From a marriage masquerade...

...to his bride for real!

Viscount’s son Barrett prefers building his empire to securing a bride—a wager to spend a week in sheltered belle Annie Carson’s family home won’t change that! Barrett doesn’t expect Annie to be so captivating, and when she runs away to find her scandalous sister, he must bring her home. To protect innocent Annie’s reputation, they pretend to be married! Will Barrett lose the wager...and win his wallflower?

LIZ TYNER lives with her husband on an Oklahoma acreage she imagines is similar to the ones in the children’s book Where the Wild Things Are. Her lifestyle is a blend of old and new, and is sometimes comparable to the way people lived long ago. Liz is a member of various writing groups and has been writing since childhood. For more about her visit liztyner.com.

Also by Liz Tyner

The Notorious Countess

The Runaway Governess

The Wallflower Duchess

Redeeming the Roguish Rake

Saying I Do to the Scoundrel

English Rogues and Grecian Goddesses miniseries

Safe in the Earl’s Arms

A Captain and a Rogue

Forbidden to the Duke

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

To Win a Wallflower

Liz Tyner

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08872-5

TO WIN A WALLFLOWER

© 2019 Elizabeth Tyner

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedicato a Ornella.

Grazie per l’arte che crei.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

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

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Falling in love with a shadow, a whisper of husky voice or laughter softer than silk, was impossible.

But when he saw the flash of wrist move in the hallway beyond the door, saw the bracelet slide and heard the innocence, he didn’t care that he hadn’t believed in love until that moment.

He stilled, only aware of the movements and sounds outside his vision.

Then she was gone. Footsteps pattered away.

He took in a breath, trying to hold the moment close, trying not to let the drone of her father’s voice cover the memory of the laughter.

He shook those thoughts away. Love was for people who didn’t know how to make money. They needed something to hold on to. But Gavin kept saying that Annie would change Barrett’s mind on marriage and love.

Barrett had wagered to let Gavin out of the obligation incurred from sending him to university and Gavin had put up taking care of their father one day a week. Gavin insisted that Barrett had to spend several days in the Carson household before he could declare himself a winner.

‘So tell me, Carson...’ Barrett forced his lips into the closest resemblance to a smile he could manage and leaned closer to the older man. He knew the power of his gaze. Knew the broadness of his shoulders and knew his voice could put more force behind his words than a fist. ‘Tell me more about this flying balloon business you started.’

‘It’s the wave of the future.’ Carson hesitated, moving sideways in his chair, fumbling with the cuff of one sleeve that enveloped his wrist, a tremble to his fingers. ‘A wondrous method of transportation.’ He glanced down. ‘But I believe I’ve told you all I know about it.’

‘Nonsense.’ Barrett’s trouser legs strained against muscle momentarily when he stood. ‘I’d like to return tomorrow and spend a few days with you. Discussing business, of course. Very important. Your words help shape my decisions. You’ve a wealth of experience, Carson.’ And a wealth of hot air. Carson didn’t understand that he needed to put his efforts into his chandlery shop and bring it up to snuff before starting any new venture, particularly one so nonsensical as flying balloons.

Carson touched his sleeve in an attempt to straighten a fold of the cloth, but he missed his goal. ‘Do...do you really think that’s necessary?’

Oh, it had become very necessary the moment Barrett had heard that laugh. He’d not been sure his brother told the truth. But apparently he had. Carson had a daughter who hardly ever attended society events and, Barrett’s brother claimed, was more beautiful than either of her sisters. An impossibility—and if his brother hadn’t had an insistent gleam in his eyes, Barrett wouldn’t have given the words a second thought. Curiosity had propelled Barrett forward and the wager had only cemented his intentions.

The laughter he’d heard lingered in his head, tantalising him. In that second he’d realised he wanted to see the woman, Annie, and hear her voice again.

He bowed to Carson. ‘I must thank you for the invitation. I’m quite honoured. I shall arrive tomorrow and I hope seven days is not too short a time for us to become better acquainted.’

‘Seven—’ Carson’s voice squeaked at the end.

‘I agree wholeheartedly.’ Barrett’s strides could never be considered long, but they were stealth and power in one.

‘Until tomorrow, then...’ He turned. ‘And I am almost embarrassed to say this—’ he tapped his thigh ‘—but I’ve a difficulty walking stairs. If you’ve a room on the first storey, that would suffice. Perhaps one with a ray of morning sunlight to brighten my spirits.’

The woman’s room was on the first storey. He’d see her face.

Then, to the sound of the man’s gasp, Barrett stepped into the hallway. His brother stood not far from the door. The barest glance was all the acknowledgement Barrett gave to the smug blink as he walked down the stairs.

‘Mr Barrett, a moment...?’ His brother’s voice.

Barrett didn’t stop and Gavin strode behind him, keeping pace.

At the entryway, Barrett kept walking and he hoped Gavin would take the hint.

Outside the door, Barrett paused enough to let his brother step beside him. ‘Go away.’ Aware of the many windows around them, he kept his voice soft. ‘I would prefer people not know we are acquainted.’

‘I knew you could not resist—the challenge, or seeing her.’ That swagger of Gavin’s head—the same Barrett had seen on his father—sent a sizzle of irritation down Barrett’s spine.

‘I still haven’t seen her face,’ Barrett said. ‘I’m curious. Get me a meeting with her. I just want to see what she looks like. That’s all.’

Gavin held two fingers extended and made a walking movement with his right hand, then he reached out with his left and snapped his hand closed over the fingers. ‘Last words of the unmarried man.’

‘My last words are go away.’

Gavin turned on his heel. ‘Good day, Mr Barrett. Please take a care with those poultices I mentioned.’ His voice rose in volume. ‘They’ll do you well, but be sure you stop with a single one. Otherwise, before you know it, you’ll be trussed up like a big goose waiting for the stewing pot.’

Gavin bounded back into the house.

Barrett unclenched his hand, wondering why he’d ever thought it good to have a brother—except Gavin had told him about this woman, Annie.

His town coach was waiting and Barrett gave a nod to the man in the perch, eyes telling him to keep his seat. Barrett strode to the vehicle door, pulled it open and slid inside with one lunge.

The awe in his brother’s voice had caught Barrett’s attention when his brother had first spoken of the Carson sisters.

If it weren’t for the bracelet sliding on her wrist, he might have been able to put her from his mind and wait out the seven-day wager unhindered. But he wondered what kind of face went with such a gentle laugh and what Annabelle Carson looked like.

He could usually turn his thoughts away from any direction he didn’t want them to go, but he couldn’t close away the question of the appearance of the woman who had such delicate laughter.

The sound of purity. Unblemished laughter.

If only she’d stepped into the opening so he could have seen her. He drew a fist up and put his elbow against the side of the carriage, feeling cramped in the close quarters, but still unable to put her from his mind.

At the soirées and society events he attended, he never paused to look at the innocent ones sheltered by the chaperons. Work did not stop because the sun set and the music started.

A smile might be halfway on his face, but he put it on much like he did his cravat. He preferred building an empire over having a nice bit of fluff hanging on his arm. The fluff was a weakness for a man who needed adoring eyes gazing up at him in order to build his image of himself.

Barrett closed his mind to the woman, moving his focus to how he would renovate Carson’s shop, thinking of the light fixtures, and updates to bring the business out of the seventeen hundreds.

As the carriage slowed at his home, he opened the door before the vehicle came to a complete stop, then jumped free in the last seconds of movement, letting the door swing behind him, knowing the driver would shut it if needed.

He bounded up the stairs to his chamber, forcing his mind to the world around him. In his room, he tossed his coat and upper garments on to the chair he used when donning his boots. The woman’s laughter returned to his memory. His trousers landed on the table that framed the foot of the bed. He stretched, head back, eyes closed, arms at his side, fists clenched, reliving each second of the moments she had stood outside the door.

A thump and crash switched his movements into action. He grabbed his dressing gown, throwing it on, the collar on one side folding under at his shoulder. He tied the sash as he rushed from the doorway and up the stairs to his father’s room.

Even in the darkness, the shape lying on the floor didn’t surprise him.

He reached down, fisted one hand on his father’s shirt, the other on the back of the loose trousers, and lifted the wiry shape almost without effort. He only stumbled when he put his bare foot down on a bottle.

In a few strides, he stood at the bedside, and tossed his father on to the bed.

Without turning, he acknowledged the footsteps he’d heard behind him. ‘Summers—somehow see he is bathed tomorrow. And air out this room, if possible.’

‘Yes.’ Summers sauntered to Barrett’s side. Neither man moved for a moment.

Barrett thought of the morning’s antics. He tilted his head up so he could watch the servant’s eyes. ‘Has the maid recovered?’

‘She’s fine. Just a fright. She understands.’

Summers, who only had two speeds—slow and blink-fast—was the only man who’d ever been close to besting Barrett in a brawl and it had taken Barrett longer to recover than he’d wished.

‘We can’t leave him alone any time at all. He’ll burn down the house or attack one of the smaller servants.’ Absently, Barrett clasped his left hand over his right fist, tracing the scars.

‘He was asleep when I left him with the maid.’ Summers had no emotion in his voice.

‘Or pretending...’ Barrett stopped. ‘If you absolutely must leave him in the future, make sure he has at least two people with him. You and I are the only ones to be allowed alone here. He’s stronger than he looks. Always has been.’

‘He’s begun to get loud. Shout out the window. The neighbours...’

‘Do the best you can. And don’t turn your back on him. Ever.’ Barrett felt the weight of his decision. The sensible thing would be to have his father confined. And he couldn’t understand why he didn’t do it. It wasn’t as if he particularly cared for the man.

