Nicola Cornick’s novels have received acclaim the world over

“Cornick is first-class, Queen of her game.”

—Romance Junkies

“A rising star of the Regency arena.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Nicola Cornick creates a glittering, sensual world of

historical romance that I never want to leave.”

—Anna Campbell, author of Untouched

Praise for Nicola’s previous books:

“If you’ve liked Nicola Cornick’s other books, you are sure

to like this one as well. If you’ve never read one—

what are you waiting for?”

—Rakehell on Lord of Scandal

“Witty banter, lively action, and sizzling passion.”

—Library Journal on Undoing of a Lady

“With every Nicola Cornick book you know you are in for a

wonderful read and a most enjoyable adventure!”

—Mary Gramlich, The Reading Reviewer

“RITA(r) Award-nominated Cornick deftly steeps her

latest intriguingly complex Regency historical in a

beguiling blend of danger and desire.”

—Booklist on Unmasked

This paper hears the startling news that the beautiful widow Lady JW and the dashing Lord G are to embark on their very own scandalous adventure to the Arctic wastes. Readers of this publication will already know that Lord G is a man who first came to fame when he charted a route single-handedly across the outer reaches of Mongolia. Most recently he has returned to London in a cloud of acclaim for his courageous exploits in the frozen north. If any man can escort Lady JW safely on her perilous voyage to claim her late husband’s love child then Lord G is surely that man. Lady JW is, of course, a society hostess renowned for her elegance and style. Can it be that having wed one daring buccaneer she now desires another adventurer in her bed? If so, whether she will succeed with Lord G is a matter for conjecture, for it is said his heart is as cold as the Arctic snow …

The Gentleman’s Athenian Mercury, London, June 3, 1811

Author Note

A couple of years ago I went on holiday to Spitsbergen, an island within the Arctic Circle off the north coast of Norway. It was not the sort of place that I imagined would inspire a historical romance, but when I started to read about the history of Spitsbergen, I was fascinated. Not only is it a stunningly beautiful place, but it also had a hugely important role in the history of science and exploration. The result of my reading and of that memorable cruise is Whisper of Scandal, which I loved writing. It combines some of the elements of the history of Spitsbergen with a rich and romantic love story. There is much more about the historical background to Whisper of Scandal on my website at www.nicolacornick.co.uk, and I hope you enjoy exploring it. In the meantime I must own up to one liberty I took with the history and the geography.

There was no monastery on Spitsbergen in the early nineteenth century, nor was there any permanent, year-round settlement, because the climate is too harsh. The monastery of Bellsund in the book is modelled on the Solovetsky Monastery on an island in the White Sea.

Upcoming titles in the Scandalous Women of the Ton series

ONE WICKED SIN

MISTRESS BY MIDNIGHT

Browse www.nicolacornick.co.uk for Nicola’s full backlist

Nicola Cornick

Whisper of Scandal

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Martha, Mary and Anne, and for all who sailed with us

around Spitsbergen on the Professor Molchanov.

Thank you for an inspirational voyage!

With a host of furious fancies

Whereof I am commander,

With a burning spear and a horse of air,

To the wilderness I wander.

By a knight of ghostes and shadowes

I summon’d am to tourney

Ten leagues beyond the wild world’s end.

Methinks it is no journey.

—From Tom O’Bedlam’s Song, anonymous, circa 1600

Part 1 The Grass Widow

Chapter 1

Definition: A Grasswidow (or Grass-widow, grass widow) is a wife whose husband will return after a limited period of time away, usually after a voyage. The “grass” refers to the mattress which used to be filled with grass. The “widow” is left back on the grass/mattress. It might express the idea that the abandoned lover has been “put out to grass.” The term is applied “with a shade of malignancy,” a tantalisingly opaque comment.

London-May 1811

HE WAS LATE. Eighteen months late.

Alex Grant paused on the steps of Lady Joanna Ware’s London town house in Half Moon Street. If he had expected to see any signs of mourning then he was sorely disappointed. No black drapes shuttered the windows and the presence of a large silver knocker on the door indicated that visitors were welcome. Lady Joanna, it seemed, had already thrown off her widow’s weeds a bare twelve months after word of her husband’s death must have reached her.

