine. “As your husband, it is proper that I share your... interests. Will you take me along on your next visit?”

Without hesitation, Sophy shook her head, her voice warm and earnest. “Oh, no. No. I couldn’t do that. I don’t think you would be interested in what I have planned.”

The moment she had spoken she realized that she had made a foolish admission that might lead him to suppose that something less innocent than concocting a new wardrobe was on the agenda.

But he only shrugged and remarked, “Of course. No interference in your projects, no comments even, isn’t that what we agreed?” Seth spoke smoothly, covering his anger. His hands clung to the wineglass as to a lifeline. Not where he’d like them to be—around his wife’s neck.

“It’s not that!” Sophy’s heart was pounding, but her face showed nothing of her inward agitation as she quickly retrieved her error. “This is simply a private arrangement between ... friends.”

Pieter suddenly threw back his head and laughed. “It is good to know marriage has not changed you, Cousin.” Turning to Seth, he declared, “Sophy is incorrigible. I see you have your hands full already, Cousin Seth.”

Any other time Sophy would have been furious with Pieter. Now, she took a firm hold on her temper. She knew her cousin was being deliberately provocative. He could never resist an opportunity to stir up a promising dispute. Her little chin went up and her eyes flashed.

“Pieter, you will mind your business. As for you, Seth, there is no need to storm and bluster at the dinner table. It is neither the time nor the place to discuss my private affairs.”

“You are right, Sophy. It is discourteous to our guests. We will discuss your ‘private affairs’ later.”

Uncle Heinrich pounced on this break in the conversation with alacrity “An infusion of funds from war bonds to industry will get profits leaping again, Seth. Don’t you agree?”

“I hope there will not be too many points on which we do not agree, sir. Would you like some more dessert, Bernard?”

“Capital. I don’t mind if I do.”

Sophy allowed herself to breathe a great sigh of relief.

“Your coffee, sir.”

The valet entered the room bearing a small silver tray on which rested a white china cup and saucer.

Seth gratefully accepted the proffered cup and sipped the steaming, deep brown liquid. After all the wine he had drunk at dinner, he was inordinately thirsty.

He lounged in a tufted leather wing chair, the cup loosely held in one hand. With the other he absently rubbed his injured leg. A glass of fine Madeira stood on the table beside him.

“Anything more, sir?”

“That will be all. Thank you, Ned.”

As Seth dismissed his valet, his mind raced over the day’s events, the frustration and the dilemma of Sophy, his wife. His emotions were compounded equally by amazement at Sophy’s personality, puzzlement at how he was to deal with her and anger at himself for being so reluctant to claim the privileges due as her husband.

His little wife had brazenly admitted to visiting Greene Street, which even the superintendent of the New York police acknowledged was a den of prostitutes. And she had audaciously revealed further planned assignations.

Yet the air of innocent bravado that clung to her intrigued him. He wanted to keep her safe and warm, protect her from harm. It was all very honorable and very genteel and, to his mind, very unnecessary.

Sophy challenged. Sophy dared. Sophy was trouble.

Unbidden, the memory of her soft form rose in his mind. He could see those morning-dew eyes, framed by sooty lashes, that lured and enticed him to her.

Feel again the warmth of her body, shoulders bare, breast exposed, the supple feminine sway of her hips as they melted against him. Smell again that elusive feminine scent drifting from her raven-dark hair. Hear the little gasp of pleasure she gave as his fingers slid over her breast. Taste those dusky peaks, the salty sweetness of her flesh.

Desire ripped through him, hot and potent. There had been no one like this since... He could not remember.

His heart leaped. Fate had answered, and he should follow the inclination. It was time to see how much she dared. Meet her challenge. He drained his glass, and struggled to his feet.

“Your chocolate, Sophy. Will ye be wanting anything else?”

“No, thank you, Tessa.”

Sophy waited until the door was firmly shut before she sat down. She had to sit down. She could feel the trembling begin in her legs and travel up her body until she was forced to wrap her arms around herself. She was working herself up into a fine case of nervousness tinged with anger, the anger because she had no reason to be nervous.

Had not Seth been avoiding her since their marriage? Had he not been inordinately angry about her visit to Greene Street today? One would think she had broken some law, or committed a felony.

When all she had done was to confirm a long-held suspicion that her father kept a woman for his “convenience and delight.” A woman who had explained that she, Sophy, had it in her power to give Seth pleasure or to make him miserable. And, moreover, she had revealed how.

The difficulty was for Sophy to find a way out of the stupid impasse she had thoughtlessly created. It had taken some fast-talking to convince Matt Tyson to agree, but Sophy knew there was no real alternative.

Work absorbed all Seth’s spare energy. He needed the money to restore his battered pride. Only then might he change his outlook. Allow his leg time to heal. Find time to live, to love.

Thoughtfully, Sophy eyed the carved wooden jewel box that hid the telegraph message. The problem appeared in sharp outline again. She had been thorough. There was no way Seth would discovered her deceit. She had a mind for detail.

What concerned her was that there had been no information available from the insurance company, not even a compilation of contracts covered. A sure sign that someone was systematically draining funds from Seth’s business empire by fraud. She would find the evidence.

It would take time. Later, there could be a thorough examination. Now, she had more urgent work to do. Seduce her husband.

Sophy was still planning how to get Seth to join her when the door opened. He stood there, still dressed in his evening attire. His gaze was unreadable, but the fighting stance of his body was not.

Legs braced slightly apart, he looked prepared for battle from any quarter. He gave her a strange smile, as if he knew what she was thinking.

Immediately all the compelling emotions she’d felt when she first met him came back to her. Her heart leaped. Gathering her shattered composure together, she managed a faint smile. “Good evening, Seth. Would you like some chocolate? I was just about to have a cup.”

She poured as she spoke, as if she fully expected him to join her in this small domestic activity. Her hands moved quickly, slim, exciting.

Before he could reply, Seth found he had accepted the cup and saucer. So he leaned against the barley-twist brass bedpost and swallowed a mouthful. He grimaced at the sickly sweetness of the thick brew.

“Chocolate is good for you. It is a natural source of energy.”

Sophy smiled at him, a shy and pleased expression, then went back to the marble-topped dressing table and began brushing her hair. The gesture, so deliberate and full of meaning, hovered in front of Seth’s eyes as he silently drank the warm chocolate.

Minute by minute the storm within him mounted. With her dark hair streaming down her back, she looked as meek. as an angel on the chapel ceiling. He realized with a sinking, helpless feeling that it was going to take every ounce of willpower he had to keep his emotional and physical distance from Sophy.

“Leave that! I want to talk to you,” he commanded, unable to keep the heaviness out of his voice. He so much wanted to put his hands on her hair that his fingers tingled.

Sophy looked up, blinking. He was standing beside the dressing table with the cup and saucer in his hands, watching her with his intense eyes. She stared at him mutely, then put her brush down.

Seth considered her, and hesitated for a moment. When he spoke the words came out with quiet ferocity. “I would be obliged if you would refrain from such activities as you indulged in today.”

There was a flash of indignation. This was not what was supposed to happen. Sophy drew in her breath. Her chin tilted up.

“You expect me to be kept here like a parrot on a perch with a chain around my leg?” Her voice was high, ten decibels above her normal speaking voice.

He picked up his cup, drained it, then set it down with a grimace before he spoke. “You signed a marriage contract. You are my wife, sworn to obey me.”

Sophy jumped to her feet. “In the eyes of the law, infants, lunatics, felons and married women have limited contractual ability. Accordingly, the contract I signed is worthless,” she flung back, mimicking his tone of voice with biting accuracy.

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