‘For now, just let him be and keep the women away from him.’ He paused. ‘Go back to bed. I’ll sit with him for the rest of the night, but I doubt he’ll as much as roll over. He’ll be having pleasant dreams.’ Dreams of taking food from the mouths of others, perhaps. Or using a lit candle, planning to catch a dog’s fur on fire. He’d only tried that once, though. Barrett looked at the scar that ran along the side of his forefinger to his thumb and covered his first knuckle.

What other people considered nightmares, his father considered fairy tales.

‘A brandy before you retire, sir?’ Summers asked.

Barrett shook his head and ran one hand through his locks. Then he pulled out the collar bunched at his neck, straightening it. ‘Not if this is what it might do to me. If one of the maids is about, you might send her up with tea.’

He heard Summers leave, then Barrett turned, walked to the overstuffed chair, righted it and sat. He’d almost asked Summers to put a pillow over his father’s face. But he couldn’t say for certain Summers wouldn’t do it.

His thoughts drifted to the innocent laughter he’d heard earlier in the day. His brother would jest at him if Gavin knew he thought of the woman. Gavin had been right. The Carson daughter did pique Barrett’s interest. But no matter.

He closed his eyes, rested his head against the upholstery of the chair and imagined a world filled with the gentle laughter that he’d heard.

* * *

Annie raised her head at the sound of the knock. ‘Come in,’ she said, holding her place in the book.

Her father peered around the door. ‘Dearest, we’re going to have a guest and you’ll need to stay in the floor above this one.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Is my aunt bringing friends?’

‘No. This is a visitor. A man. I do business with him.’ Her father stood, feet planted, his voice persuasion soft.

‘A visitor? One?’ She stared at his face. ‘And I’m to move?’

Her father nodded, his jaw working sideways.

The rose room was empty. In fact, both of her sisters’ rooms were vacant. Honour was in Scotland and Laura had married a man who’d courted her through letters.

‘Besides, you are getting older now and it will be comfortable for you to have your own storey.’

‘I’m to stay above?’ She glanced at her book, not really seeing it, and then looked again at his face. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Very.’ He nodded, his lips thinning. ‘Our guest is a man. His father, the Viscount, is ill and our guest handles the duties for the family. I want you to stay from underfoot, Annie. While he’s here at least. We’ll be discussing important matters. You must not be a distraction for me.’ His face relaxed. ‘Please, dearest. He and I will be busy. He wants to change the chandlery shops. He thinks the improvements I planned are not the right ones.’

She paused, studying her father’s face. ‘He’s a viscount’s son?’

Her father kept his mouth closed while he gave a quick nod. ‘Yes. But not an important one.’

‘Not an important one?’ She leaned forward, trying to figure out what her father was thinking.

‘No. A title is not everything.’ He checked his pocket watch. ‘It’s a lot. But not everything.’

Annie opened her mouth. ‘I’m glad to hear you say that.’

‘Well, it’s not that I didn’t want your sisters to marry well. I admit it. I admit it freely. And I do want you to have the opportunity they squandered. But this man, well, he is not marriage minded.’

‘I’m not either.’

‘Bite your tongue.’ He put the watch back in his pocket, the chain dangling. ‘Marriage is everything. The right marriage is everything. And your sisters did not understand. You will do us all proud and wed someone who will bring respect to the family.’

He lowered his chin and looked at her as if looking down the sights of a gun. ‘You’ll marry well. You’ll be happy. Just like your mother and I. And your children will thank you.’

She bit the inside of her cheek, waiting.

‘This is enough of this talk,’ he said. ‘You’ll be going to the upstairs room and you will be staying there until you come to your senses.’ He bent his head down. ‘I did not appreciate how you stayed off to yourself at Lady Cruise’s birthday celebration. You hardly spoke one word during your dance with Lord Richard. His father is a duke, and even if the lad is only the fourth son that’s still a duke’s son.’ He raised his hand in tandem with his face. ‘You hardly looked at him during the whole dance.’

‘Father. Have you ever listened to him? Yes, he’s a duke’s son and he can say that in five languages.’

His jaw shuddered when he shook his head. ‘Enough. I will not allow you to throw away such opportunities like your sisters did. We will do right by you.’

‘By sending me to the attic? Where the maid sleeps?’ When a viscount’s son visited? That was so unlike her father. She would have expected him to have pulled her by both arms into the room with the man.

‘In this case, yes.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘Nothing,’ her father said. ‘But he’s spent his life...not like the Duke’s son. Lord Richard is admirable. Respectable. And I know he thinks highly of you.’

Before she could stop herself, her eyes flicked to the ceiling.

‘You will stay out of the way for the next few days.’ Her father’s brows met in the centre.

She tucked a finger into the book. ‘I have no wish to interfere. I just don’t wish to move to the upper floor. Although perhaps it will seem more lively with Myrtle about. I never know what she might say when I ask her for something. She once returned three times to ask me what I sent her for. It was easier to get it myself.’

‘She’s a good servant.’ Her father moved his head so that he looked into her eyes. ‘Myrtle has served my family her whole life. Loyal to the last heartbeat.’

‘But both my sisters’ rooms are empty now. The guest will have a place to stay there.’

He shook his head. ‘No. He is here to discuss business. We cannot risk you disrupting it. And it would not be proper for you to be near. Besides, he is not interested in a marriage. Lord Richard is. End of subject.’

She closed the book and watched her hand as she ran her fingers over the spine. ‘Do you not think I am wise enough to make my own decisions?’

‘Of course you are.’

‘I would sometimes like to... Perhaps I should go stay with my cousin while the visitor is here? I would like that. You always insist she visit me and never allow me to take the coach to their home. I hardly ever leave the house and, if I do, it is always with you and Mother.’

‘I do not want you, my only sensible daughter, to risk becoming ill like your mother. Your mother has never been the same since your birth.’ His bottom lip quivered. ‘But, of course, we are ever thankful for you and we would not change a thing.’

She could not answer. She hated her mother’s frailty as well, but she would risk her own health to step outside the doors.

‘It is only because I care for you.’ His chest heaved. ‘If you do not wish to wed, I can accept that. But if you do wed, then you will marry a man of standing. It is for your benefit to marry well.’

‘I know.’

‘Promise me you’ll keep out of sight while my guest is here. And not forget like you did last time. I heard you in the hallway.’

‘I won’t forget.’

It would be no use arguing with him. He only cared for her safety and happiness. She smiled at him. He nodded, glanced at the book in her hands and left.

She turned back to the novel although she wasn’t fond of Swift. She didn’t feel like reading.

Twisting the bracelet on her arm, she stared at it. The circle of sapphire stones in the silver setting swallowed her arm. But what good did it do to have jewellery if no one ever saw it?

If she had mentioned a wish for a dozen horses, her parents would have put them at her fingertips, but not at her disposal.

She knew the man had been in the sitting room the day before. Had heard the deep rumble of his voice and had followed it. Then the physician had almost caught her eavesdropping, but she’d managed a laugh and told him he had a smudge of jam on his face. That smudge of jam had diverted his attention.

The only person besides relatives and servants to visit was the physician. She didn’t particularly like him, but he did have a rather pleasant voice when he talked to her mother. A strong voice. Almost the same as the man she’d heard speaking with her father.

Only the Viscount’s son’s voice rumbled a bit more. Didn’t sound so friendly. Almost a growl.

She wondered what he looked like.

She stood, went to the drawn shades, and moved one aside enough to see out. She couldn’t even see the street. Just another house across the way. Now she would be one storey higher above the road. One level further from the rest of the world. And fewer windows.

She wanted be with her sister. Knew in her heart that her sister, Honour, needed her. It would hurt her mother if Annie left, but Annie couldn’t help worrying about Honour. Laura was fine, she was certain. She’d run off to be with the man she loved.

Without them, life was one day after another. Everything the same. She knew she could find a way to bring Honour home and to reconcile her parents to it. Yes, there would be tears. Disgrace, perhaps. But the family could rebuild itself, or just accept things as they would be.

Chapter Two

Barrett nodded at Carson’s recounting of stitching used in the air balloons as he and Carson returned to the house. The man’s notion of a rousing evening left a little to be desired. It didn’t improve with the tenth telling. Barrett had had to insist they return home early as he couldn’t bear another moment of the camaraderie.

Barrett gave the servant his hat, letting Carson ramble on. Three days. He could not take another balloon story and he had yet to see the daughter. Several times he’d caught a whiff of perfume in the air or heard skittering noises above his head, and just a hint of a voice that he’d heard only once before. He remained in the house, surprised that he was willing to stay, but aware he’d always had a persistence inside him that he couldn’t quite understand.

Carson remained at the doorway, giving the butler instructions to pass along to the housekeeper to pass along to the cook. Barrett continued up the stairs.

As he ascended the stairs, he realised she stood at the top, watching him.

A slender woman, with little of her face left over if you subtracted her eyes and lips and hair. She was seemingly frozen at the sight of him.

It would not have been out of place for her to be bathed in sunbeams and yet she hardly seemed the incomparable that his brother had spoken of. More like a whisper of a woman than the temptress his brother described.

He walked into her presence, unable to look away in those moments, trying to discern what was different and yet not staring. ‘You must be Miss Carson.’

She nodded, dipping her head to him.

‘Annabelle,’ her father called out behind Barrett, ‘you are supposed to be in your room.’ His voice intensified so much that Barrett turned to him.

‘I thought you were to be out all evening,’ she responded.

The man moved up the stairs with more speed than Barrett would have thought him capable of.

Barrett stepped aside.