Alex raised the silver knocker and the front door opened smoothly, silently. A butler, saturnine in black, stood in the aperture. It was well before the acceptable hour for calling. The butler somehow managed to convey this information-and his disapproval-with the mere twitch of an eyebrow.

“Good morning, my lord. How may I help you?”

My lord. The man did not know him and yet had managed to place his social standing with some accuracy. It was impressive. It was exactly what Alex would have expected from the butler of so prominent and celebrated a society hostess as Lady Joanna Ware. The greeting was also less than welcoming, warning him, perhaps, that Lady Joanna was not accessible to any old member of the hoi polloi who sought her company.

“I would like to see Lady Joanna, if you please,” Alex said.

It was not strictly true. He had very little desire to see Lady Joanna Ware; only a strict sense of duty, the obligation owed to his dead colleague, had prompted him to come and pay his respects to the widow. And seeing the lack of mourning, barely an acknowledgment that she had lost so eminent and respected a husband as David Ware, had made Alex’s hackles rise and his wish to renew his acquaintance with Lady Joanna dwindle still further.

The butler, too well trained to keeping him standing on the step like a tradesman, had stepped back to allow him access to the hall, although his expression still showed considerable doubt. The black-and-white marble-and-stone checkerboard floor stretched elegantly to a curving stair. Two liveried footmen, identical twins, Alex observed, over six feet tall, stood like statues on either side of a doorway. And from the room behind them carried the sound of a raised feminine voice that completely spoiled this scene of aristocratic elegance:

“Cousin John! Kindly stand up and cease plaguing me with these ridiculous proposals of marriage! In addition to boring me you are obscuring my new rug. I bought it to admire, not to have it knelt upon by importunate suitors.”

“Lady Joanna is engaged,” the butler informed Alex.

“On the contrary,” Alex said. “She has just announced that she is not.” He strode across the hall and threw open the door, ignoring the butler’s scandalized gasp and enjoying the look of consternation on the woodenly handsome visages of the matching footmen.

The room he entered was a library, bright with sunshine and fresh with lemon and white paint. A fire burned in the grate even though the May morning was warm. A dog, small, gray and fluffy with a blue ribbon in a fetching topknot, lay on a rug before the fire. The dog was as handsome in its own way as the footmen were in theirs and it raised its head and fixed Alex with an inquisitive brown gaze. There was the scent of lilies and beeswax in the air. The room felt warm and welcoming. Alex, who had had no settled home for over seven years and who had never felt the need for one, never wanted one, was brought up short. To relax in such a room, to take a book from those shelves and a glass of brandy from the decanter, to sink into a deep armchair before the fire, suddenly seemed the greatest temptation.

But perhaps not …

The greatest temptation must surely be the woman who was standing by the long library windows with the sunlight threading her rich chestnut hair with sparks of gold and copper. Her face was oval. Her violet eyes were set wide apart above a small, straight nose and a luscious mouth that was so full it was almost indecently sensuous. She was not conventionally beautiful in any way: too tall, too slender, too angular and her face too striking, but it did not matter one whit. In a cherry-red morning gown with a matching bandeau in her hair, she was dazzling. There were no widow’s weeds here, not even the lavender of half mourning, to drain the life and vibrancy from her.

Alex had little time to do more than notice just how appealing Lady Joanna Ware was, and to register that appeal at a very deep, masculine and primitive level before she had seen him and had flown across the room to his side.

“Darling! Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you for hours!” She threw herself into his arms. “Was the traffic in Piccadilly utterly dire?”

Her body felt warm and yielding in Alex’s arms, as though she had been made specifically to match him. Shock ripped through him at the sense of deep recognition. She smelled of summer flowers. For a brief moment her face was upturned to his, her violet eyes wide and surely holding fear, of all things, as well as some wordless appeal, and then she had put one hand on the nape of his neck and brought his mouth down to hers and was kissing him as though she really, really meant it.

It was astonishingly, instantaneously arousing. Alex’s entire body responded to the impossible seduction of her lips, so cool, so soft, so tempting. On mature reflection he thought that perhaps kissing Lady Joanna Ware was a somewhat incendiary way in which to end over two years of celibacy, but in the moment he thought of nothing other than the press of her body against his and the absolute need to take her to his bed-or her bed since it was, presumably, closer.