‘You are not to be bothering our guests.’ Carson’s face had reddened and Barrett didn’t think it all from the exertion of running up the stairs.

‘It’s no bother,’ Barrett reassured Carson.

‘She’s not to be about,’ Carson said, shooing her away with his hand. ‘I’ve told her many times that she is not to interfere with business.’

The smile left her face. ‘Yes, Father. I was just going to see how Myrtle is doing. Her feet were hurting her so, as she has been running up and down the stairs to make sure I am fine.’

‘You are not to be traipsing after the servants. It is their duty to care for you. I would not want Mr Barrett to get the wrong impression of you.’

She looked down, but Barrett wasn’t sure if it was submissive or to hide her eyes. He’d seen the set of her jaw.

‘Go to your room,’ Carson instructed.

‘Wait.’ Barrett held out a palm in Carson’s direction. ‘It’s her house. I wouldn’t want to displace her. And my only impression seems to be that she understands someone else’s discomfort.’

‘She doesn’t mind staying in her room,’ Carson said. ‘Annie is used to it. Prefers it most of the time.’ He spoke the last words almost as an accusation.

‘I’m sure she wishes to keep out of the way. And I would imagine she does quite well at it.’ Barrett could attest to that. He’d tried for three days to see her in the family quarters and apparently the only time she would be there was when no one was around.

‘You don’t realise what it is like to have a daughter,’ Carson eyed Barrett. ‘Annie is the sunshine of our days. She tried to keep her older sisters from upsetting us. She’s the youngest and above all else I want her protected from business and the strife life can bring.’

‘My sisters—I have two,’ Annie said, lifting her eyes. ‘Father is concerned that I don’t follow in their footsteps. They’ve both recently...moved away.’

‘Laura married and Honour is visiting family because she could not be content at home. Annie is all we have left. And we don’t want anyone getting any wrong ideas.’ He glanced at Barrett. ‘She’s half-betrothed, but I must beg your confidence in the matter.’

‘Of course you have it,’ Barrett said.

Annie took in a breath and stared at her father. Barrett caught the apologetic glance her father gave her.

‘I’m sure there are few men who are good enough for a woman who might be concerned for a staff member’s feet,’ Barrett said.

She turned to him. A glimmer of appreciation flashed across her face.

Carson nodded. ‘It is indeed difficult to find someone suitable. I’d thought the man her sister Laura married half-good enough for her and—’ he shook his head so that his chin wiggled ‘—he sorely disappointed me.’

‘Perhaps Miss Annie and your wife could join us for a cup of tea,’ Barrett said.

Now Carson turned to him, suspicion in his eyes. ‘The women would not be interested in the things we men like.’ He clasped his hands behind his back and frowned at Barrett.

Annie smiled, but it dimmed her eyes. ‘I would not.’ She turned and walked down the hallway, head proud as any peer, and disappeared around a corner. The servants’ stair.

‘I don’t remember ever seeing your other daughters about London,’ Barrett said.

‘No,’ Carson said. ‘They chose to leave. I expect them both to return eventually, sadder but wiser.’ Carson stared at the path Annie had taken to leave. ‘Sons would have been so much easier to raise...’

The older man walked to the door of the sitting room, went through the doorway and then, within seconds, returned for Barrett, seemingly forgetting about his daughters. ‘Oh, and I’ve some balloon drawings to show you. I sent for them and they arrived while we were out.’

‘Certainly,’ Barrett said. He didn’t need drawings of balloons. He had something else entirely to visualise. In fact, based on the exterior of the house, the rooms he’d seen and Annie’s departure up the stairway, he knew the house as well as the one he lived in. Annie’s movement up the stairs had filled in the last question in his mind.

* * *

‘Dearest.’ Her mother stopped at the doorway, head down, her hand shielding her eyes. ‘Please close the curtain. I fear my head is going to start hurting. I see the little waves of pain prancing in front of my eyes.’

Annie turned, noticing the green beads sparkling on her mother’s slippers.

‘Of course.’ The curtain fluttered back into place.

‘Would you please read to me until the physician arrives?’ Her mother’s voice wavered.

She held an arm out and Annie guided her to the darkened sitting room, helping her sit. Annie picked up the footstool. Raising her feet, her mother waited for Annie to put the stool directly under the slippers. The older woman settled in place, fidgeting into a comfortable position.

‘I could fetch you something from the apothecary. I’d take Myrtle for a chaperon,’ Annie offered.

‘Nonsense, dear,’ her mother muttered, waving a hand but still keeping her eyes closed. ‘The housekeeper can send someone else. You have a weak constitution. I won’t have you catching your death from that tainted air. And please hand me the cinnamon biscuits.’ She waved an arm. ‘The physician has had them made to his instructions. I can see why he has been physician to so many families of the ton. He is so knowledgeable and so caring.’

Annie stepped away from her mother and lifted the tray of confections, the scent of them trailing behind her as she walked. She put them on the table at the side of her mother. Her mother took the nearest one, leaned back in her chair, shut her eyes and crunched at the edges of the biscuit, tasting more than eating.

Annie looked over her shoulder at the flowing velvet covering the windows. Some days she didn’t care if the air was unhealthy or the people all carried the plague and vermin crawled about. Some days she would just like to go to the shops without having to fill the carriage with people who must go with her.

Then her mother peered over Annie’s shoulder, and the older woman’s face brightened. ‘The physician can verify that you need to take care and stay inside.’

Annie moved, her eyes following her mother’s gaze.

‘Your mother is right.’ The physician stood in the doorway, perfectly dressed, perfectly perfect and very perfectly annoying.

Now she was sure she didn’t like the man. If he wished to keep her locked away, too, then she had no use for him. The house was bigger than a crypt, but just as closed. Well, no. The people in the crypt had more freedom.

He walked in, placing his bag on the floor, next to the pedestal with the bust of King George.

‘Oh...my...’ The physician stared at her. His eyes widened. Then he put a hand to his coat pocket and pulled out a monocle.

Annie leaned backwards as she pulled in her breath. Her mother straightened, as if waiting for a life-or-death pronouncement in a trial.

The doctor paused. He turned to her mother. ‘How long has your daughter been this way?’

‘What?’ her mother gasped.

In one stride he stood in front of Annie. He held the glass against his eye and peered at her. The scent of dried weeds tainted the air. The man smelled like a poultice. ‘Her skin. It’s too thin.’

Annie didn’t move. Her stomach knotted. She would be a near-invalid like her mother. She would be trapped forever. Her breath caught. She put her hand over her heart.

His head darted around, vermin-like, and he did all but wiggle his whiskers. ‘I can’t see straight through to the bones exactly. But I’m sure they have the texture of sawdust now.’

He lowered the glass to his side and bowed his head. ‘I would hate to see one so young forever... Well, forever not with us.’

Annie took a step back. She had to get away from his words. And if she was going to die anyway, she’d rather do it away from the house.

‘I can save your life. Should it be necessary.’ He raised his face. Then he saw the look in her eyes. ‘Don’t worry, Miss Annabelle. I have a cure.’ He held out a hand in a calming gesture. ‘A very reliable cure.’

Her mother tensed. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘She has epidemeosis.’ He patted a hand to his chest. ‘That term is my own as I am the first to be aware of it. In the rest of the world it’s unknown—for now.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Well. Nothing really.’ He blinked his words away. ‘The cure is so simple as to be...simple, for lack of a better word.’

‘But her illness?’

‘It’s merely a lack of bile. A serious bile blockage.’

‘The humours again,’ her mother whispered, eyes widening. ‘Those devilish humours. They never stay in order.’

‘Yes. But she’s young. She’ll recover fast. I just would not want it to hurt her spleen. If it reaches the stage where it damages the spleen...’ He shook his head, and expelled a lingering breath, seeming to paint the room with his concern.

‘I will recover?’ Annie asked. She clutched the back of the chair, using it to keep herself upright.

‘Of course.’ The physician turned in her direction, but he glanced briefly at the ceiling, as if he’d heard the words before and perhaps did not even believe himself.

Annie sensed something wrong, but she wasn’t sure if he lied about her recovery or something else.

Then he took the manner of a tutor. ‘It seems the night air right before dawn can build strength. By exposing a person to a small amount of some poisons, they can build a resistance. Edward Jenner discovered this with his cowpox theory when he created a way to save us from smallpox.’ He puffed at the glass of the monocle, blowing away a bit of fuzz. ‘But we mustn’t be overzealous. Give me a few moments and I’ll search out the room which has the highest chance of filtering the air in the right amounts.’

‘Are you sure it will help?’ Annie asked.

‘It’s very simple. You’ll have to sit alone, awake, in the room between four and five in the morning—breathing. Those are the best hours for the air. You can read, or sew or whatever suits your fancy.’

He tapped the monocle against his leg and stared at her mother. ‘I would certainly pass the word throughout the staff and family that they are definitely not to disturb her at this time. It seems the humours are most likely to be put askew by the people who are closest to her the most often. I—’ He put his monocle away. ‘I could speak with her for hours and it wouldn’t bother her as I’ve hardly been near her. But there’s something shared, a miasma of sorts, in people who have been closest to her... She needs to be away from them for a bit.’

‘Are you certain it will cure her?’

‘Oh, yes. I have studied this extensively. For years. I wrote a paper on it.’

‘Well, let me know which room and I will tell the maid to wake her in time for her recovery regime.’

‘I don’t want to do that,’ Annie said. She didn’t trust the man.

The doctor looked at her as if her spleen had just spoken back to him.

‘Miss Annabelle. You must. You have no choice. I have my reputation to keep.’

‘You’ve not been able to cure Mother’s headaches.’

Her mother leaned towards Annabelle, reached out a hand and swatted at Annie’s arm. ‘They are so much better, though. And the lavender oils he has the maids rub into my feet... It always eases my pain.’

The doctor raised a brow in one of those I told you so gestures.

‘Very well.’ She stood and looked at her mother. ‘But only if you promise to let me go somewhere the next week.’

Her mother’s eyes narrowed. ‘Where do you wish to go?’

‘Anywhere. Anywhere but a soirée or a gathering. I would just like to not feel I am being coddled every moment.’

‘Your father will forbid it.’ Her mother’s lids lowered. Her eyes drooped closed and she pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘My pain just increased tenfold.’

‘We will get that corrected right away.’ The doctor stepped forward, but glanced at Annie. ‘I will discuss which room for you will be best and I expect you to be there from four to five in the morning.’

‘Yes, Annie.’ Her mother opened one eye. ‘Do as the physician says.’

Annie left. She would do as the big miasma of a physician said, but if it became too tedious, she would walk in the gardens, darkness or not. She was tired of being a puppet.

Chapter Three

Annie bundled her dressing gown tight and took the lamp from the servant and waved the woman away. She twisted her hair up, unwilling to have the wisps tickling her face. After pinning it, she added the jewelled one—the pin her grandmother had given her.

The physician had told her mother to send her to the portrait room. Annie hated the Granny Gallery. It had apparently become a tradition for every woman of her heritage to have a portrait painted and, if the woman didn’t like the portrait, she would commission another and another until one finally pleased her—and then the artist would soon be asked to paint a miniature, or two, or ten.

Annie walked into the room, past the two shelves of miniatures her mother had insisted Annie and her sisters pose for. She held watercolours in her hand and a sketchbook under her arm. The barest flutter of air puffed the closed curtains. The doctor had insisted the window be opened the width of a finger. No more. No less.

Eyes from musty portraits almost overlapping stared at her. The ancestors. They’d probably all died in the house.

She put the lamp on the table between the chairs, which faced away from the window. They were the only two chairs in the room. Both squat, flat, and with clawed feet. The chairs were heirlooms and probably looked the same as the day they were made because no one willingly sat on something so uncomfortable.

This was the room where her mother put the furnishings that one had to keep because they’d been in the family forever, but that she would never have purchased.

And now Annie sat in the middle of it, thinking of which road would be best to take her from the house.

She rose, prepared her watercolours and stepped over to one of the portraits of her great-great-aunt. Very carefully, she took the wetted brush and added a beauty mark just outside the eye. It hardly showed against the oils. She sighed. She wasn’t even allowed the true paints of an artist.

She put the brush away, crossed her arms and paced back and forth in front of the trapped eyes.

If she went to find her sister, her mother and father would be desolate. She was the good daughter. The Carson sister who wasn’t wild. The one that took after the Catmull side of the family. And now she was inheriting her mother’s afflictions and she was standing in a room of discarded furniture. She jerked her arms open, her hands fisted, and grunted her displeasure. Making a jab at the world which had trapped her. She punched again.

‘Keep your thumb on the outside of the fist, don’t swing the arm and thrust forward with the motion. It works better.’ A masculine rumble of words hit her ears.

She jerked around and backwards at the same time.

A man stood in the doorway. Although it wasn’t that he really stood in the doorway. More like he let it surround him. A dark shape with an even darker frame. The man she’d seen earlier.

He took one step closer to her and she took in a quick bit of air so she could remain standing.

He wore a coat and cravat and could have been stepping out to attend a soirée, except no one would think him in a social mood with the straight line of his lips and the hair hanging rough around his face. He needed a shave—really needed a shave.

His eyes looked as if he’d just woken, but not the softened look of someone gently waking from slumber—more the studied look of a predatory animal ready to swing out a paw at the little morsel who’d dared disturb the beast.

She moved back.

He extended his arm in one controlled move, but she didn’t feel threatened.

He made a fist, held his elbow at his side, and moved the hand straight forward, but angled away from her. ‘This way. You don’t want to swing wide. Gives someone an easier chance to block.’

Her eyes travelled down the length of his arm, past his elbow, and lodged at his fist. Four curled fingers and then a thumb. The scarred thumb alone could have flattened her.

‘Yes.’ She nodded her head and moved her eyes to his elbow, his shoulder, past the chin, right to his eyes and then one dart back to his chin. She didn’t know what she’d said yes to, but at that moment, it was the best she could do.

She forced herself to look into his eyes and felt she could see the solid wall behind them.

‘It would not matter if I kept my thumb in or out if I should hit you,’ she said.

‘I would think not.’ He shrugged. ‘But, I’m sturdier than most.’

She nodded. ‘Especially stepping out of the shadows. You’re rather...daunting.’

‘I try to be. It helps.’ No smile to soften the words. He meant them.

He walked forward, picked up the light and held it high. It flickered on her face. She stepped backwards into the curtains and her fingers clasped them tight.

‘I did not believe it possible,’ he said. ‘I thought my eyes lied and my memory as well.’

Now he examined her.

With splayed fingers, she touched her cheek. ‘I’ve been ill.’

He choked out a laugh, lowering the lamp to the table. The side of his mouth curled. A smile that turned into a private chuckle before it reached his eyes. He looked away, seeming to discount her, and his own words. ‘Then I can hardly wait to see what you look like when you recover.’

‘Sir.’ She cleared her throat, because it hardly seemed to work. ‘I believe that is improper for you to say.’

‘Of all my choices, it was the most proper,’ he said. ‘But I do beg your pardon.’ A pause. ‘As I should.’ Words exactly perfect. Emotionless.

Now he stood so close the light flickered on his face. He had more ragged edges than smooth. She could not believe her father would invite this man into their home.

But this man would understand others defending themselves.

And if she were to go out without a true chaperon, she might need to take care.

Presently all she needed protecting from was her embroidery needle and that she might tumble out of the chair when she fell asleep stitching. But by Tuesday morning, that might change. She was ready to take her chances with the outside world. ‘So how does one hit someone effectively?’

A muscle in his jaw tightened. ‘Punch straight. Keep your elbow as close to the side as possible. Don’t swing out. Move like a lever. Not like a windmill. A windmill...’ he demonstrated, holding his arm straight from the shoulder and moving his fist forward ‘...is too easy to block.’

‘I will never be able to punch someone,’ she said, feeling helpless. She would never be able to go after her sister. ‘I’m always surrounded by chaperons,’ she said, concluding her thoughts out loud. ‘You would think I am gold, the way my parents guard me.’

True lightness touched his eyes. ‘Perhaps you are.’

Then darkness moved into his face. ‘You are standing alone in a room with a man you know nothing of. The world is full of evil and evil enjoys waiting for just the right moment.’ He stared at her. ‘Evil is patient. It only needs one moment of opportunity.’ His eyes narrowed and he leaned in. ‘One moment.’

‘You were invited by my father. He makes no decisions rashly.’

His slow intake of breath through his nose raised his body enough to show a muted dismissal of any disagreement she made to his statement.

‘I can scream.’

‘You would be surprised,’ his voice thundered, ‘how little noise can carry—even on the most silent night.’ He waited and cocked his head. Listening.

Then his voice took on an innocence. ‘Well, perhaps my words were not loud enough to summon help for you. Scream,’ he said. ‘See who comes running.’

‘It would be embarrassing for you.’

‘Just say I startled you in the shadows. You thought me an intruder. A ghost. A raging bear. You were sleepwalking. Whatever.’

‘I could say you accosted me. Do you not realise the danger in that for you?’

‘I’ll take that risk.’ The muscles at the side of his face moved. ‘I’ve taken many worse.’

He gave a twitch of his shoulders and blandness settled in his eyes. He took two steps to the door. When he touched the door, he moved with liquid stealth and turned back to her. ‘And how truly unsettling for me to be thought a rogue.’

Instead of leaving, he shut the door. He leaned against it, arms relaxed, hands behind his back, trapped by his body against the wood. ‘Now. Embarrass me. Scream. And not just once.’

Her stomach thudded, but she wasn’t truly afraid. He’d put his hands behind him and he had one of the I told you so looks in his eyes.

Silence engulfed them. ‘I’m not trying to scare you, nor am I jesting.’ He spoke in measured tones. ‘Your voice cannot carry through wood and stop dreams of dancing angels. By the time the first shout was out of your mouth, my hand could be over it and, if someone awakened, they would think it an imagination. They might lie awake for a moment to listen, then sleep would grab them again, telling them that they heard nothing.’

She rubbed her arms, trying to soothe away the chill. ‘If you’re trying to make me uncomfortable, you are succeeding.’

He opened the door and stood aside. ‘You can leave at any time you wish.’

He paused a second. ‘Did you hear my last words? Really hear them? You can leave any time you wish. Why would I even think it necessary to say such a thing to you? Is this not your house? Where you are safest in the entire world? I take it for granted that I am stronger than you and can control you because you are smaller.’

She couldn’t untangle his words. They just didn’t make sense to her.

‘Make a fist properly and use it properly.’ His chin lowered. ‘You can leave after punching me. Fair enough?’

‘Not fair at all.’ She stared at the beast in front of her.

‘A fist,’ he commanded.

She did.

‘Thumb out.’ He stepped forward.

She did.

‘Not like that. Your thumb is in a straight line.’

With two steps and keeping his body to the side so he did not block her exit, he moved closer. His eyes locked on hers for a moment, no threat, and a softer question behind them. ‘May I?’ He raised his hand level with her side as he spoke.