Heat coursed through his body, and flagrant desire, wickedly strong. But already Lady Joanna was stepping back and freeing herself, leaving him with no more than a promise of heaven and an uncomfortable arousal. Her lips clung to his for a second and he almost groaned aloud. There was a spark of mischief in her violet eyes now as she cast a fleeting glance down at his trousers.

“Darling, you are pleased to see me!”

She was calling him darling because she had no idea who he was, Alex realized, taking strategic refuge behind a rosewood desk piled high with books in order to hide his body’s all too obvious discomfort. He smiled at her, throwing down a challenge. If she could be outrageous then he could match her. She deserved it for using him when she had no idea of his identity and cared even less.

“What man would not be, my sweet?” he said. “Surely my impatience is entirely forgivable. It seems days since I left your bed rather than hours …” He ignored her audible gasp and turned to the other occupant of the room, a rather florid man of middle age who had been watching them with his eyes popping out and his mouth hanging open a full two inches.

“I am sorry that I did not catch your name, sir,” Alex drawled, “but I fear you are too late with your protestations of love. Lady Joanna and I.” He let the sentence hang suggestively.

“Darling!” There was reproach in Joanna’s voice now but under it Alex detected more than a spark of anger. “You are no gentleman to make our association public.”

Alex crossed to her side, taking her hand in his, turning it over and pressing a kiss to her palm. “Forgive me,” he murmured, “but I rather thought you had already demonstrated how intimate we are with that entirely delightful kiss?” Her skin felt deliciously soft against his lips. Hunger stirred in him, ruthless in its demand. He had never been indiscriminate in his love affaires, but after the death of his wife he had not lacked female companionship, pleasant, uncomplicated arrangements requiring absolutely no emotional involvement at all. This woman, though, David Ware’s less-than-grieving widow, could not be one of his amours. She was the widow of his best friend; a wife whom Ware had warned him not to trust. Even as Alex acknowledged all the reasons why he should keep Joanna Ware a great deal farther away than arm’s length, his body made it very clear that he might not like her very much but he did want her. He wanted her badly.

How inconvenient. How impossible.

It seemed that Lady Joanna liked him even less than he liked her, for she snatched her hand away from him. A hint of color touched her cheekbones and a steely light came into her eyes.

“I am not sure that I do forgive you.” There was warning in her tone. “I am exceptionally angry with you, darling.” This last word was hissed through her teeth.

“I don’t doubt that you are, darling,” Alex returned smoothly.

Wrapped in the intense mixture of desire and antagonism, he had almost forgotten the man, who now sketched a stiff bow. “It seems I am very much de trop. Madam.” He glared at Joanna, nodded stiffly to Alex and stalked out, slamming the library door behind him.

There was silence, but for the fluttering of a few pages of a book that had been dislodged from the rosewood desk, and the hiss and crackle of the fire in the grate. Then Joanna turned to him and once again Alex felt her gaze search his face. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she looked him up and down, appraising him, hands on hips, head tilted to one side, all pretense of pleasure in his company gone now that they were alone. Anger and awareness simmered between them so strong it was almost tangible. Then:

“Who the hell are you?” she said.

ACTUALLY, SHE KNEW perfectly well who he was. It was simply that she had been shaken out of her habitual poise by the kiss. Joanna had not kissed anyone for longer than she could remember and then it had been her husband and it had not felt anywhere near as sweet, as thrilling, as downright wicked as kissing this man had done. She had only intended it to be a brief peck on the lips, light and superficial, signifying nothing. Yet as soon as his lips had claimed her she had wanted to run her fingers over the hard planes and taut lines of his face and body, learning him, reveling in the texture of his skin, the scent and the taste of him. She had wanted it so much that it made her weak at the knees to think about it. A hot spiral of lust curled tight in her stomach, she who had never ever expected to feel desire in her life again.

But this was Alex Grant, her errant husband’s best friend-even in her mind she invested the words with scorn-and fellow explorer, who, like David, was forever sailing off around the world in search of war or glory or adventure, trying to find some obscure trade route to China or something equally pointless. She remembered him very well now. Alex Grant had been David’s groomsman when they had married ten years before.

Even now it gave her a pang to remember how happy, how hopeful, she had been on that day. High expectations and bad judgment had been a recipe for an unhappy marriage. But on that sunny May morning all that disillusionment had been in the future. She remembered Alex Grant from that day. He had been as improbably handsome then as he was now, though with a softer edge to him. And he had had a wife in tow, a pretty little blonde creature, all giggles and flounces. Annabel, Amelia? Something beginning with A. Joanna could not quite recall her name but she had looked at Alex adoringly and had been as charming and as superficial as thistledown.