With one fingertip reaching out, he rested it at the base of her fist. Then with his other hand, he slid her thumb down until it rested against the outside space after the second knuckle of her hand, making sure her fingertips folded in, and her hand had a square shape to it.

This beast of a man touched her as lightly as if she were made of silk. His fingers, so tender against her hand, shot bolts of awareness into her. She couldn’t move her hand.

‘It might save your life some day.’ His voice rolled over her, reaching deeper into her than the touch had.

‘I doubt that.’ She took a step back, causing his hands to fall to his side. ‘I am careful. To have you in my house is an aberration.’

‘True.’ His eyes registered the jab and lightened. ‘But aberrations happen and sometimes more than once. You may still shout if you wish. As many times as you like.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps someone would come instantly to your rescue. Perhaps you would see how much longer it takes for someone to rescue you than you realise, or perhaps I would truly see how safe you are. Convince me of how well you are watched.’

‘What kind of game are you playing?’

‘I want you to see how much your survival could depend on you and how much fighting back is the best, or even only, friend you may have at hand.’

‘I am coddled. Every moment of my life.’

‘Which makes you a perfect victim.’

His gaze lingered on hers. He held up his hand, fingers splayed, but curved inwards. ‘Hit me. Hard.’ His voice softened. ‘Just don’t hurt your hand.’

‘No.’

He brought his hand closer. ‘Hit me.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I hardly know you. And though I don’t like you at all, I don’t have any wish to hurt—much wish to hurt you.’

He shrugged. ‘I’ve hit men I didn’t know at all. And men I knew quite well.’

‘I will not hit you. It’ll only hurt my hand.’

The tension in his face relaxed. ‘You’re right.’ He moved to the sofa and pulled a pillow into his hands and raised it. ‘Hit gently, then. Just to feel the movement. Not the windmill, but the direct hit.’

‘I said no.’ She looked at him. ‘It’s as if you like to fight.’

‘I do.’

He shook his hand sideways, emphasising the location for her punch. ‘I’ve never not hit anyone who asked me to.’ His lips curved. ‘Chaperoned Miss who cannot even scream.’ His face moved closer. His breath burned at her cheek. ‘You may hit me any time you wish, buttercup.’

His face not moving away, chin so close she could almost feel the bristles.

‘A woman designed to do nothing but wed well.’

The words jabbed her skin.

‘You’re a sweet confection only to look at, a well-designed form to display jewellery. If you’ve a thought in your head, you bat it away with your eyelashes so it will not confuse you.’

He moved around her, circling. ‘You’re dandelion fluff. The feathers in this pillow have more of a brain than you.’

She swung, straight to the chin.

His left hand moved up, his fingers trapping her wrist before it touched him. With a soft clasp, he moved her hand away from his face.

Then his eyes flinched and he tensed. He snapped his fingers back from her.

She touched her skin, to cover the heat his grasp had left behind. ‘If you only did that to show you’re stronger than I, you proved it. To yourself, I suppose. But I already knew it.’

He threw down the pillow. Again he raised his hand, palm to her and fingers open to clasp her punch. ‘Hit it.’ His voice now had the raggedness of anger. He shook the right hand again. ‘Don’t be scared, Miss Fluff. Don’t be afraid.’

Again she refused.

He leaned in. His eyelids dropped, humour and venom mixed, even as his voice softened. ‘Pretend I took your favourite doll.’

She punched out, force behind her arm. He didn’t clasp his fingers around hers, but moved back with the hit. ‘Better.’

All movement of the room stilled while their eyes locked.

‘Again,’ he commanded. ‘And don’t look at where your fist is going. Your eyes tell me your plans. Before you tried to hit my face, you looked at my chin. I saw your movements before they were made. Watch my face. Read my actions. Lie to me with your eyes.’

‘Why?’ She let the word flow with her breathing. ‘Why are you doing this?’

After gazing at her for a second, he dropped his arm. ‘Because everyone should know how to protect themselves. I was taught it by my father.’

Thoughts raced. Yes. A father might teach his son to box. But why was he doing this to her?

‘Apparently you did not hear that my mother died from falling down the stairs. Breaking her neck.’

She nodded. ‘Well, yes—I think.’ Perhaps she’d heard it. But it was a very long time ago. ‘My condolences on her passing, but what has that to do with—?’

The glare from his face would have stopped a horse from rushing ahead.

She said nothing, stepping back.

‘I was in the house that night.’

His sigh was silent. He waited long enough to blink. He frowned, shrugging away the words. ‘Servants carried her upstairs and put her on her bed. My grandmother instructed everyone exactly how Mother’s hair should be prepared and what clothes she should wear and told them to be quick about it. For the first time, she seemed to want my mother to be beautiful.’

Annie tightened her arms around her midsection, imagining Barrett watching his mother’s death. His eyes showed no reflection of the memories. In fact, he seemed more interested in how she would respond.

Annie remained stationary, hiding in herself as best she could.

Annie’s father had told her when her grandmother had passed on. That afternoon, her parents had asked her sisters if they wished to say goodbye. She and her sisters had held hands and walked into her grandmother’s room. Her grandmother had seemed to be sleeping with her prayer book in her hands and her favourite miniature of her husband placed against the book.

‘My mother was gone,’ he continued. ‘Grandmother was dancing around her and saying what a shame one so beautiful died so young. I didn’t realise Grandmother considered my mother beautiful.’ He touched his upper lip. ‘Mother had a broken tooth and all my grandmother had ever called her was Snaggletooth.’

‘That is a cruel name.’

‘She had her own version of endearments.’ He moved his fingers from his lip, twitched a shoulder and held out his palm for a half-second before his hand fell to his side.

‘At least she realised at the end that your mother was beautiful.’

‘I suspect she realised it all along.’ He stepped away, touching the lamp, and turned the wick higher, as if trying to get more light on Annie. ‘I often had a lot of time in my childhood to do nothing but think and listen. I don’t think the servants realised how their voices could carry or that I might be nearby.’

His head tilted a bit and he gauged Annie’s reaction, and she didn’t know exactly how she was supposed to react. Or what he watched for. She didn’t know what he expected from her. She didn’t think he wanted sympathy, or platitudes. But she had nothing else to offer and she didn’t know what he was looking for.

She couldn’t really take in what Barrett had said to her. He was talking about seeing his mother’s death. Every word had the resonance of truth in it, but it sounded cold. Unfeeling. As if he talked about a Drury Lane performance that bored him.

She truly didn’t know how to respond. She grasped for words that seemed right to say in a situation where someone talked about death. Nothing seemed to fit, but she had to say something.

‘I am so sorry. To lose a loved one in such a way... But you couldn’t have saved her from an accident.’

‘I might have—helped her. Somehow. I pacify myself with the thought that I was only six.’ He parted his lips slightly. ‘The last thing—’

She’d already started her next words and they rushed out of her mouth. ‘That is much too young to lose a mother.’

Then she realised she’d interrupted him. She’d spoken a moment too soon. His shoulders relaxed. Whatever he’d been going to say next was lost to her. She wanted to hear it and she didn’t think he’d known whether he should say it or not.

‘My mother told me that I had been a gift that she claimed had been found inside a big heart-shaped pie served to her for breakfast. She said she’d been quite surprised to poke her fork inside and hear a baby cry. She said the fork is how I got my navel.’ He touched the buttons of his waistcoat over his stomach. ‘She repeated the story several times. A strange thing to remember of her.’

Now his words moved in a different direction and she couldn’t pull back time to find out what he’d meant to say earlier. But she wanted to know. She wanted to ask, but it was his mother. She couldn’t interrogate him. ‘A mother’s loss would hurt anyone.’

‘I did not shed a tear then or in the year afterward. I was six. I had to be a man.’

She moved back. Her heels touched the wall, she gripped the curtain, but she looked him in the eye. ‘You didn’t shed a tear. For your mother?’

He looked at her. Just looked. ‘Fine, then. Years later, on the thirteenth of June, I cried buckets and buckets.’ His voice held no emotion. His head tilted a bit. ‘Feel better now?’

‘Her birthday?’

‘No.’ His eyes narrowed in thought and he took a second before answering. ‘I just realised I have no idea when her birthday was, or even the day she died. I wonder if the man of affairs knows. Not that it matters.’

‘What of her parents? Her family? Couldn’t you ask them?’

‘I have no connection to them. I met her brother when he arrived a few months later to give condolences, but Father saw that the visit was short. Neither she nor her family were a match for the world.’

‘I don’t live in the same world you do.’

‘You think that. You think it now. Even your father with all his nonsense knows—’

Her mouth opened and she rushed her words again.

‘Do not insult my father. You are a guest in his house.’ She’d thought him respectful, but now she wasn’t sure. She knew her father’s stories carried on and wandered, but she hoped her father had not joined his business with a viper.

‘My pardon.’ He moved, a bow of dismissal, and turned. ‘I made an error and I know I will not change a path a person is determined to take. You do as you wish and so do I. Parents can only delay or detour. Pity.’

His shoulders relaxed and he stepped to the door.

‘I wish you well.’ Now he said the platitude, but mixed it with a condescending air.

‘Wait,’ she said. Temper pushed her voice.

He stopped and, without wasted effort, rotated to see her face. She wasn’t used to someone dismissing her so easily. She could ask him questions.

‘Why didn’t you cry for your mother?’

He didn’t answer. He studied her face. His eyes didn’t criticise, they just waited for his thoughts to form or for him to choose his words. She didn’t know which.

His voice held the gravel of someone who might be ready to doze off. ‘I may have been only six, but I understood the world around me even then. Mother and I lived in the same house, but just as your parents seclude you from strangers, I was secluded as well. Mother played with me for half an hour a day before the governess took me away. Before I had the first solid bite of food in my mouth, I was slated to learn the family business, in all ways.’

She could see past the orbs of his eyes. Her chest tightened. He meant it.

‘Mother was a gentle spirit. Tirelessly in over her head at the choice of whether to ask for a peach or apple tart.’ He laughed, but the sound had a darkness mixed in that she’d never heard before.

‘Father probably chose her for what he saw as a lack of spirit.’ He put his head back, looking towards the ceiling, and a jesting rumble came from his lips as he moved his eyes back to hers. ‘Just as you are protected by your parents and aware of only the sugar plums in life, I was in a world not of sugar plums and I knew no other existed. Innocents were merely easier to move about as one wished.’

‘So you have...changed?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said and then his eyes locked on to hers in a way that let her know she’d be daft to believe him. ‘I now even believe in good-hearted pirates and that one can stop droughts by putting a nail under a pillow. It just has to be the right pillow. A pirate’s pillow. On the right day. Which is the day before a rain.’

‘If your mother had lived, perhaps you would not be so cynical. Six is hardly an age to be without a mother.’

‘I was an old soul in a child’s body. I just had to wait to grow. It just took a bit more time to fill out and for my arms to gain strength. Now, that—that was a considerable wait.’

‘Did you have brothers, sisters, your grandmother?’ She could not imagine herself in his world.

He turned his head, staring at the wall. ‘My grandmother was an addled witch who kept a fire poker at her side to gouge people with. My father was her shining star.’

No wonder he spoke so coldly of his mother’s death. The one person who’d been gentle in his life had been taken from him and an uncaring person had been put in her place. From childhood, he’d been forced to live without compassion.

She loosened her grasp on the cloth of the curtain. ‘At bedtime, who told you goodnight?’

She imagined a little boy in a huge bed and a grandmother whispering an evil cackle of goodnight from the shadows in the darkened room.

He turned his head sideways but kept his gaze on her. ‘I didn’t need anyone to tell me goodnight in my own home. That was for innocents.’

After speaking those words, he walked through the doorway.

She took a step sideways and dropped into the chair. No wonder her parents did not want her around others.

A tap on the door frame caused her to raise her head. Instantly, she fell back into her way of dealing with and soothing her parents and sisters. She smiled.

Surprise flickered on his face. His knuckles fell away from the wood. ‘Goodnight.’

She thought of the six-year-old boy he had once been. With all the softness she could put into a whisper, she spoke. ‘Goodnight.’ She looked at him. ‘See. It is a rather pleasant way to end a conversation among friends.’

‘I wanted to see your face again. The words were an excuse.’

The eyes. Tortured.

The barrier had fallen away from him.

‘Don’t let yourself be moved by easy words, Miss Carson.’ He lowered his chin. ‘All words are easy. Friendships can be more dangerous than blades.’

She shook her head. ‘The most important words aren’t easy.’

Her heart thumped louder in her chest and it took all her strength to keep it inside.

He nodded to her. ‘Pleasant dreams.’ He waited a moment. ‘Don’t let your guard down.’ And then he walked away without making another sound.

Chapter Four

Annie’s mother took the last sip of her tea and placed the pink rose teacup on the saucer. The pink rose meant it was Tuesday. Wednesday would have had the gilt-rimmed ones. Thursdays were for the silver vines. One could always tell the day of the week by the teacups.

‘I hate that your father didn’t have tea with us this afternoon, but he has had to lie down. This is our only time as a family. Even though it’s not quite the same since your sisters left.’ The grey curls bobbed as she spoke. ‘He has been touring the shops with the man who has all these ridiculous ideas about updating them and it has exhausted him. I think it may have tired Mr Barrett, too, as he is with the physician. But Mr Barrett will be on his way tomorrow. He upsets your father—all that talk about commerce.’

Mr Barrett did not seem someone who might be exhausted about talk of commerce. Not if he roamed around in the night and could speak so easily about fighting.

‘Are you sure you are not feeling distressed from the air last night?’ her mother asked, patting the strands at her forehead. ‘You look pale.’

‘Not at all.’

‘I will call the physician to look at you again.’

‘I don’t need a physician, Mother. And why is he here so often?’

‘It’s my bile again. You know how it is... He is so thoughtful. Not at all like Mr Barrett.’

Annie’s cup rattled when she placed it on the saucer. ‘I don’t quite understand why Father invited him.’

‘Mr Barrett does have a good man of affairs and seems quite interested in helping your father manage the shops your grandfather left him. But stay far away from your father’s guest. His eyes. Something about them. It’s as if he’s thinking all the time.’ She moved her hand, waving a napkin as she spoke. ‘He stares. I don’t like people who stare. It’s just not polite to look at people and think. It distresses the head so. The physician said it causes wrinkles as well.’ She patted her cheek. ‘I suppose that is why I look so youthful.’ She looked at Annie. ‘He says he can hardly tell we are not sisters.’

Annie smiled. ‘While you are quite the beauty of the family, Mother, I think the physician is full of his own miasmas and spreading things a bit thick.’

‘Nonsense.’ Her mother’s eyes darted to Annie’s face. ‘He’s a true scholar. He studied at Oxford and the Royal College of Physicians.’

‘Who are his people so that he could pay for his education?’

‘I believe he had a benefactor. When our last physician left after receiving the post with one of the Prince’s brothers, he recommended Gavin. He is well respected.’

‘Then I suppose he is qualified.’ She dismissed him from her thoughts, but she couldn’t keep Barrett from her mind.

It was so unlike her father to invite anyone like Barrett into their house. But he was a viscount’s son and her father knew how important that could be. Her father spent more time befriending people from the aristocracy than he spent doing anything else.

The memory of the Granny Gallery flitted through her mind. The man had tried to teach her to hit someone. She didn’t doubt he pulled his punches.

She would like to see him in the daylight hours. She touched her cheek again. ‘I do want to check with the physician to see if he can note an improvement,’ she said.

Her mother’s gaze wavered. ‘But not if he is with that man. You should wait. I’ll summon him. Ring for a servant to collect him.’

Annie stood. ‘But, Mother, the physician is close. It will only take a moment.’

Her mother shut her eyes and put a hand to her forehead. ‘Well, just be quick about it. And don’t let your father know if you see Mr Barrett.’ She whispered to Annie, ‘Your father says the man was seen about at a b-r-o-t-h-e-l when he was young. It’s said he visited every day. Not even waiting until the proper night hours.’

‘Oh.’ Annie went to the door. She stopped, looking back at her mother. ‘Do you think he thought it safer during the day?’

Her mother fanned her face. ‘Men do not go to a b-r-o-t-h-e-l to fight.’

‘Just a thought.’

Her mother shut her eyes and shook her head.

Annie wasn’t really looking for the physician. Walking down the hallway, she moved to the library, but Gavin wasn’t there, and then she tiptoed to the Granny Gallery. No one.

She would have thought the physician would have consulted with Barrett in the main rooms.

Then she moved to the room across from her old one. She could hear male voices.

She stopped, listening. The physician and Barrett talked. A rumbling sound. She wondered if Barrett had an ailment.

A few minutes later, the door opened, but the physician still looked back into the room as he spoke and stepped forward. ‘I cannot be in three places at once, but I’ll see what I can do.’

‘You’d best.’ Barrett said.

Annie stood, her mouth open.

‘Oh. Miss Annie,’ Gavin said, seeing her, then he smiled. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘My mother requested you.’

Gavin nodded, head turned to the side. ‘I’ll see to her.’ He walked away.

Annie didn’t follow him. Barrett stepped into the doorway, eyes dark.

‘Were you teaching him to fight?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘He looks like a soft flannel, but I’d say he can hold his own.’

‘I heard that,’ Gavin called over his shoulder, but didn’t stop walking.

‘Are you ill?’ she asked Barrett.

The creases at his eyes deepened, but his lips didn’t really smile and he seemed to be waiting until Gavin got out of earshot. ‘Miss Annie, might you be concerned for my health?’

‘No. You don’t seem to need any sympathy.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Or even someone to tell you simple pleasantries.’

He paused, watching her face, his own headshake nearly imperceptible.

‘You may know how to fight,’ she added, ‘but you could learn a thing or two about being pleasant.’

‘For me, pleasantries—’ his chin lowered ‘—were much more difficult to master than a simple punch. But I think I do rather well.’

‘Is it all a pretence?’ she asked.

‘Most of it.’ His eyes challenged her to make what she would of his words.

Her gaze mirrored his. ‘For most people their pleasantries are real.’

He gave one quick head shake. ‘It’s all a game. Quid pro quo.’

She raised her brows in question.

‘You do this for me and I’ll do that for you because some day I may need something else or you may and then we’ll work together because we are both working separately for our own interests.’

‘It’s a shame your mother died when you were so young. You might have believed in goodness otherwise.’

‘I suggest you do not leave your chaperon’s sight for one heartbeat.’ Then he stepped back, nodded to her, said a goodbye and gently shut the door.

Somehow she felt she’d been thrown under the wheels of a carriage.

She turned and walked back to her mother’s room.

‘Oh, my dear, we were just going to send for you.’ Her mother looked up, her pale dress flowing softly and pooling around her slippers. ‘The physician wishes to examine you so he can see how the treatment is going.’

He stood, the look of a schooled professional in his face and the monocle in his hand.

She waited, her demeanour that of a perfect patient, yet not looking at his face. She couldn’t get Barrett from her mind. Ever so politely, he’d shut the door in her face. The beast had shut the door in her face. No wonder he did not believe in kindness. He had none in him.

The physician touched the monocle to her skin. She didn’t move at the brush of the cold glass. Barrett’s eyes had chilled her more.

‘Oh. This is amazing. Amazing.’ He peered. ‘Her skin is perfect. After only one night of treatment. She’s cured.’ He stepped back.

‘After one night?’ she squeaked out the words. Relief. Disbelief and relief again. And then a memory of their guest, who seemed to know the physician, and then that Barrett had found her alone in the room the physician had sent her to.

Her mother clasped her hands in front of her. ‘How wonderful. Wondrous. Gavin, you are a physician without compare.’

‘Odd.’ She dotted her hand over her cheek. ‘I still feel the epidemeosis.’

‘Well, you may have a lingering trace I can’t detect.’ Gavin put the monocle back in his coat pocket. ‘If you wish to sit alone in the night air a few more times, I see no harm in it.’

‘I will consider it,’ she said. ‘And I do wish to thank you for saving my life.’ She put a little too much smile into the words and he glanced away.

‘Well. I wouldn’t go that far.’ He turned to her mother. ‘But miracles do seem to follow me around.’ His back was to her. He waved his arm out, his movements so close to the same gesture she’d seen on Barrett the night before.

She shut her eyes, listening, trying to gauge a resemblance between the men.

‘Do you think there is any chance she will develop it again?’ Her mother spoke.

‘No. Not at all. Miss Annabelle is recovered. We are fortunate to say the least.’

Annie excused herself and left them as they each congratulated each other on having done such a perfect job with her.

She’d only seen Barrett in the dim lighting but still, she’d looked at him with her whole being. She’d not paid as much attention to the physician before, but now she had. They were related. She would wager a month of her epidemeosis on that.

The physician had arranged a meeting and she’d attended just as planned. And Barrett had seen, or not seen, whatever he wished and now he was satisfied not to see her again if her miraculous recovery was anything to go by.

She remembered when the physician had first visited. He’d been so genial with her parents. So caring. He’d even enquired after her father’s business and they’d talked long into the night. She’d thought it odd that the physician had been willing to stay and listen to the tedious details of her father’s different holdings.

Then, later, her father had mentioned selling one of the shops at a ridiculously low amount, but how happy he’d been to get the money just when he needed it and he’d mentioned the Viscount’s son for the first time. Her father had been happy Barrett wasn’t the viper his father was and she’d felt reassured—freed from worrying about how her father would survive after she left home.

She reached up, took a pin from her hair and put a lock back in place, then walked to the window of her room. No carriages moved along the street. Each house as perfect as the other.

Barrett must live in a house much the same, yet the house had the memory of losing his mother.

A curtain fluttered in one of the windows across the street, and she wondered if a child had been looking out at her. And she wondered if Barrett’s grandmother still lived. If she’d passed on, Annie hoped he’d not danced on that day, though she wouldn’t have blamed him if he had.

* * *

Her eyes opened into the darkness and she wasn’t sure what time it was because she could no longer hear the clock’s chimes. The lamp still burned because she’d turned the knob low instead of putting it out.

Washing her face with cool water from the pitcher woke her completely and confirmed her determination.

She worked herself into her corset, putting it on backwards, lacing it, turning it and then pulling it up a bit more. It wasn’t easy, but it sufficed.

She wound her hair into a knot quickly and the pins went in place.

Creeping downstairs, she moved to the library to look at the clock. Two thirty. Well, let the soirée begin. A man’s room. She did have her sisters’ blood in her.

But not the ghastly, simpering, hug, hug, kiss, kiss, can’t live without you sop they’d inherited.

She couldn’t bear to be a victim to such nonsense. Barrett might think her an innocent and he was right. She had no reason to lose her innocence where love was concerned. She’d seen women about the ton carrying on with tales of broken hearts and husbands gone astray and being locked in a marriage with a lout.

A bad marriage led to misery and a good marriage led to brain rot.

Her own parents truly cared for each other and sighed over each other’s perfection. Their hours of conversation about what to ask Cook to prepare could destroy an appetite.

‘Whatever you would like, dearest.’

‘No, whatever you would like, dearest.’

‘Oh, no, whatever you would like.’

‘Dearest...’

‘Dearest...’

‘Dearest...’

But her mother wasn’t a mindless fluff when her father wasn’t around. True, she was a bit of a hypochondriac because she loved being fussed over, particularly by her husband. But, separate them and her mother could tally a balance sheet and organise the staff, all while twirling a knitting needle or playing pianoforte.

But Annie could not stay in ton and become one of the pretty posies doomed to decorate a man’s arm and his house and his children. She shuddered.

Barrett had a good thought when he told her she should learn to defend herself. She was destined, not doomed, but destined to become a spinster with a mind of her own. She’d almost perfected the spinster part, but having a mind of her own was giving her some trouble. She’d never be able to do that around her parents. They cried too easily.

She knocked on the oak door, hoping Barrett was right and that sound didn’t carry well.

She rapped again. He was certainly right about not being able to wake people easily in the night.

Then she considered kicking the door.

She couldn’t wait in the hallway forever.

Then she turned the latch and eased inside. The four-poster did look to have a shape in it, but she turned her head slightly aside because she shouldn’t look at a man in bed.

‘Pardon me,’ she whispered.

He didn’t move.

She slid back against the door and knocked on it from the inside.

‘Mr Barrett,’ she began on a whisper, but ended on a high note.

The form rolled over. Long arms. A muttered oath. ‘What—do you want?’ A wakening growl.

‘I thought about what you said.’

He sat up. Covers fell away. She closed her eyes and swallowed, forcing her courage to remain with her. Even in the dark, the man was a tower of strength. She opened her eyes and looked over his head.

He exhaled and his teeth were clenched. He finally spoke. ‘Couldn’t you have thought about it—tomorrow, after breakfast? Before dinner.’ He raised his hand and ran his fingers through his hair. She’d seen that movement before. On a pedlar when his cart of apples had been overturned.

‘You know I’m watched closely. I’m not even allowed to sleep on the same floor as you.’

‘For good reason, apparently.’

‘Did you have the physician arrange for me to be in the room?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Why?’ she asked.

‘You are said to be one of the beautiful Carson sisters. He said I would fall slavering at your feet. I was curious. That’s all.’

Her stomach gave the oddest flutter when Barrett mentioned falling slavering at her feet.

‘And the physician has kept you informed of my father’s business dealings?’

‘Not particularly. Not considerably. Your father has kept me informed. He talks when he’s nervous.’

She ignored his words and instead focused on her purpose. ‘I want you to help me learn to defend myself. In case it’s needed.’ And it might be once she left home. She wouldn’t be living in a large house with servants.

His eyes shut. ‘Practise your punching. Learn to scream out and shout No! If in doubt, bring a knee to the private parts. Goodnight.’

She didn’t move. She’d knocked on his door in the early morning. He should appreciate what an effort it had taken.

‘That was a mannered way of telling you to go away.’ He lay back down, rolled away from her and pulled the covers over his shoulders.

* * *

Barrett could feel her eyes on his back. He should never have spoken with her. Never have convinced his brother to arrange a meeting—wager or no. The damn little innocent was standing in his room in the middle of the night. And he was naked and the bed was warm and big and cosy. Way too comfortable for one. A perfect bed.

But not for him and this naive miss. She was little more than a pretty piece of pottery. Much too young. Younger than he’d been at birth. She was too naive for her own good. And she wasn’t doing him any favours.

‘I...I would prefer to hit you.’ Her voice moved like music along the air. ‘Hitting a pillow alone is not as intimidating. It doesn’t have eyes.’

‘Hire a footman.’ If he rolled towards her, he would not be able to go back to sleep. Well, that didn’t matter. He was unlikely to fall back asleep this night.

‘My parents would never let me punch a footman.’ She sounded shocked.

Heaven save him from an artless miss shocked at the thought of hitting a footman.

‘Go away.’ He put force into the words. No man would dare ignore such a command.

‘I don’t think it’s polite to keep your back to me as you talk.’

Much better than telling you to get the hell out of my room. A thread of civility remained in him. ‘Said the woman holding a lamp near the man’s bed.’

‘I’m across the room and you wouldn’t answer the door.’

He slung his body into a sitting position, using both hands to comb back the hair that had moved to cover his face. ‘Because knocks in the middle of the night never bring peace.’ He bit out the words.

Now she flattened her back against the wood, but her feet remained still.

‘Reach down. A little to the left. Open the latch. And go to your room and practise hitting the pillow. I will speak with your father about sending a maid to you so you can practise dodging punches.

‘Oh, that would never do. If you make him think I am in any kind of danger, he will have me sleeping in my mother’s room the rest of my life.’ She took in a quavering breath. ‘I would have thought you would want me to be safe. After what you said about shouts in the night not waking anyone...and then we have the physician in our house.’

‘You have no need to worry about the physician,’ he grumbled. ‘The man has a strict code of honour. He only lies on weekdays and is careful not to speak on Sunday.’

‘How do you know him?’ she asked.

He shook his head, causing his hair to move over his vision. ‘Everyone knows Gavin.’

‘Well, that doesn’t mean he’s trustworthy.’

‘He’s a whole damn lot more trustworthy than I am.’

He threw back the covers and she dived for the doorknob. She scurried.

‘Portrait gallery.’ He bit out the words before the door shut.

He would teach the wench to fight. And he was not in the mood to take pity on her. A woman who woke a man in the middle of the night needed to learn that was the number one thing not to do for safety.

He stopped. And a man who woke in the middle of the night should not be following along after a chaste woman like a puppy on a string. He was going to need that knee in the bollocks.

Chapter Five

Annie waited. And waited. She crossed her arms, sitting straight on the chair. Tapping her foot. He was taking his time. But she wasn’t going to go back and knock again. She would let him know just what she thought of him for keeping her waiting. She could tie a corset faster than he could manage a few waistcoat buttons.

She would tell him that surely combing a bit of hair didn’t take nearly as long as putting it in a knot on top of the head.

Guilt grew in her, but she brushed it away. He thought she wanted to learn to defend herself in case something happened in her own household, but she wanted to be stronger in case a highwayman or a cutpurse might be in her path.

Punching out at a pillow was like punching a pillow. And poor Myrtle tried, but no matter how she rushed at Annie it was a little like swatting a gnat.

When he stood close, trembles of fear started inside her. Or something. It was not the same as Myrtle, who Annie feared she’d injure, or the pillow, which slept through the attack.

Goodness, he took his time.

Her mind stopped thinking of how long he’d taken when he strode into the room.

He hadn’t put on a waistcoat. He hadn’t tied a cravat at the neck of his shirt. He was bare—naked under his clothing—just like he’d been in the bedchamber.

It hadn’t seemed so wrong when she’d been the one trespassing. But for him to walk about in an area where anyone might see him... That little triangle at the top of his shirt, for instance, where the shadow made a V. That was frightful—frightfully fascinating.

She stood, the movement making her feel bigger and not quite so overpowered as she was in the chair.

She put her hands behind her back and clenched them into the fists he’d been talking about before, but she didn’t care whether the thumbs were on the inside or outside, just that her hands were secured.

He kept getting taller and broader in her eyes and that wasn’t possible. Her eyes told her his head didn’t touch the ceiling and he walked through the door frame easily enough, but still, he did seem bigger. Perhaps it was the darkness in his eyes.

She really should search out an undernourished footman to help practise her defence. That might be much—less daunting.

‘You took a bit of time to get here,’ she said, covering the lump in her throat with strength in her words.

‘I was hoping you’d tire of waiting and leave.’ His voice reverberated into the room. He looked past her and then at the floor, a small negative movement in his head. He had two pillows clasped in one hand. She didn’t know how she’d missed seeing those before.

He tossed the pillows on to the chair and one tumbled to the rug.

Whip-fast, he stood in front of her, hardly giving her legs any room between the chair and him.

He leaned closer, bringing the scent of a rosewater shaving soap so close she would never think of roses as delicate again. She could almost see the reflection of the thorns in his eyes. He moved closer and she had to tilt her head all the way back.

‘The first rule. The rule that is hard and fast—’

She’d read about pirates, but they’d all been worlds away. This man was in front of her and she didn’t quite know which direction to step. He surrounded her. And she couldn’t even see the V in his shirt and he wasn’t touching her, but her body didn’t know that. When she breathed in it seemed to pull him closer and closer, but he couldn’t actually be moving against her. His eyes held her in a vice.

The strength left her body, but she couldn’t fall back into the chair. His hand snaked around her and rested against the small of her back, trapping her upright. Lightning moved through her body and the sensations of his hand seared into her back.

‘The rule is to never, ever, put yourself in a position without thinking about whether it could be dangerous to you. Such as this one.’

‘This shouldn’t be dangerous.’ She croaked out the words. ‘You’re in my father’s house.’

‘You cannot depend on a father, a husband or a brother to protect you.’ His words were so close they no longer fanned against her cheek, but the air moved from his lips to hers. ‘They may avenge you, but by then, you can’t undo anything. You can only learn to live with it.’

‘If you wish to scare me, you are.’ But no matter how scared she was, she was going to make her own way.

‘I wish to terrify you.’ His voice scraped into the air. ‘You need to remember. You need to keep this inside you any time you hear a little warning voice and not let the fluffy curls your maid took hours perfecting swab that thought away. That little voice is there to keep you alive.’

Her heart pounded in her chest.

‘That warning voice you hear is the only voice in the world that can see to your interests. That warning voice is the heart telling you what the brain cannot fathom. It responds to a movement the corner of your eye caught, but the brain didn’t decipher. A smile that is fake. An arm with too much tension in it. Listen. To. It.’

She touched her neck. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘When your eyes are looking at fashion plates, the brain still functions. If someone walked into the room behind you and disturbed the air, the nose may get a whiff of the shaving soap—a scent that is too small for the brain to grasp. Instinct picks up on it. We are nothing more than animals that have formed better shelters. When you suddenly feel something is wrong, don’t brush away that thought. What if you act on it all the time and it is wrong half that? That’s still half that it helped you in a way nothing else could. What if it is right only one time out of a hundred and that is the time your life is saved?’

She shuddered. ‘You make the world sound so evil.’

‘Oh, dear me.’ He put a finger to the side of his lips. ‘I do believe it is.’ He cocked his head to the side.

‘You are a hideous man.’

‘I had a pint with a bodysnatcher once and I decided I’m not the only one who is. That is the problem. He told me if I’d pay him he’d prove it and deliver a body to my door—but I couldn’t keep it because he had a customer waiting for one. From the amount of dirt packed under his nails, I suspected he could do it.’

She didn’t move.

He swept a bow to her and then moved forward. ‘Prove to me that you can defend yourself.’ He grasped both her arms, enclosing her.

Her breath stopped.

‘Now fight back.’

She gulped air to be able to speak. ‘You’ve got my arms. I can’t move.’

‘What can you move?’ he asked.

‘Nothing.’

He stood, perfectly still. ‘Think about it.’

‘My legs. But they’ll tangle in my skirt. I can’t even kick.’

‘Then take your slipper and scrape down my leg. You’ll be able to stomp my foot that way.’

She moved, raising her leg, but he jumped back, pulling her off balance and towards him. ‘But not today, sweet. I may need to walk tomorrow.’

‘You need to let me go.’ She pulled at her arms, but he didn’t release her.

He lowered his voice. ‘I will.’ He shook his head and his voice softened. ‘But don’t you ever wake me again.’

‘I will never wake you again. Just let me go.’ She shook her arms, but he didn’t loosen.

‘One last thing. You have another weapon you’ve not used. And please take care. I plan to eat tomorrow and teeth are handy for that.’

She looked at him. He dropped her arms and stepped back.

‘Your head. That block of wood can do damage rising up to crash into my chin.’ He reached up and tapped at the side of his head. ‘And don’t forget about the weight of your body. You can drop your knee a bit and twist with your hip and turn towards me, taking some of the weight from your legs to pull me off balance if you can.’

He bent his knee and twisted, moving his shoulder down and around.

‘And you can surprise me. If I’m pulling you into me, then lunge against me, perhaps, to get me off balance. But whatever you do, try to stay off the ground. You can’t fight back well there. It’s possible, but you’re going to have to get up to escape and that takes time.’ His voice became a wisp. ‘You need to do everything you can to run to safety.’

She put her hand over his touch, regaining her own skin. ‘Were you just born knowing this?’

He laughed. ‘I’ve spent my fair share of time at Gentleman Jackson’s.’ He looked away, reminiscing about something. He put his hand to his neck, rubbing just under the collar, kneading the muscle. ‘And I don’t seem to feel pain like others.’ He chuckled. ‘A handy skill to have.’

‘Not feeling pain?’

‘Well, I’m aware of it. I know if someone twists my arm behind my back that it doesn’t feel well.’

‘Oh.’

‘It just doesn’t matter at the time. Or later. What matters is that I let someone get that close. They should be on the floor with my boot on their chest.’

‘Oh.’ She looked down at his toes. The first one was big and on the bony side. The others were thin, longish, though not well defined in the shadows. ‘It must take a lot of effort to get those into boots.’ She looked up. ‘I guess that’s why you didn’t wear them.’

‘It seemed a waste to put them on just to take them off again in a few moments.’

‘Of course.’ She raised her eyes, moving up the length of him.

‘Has anyone ever twisted your arm behind your back? Your sisters in play?’ His voice was flat.

She didn’t move, afraid to commit. ‘I should think it doesn’t hurt very much.’

‘Turn around.’

‘I think that might be breaking your first rule.’

‘Turn around.’ His eyes darkened and his voice roughened.

She studied his face and nothing inside her warned her about him. She turned around.

He put a light touch on her shoulder, only touching her with two fingertips. No other part of him neared her. His hand slid forward and down an inch. Sensations jumped inside her, tightening her stomach. Heat. Warmth. And a shiver from his breath on her neck. ‘Now, let me—’ His left hand touched her wrist, slowly clasping to hold her in a gentle vice.

She swallowed.

‘Relax.’ He shook her wrist a bit. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

She gasped.

‘Tell me when it hurts and I’ll stop.’

Gently he began pulling her arm behind her back. She tiptoed with the pressure. Then words rushed out. ‘Stop.’

He released her. She stumbled forward and then turned. He watched her.

She rubbed her arm. ‘You must have been around a lot of toughs in your youth.’ She spoke softly, slapping down the inner warning voice. The one her mother had instilled. ‘At the brothel?’

His head turned, as if he’d not heard her correctly. And his jaw relaxed. He seemed to have a moment finding words, but his eyes reflected humour.

‘Those were the good people.’ He laughed, his head falling back, and his eyes locked on the ceiling for a moment. The rumble of his voice stirred into her insides, causing a flutter.

‘Yes, I was around a lot of toughs. On a daily basis.’

He pushed up one sleeve and moved to the light. A scar ran the inside of his arm. She turned her eyes away. The man had a lot of skin.

‘It’s just a small one. Grandmama’s poker got me.’

She steeled herself and looked. A small indention. ‘Your grandmother cannot have been as bad as you claim.’

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