Guilt stirred within her. Generally she did not make a habit of kissing other women’s husbands since she detested the fact that so many other women had kissed hers. David’s infidelities had been no secret, but she had no intention of emulating him. Kissing Alex had been a mistake in more ways than one, it seemed. Already reeling from her startling physical reaction to his touch, she now felt angry with him for being just another philandering bastard.

Alex bowed. He did it elegantly for all that she had tried to dismiss him as no more than an uncouth sailor in his faded navy captain’s uniform. No matter that the uniform suited him rather too well, fitting his broad shoulders most flatteringly and emphasizing his muscular physique. He was a man of great physical presence with strength and authority in every line of his bearing.

Just as David had been … She shivered.

“Alexander, Lord Grant, at your service, Lady Joanna,” he said.

“More at my service than I require, I think,” Joanna said coldly. “I have no desire for a lover, Lord Grant.”

He smiled, a flash of white teeth in his tanned face. “I am desolate.”

Liar. She knew that he disliked her as much as she disliked him.

“I doubt it,” she said. “Whatever made you suggest such an outrageous thing?”

“Whatever made you kiss me as though you meant it if you did not?”

Once again the air between them hummed with tension as taut as a spun thread. Ah, the kiss. He had a point. She had never before kissed a stranger with such a degree of enthusiasm. She gave a little flick of her fingers, dismissing the question.

“Had you been a gentleman, you would have pretended that we were betrothed rather than lovers.” She stopped, glared. “Though I suppose that having a wife already made such a course of action an impossibility for you.”

For a moment he looked puzzled and then his face cleared. “I am a widower,” he said.

He was succinct, Joanna conceded. Unlike David, who had always tried to buy popularity with wordy compliments, this man seemed brief to the point of abruptness. Clearly he did not care for anyone else’s opinion, good or bad.

“I am sorry.” She uttered the formal condolence. “I remember your wife. She was charming.”

His expression snapped shut like a door slamming. Cold, forbidding … Clearly he did not wish to discuss Annabel … Amelia or whatever her name had been.

“Thank you.” He sounded brusque. “But I thought that I was here to condole with you rather than the reverse.”

“If you wish to be conventional.” Joanna could be succinct, too, especially when she was angry.

“You do not mourn him?” His voice held both censure and anger.

“David died over a year ago,” Joanna said. “As you know. You were there.”

Alex Grant had written to her from the Arctic, where David’s final naval mission to find a northeast trade route via the Pole had-literally-died in the endless frozen wastes. The letter had been as short and to the point as the man himself, though she had been able to discern through the words his deep sorrow at the loss of so noble a comrade. It was not a sorrow she could share and Joanna had made no pretense of it.

Alex’s dark gaze flickered over her. She could feel how tightly he was holding his temper in check now. The air was alive with his contempt.

“David Ware was a great man,” he said through his teeth. “He deserved more than this—” His gesture encompassed the bright room, devoid of any gesture of mourning.

He deserved better than you …

Joanna heard the words even though they were unspoken.

“We were estranged,” she said, her light tone masking the pain beneath. “You were his friend. Surely you knew.”

His mouth tightened to a thin line. “I knew he did not trust you.”

Joanna turned a shoulder. “The feeling was mutual. Do you think, then, that I should add hypocrisy to my sins and pretend to care that he is dead?”

She saw something feral and violent flash across Alex Grant’s face and almost recoiled before she realized that it was loyalty, not anger, that drove him.

“Ware was a hero,” he said.

Oh, she had heard that so many times it made her want to scream. In the beginning she had believed it, too, plucked from an obscure vicarage in the country, swept away by David’s swashbuckling spirit, betrayed by him before the ink was barely dry on the wedding register and betrayed again more deeply years later. She clenched her fists; her palms were hot and damp. Alex Grant was watching her and his dark gaze was far too perceptive. She forced her tense muscles to relax.

“Of course he was,” she said lightly. “Everyone says so, so it must be true.”

“Yet it seems that you are already considering replacing him,” Alex said. “I hear tales in the clubs of your suitors falling over themselves to win your hand.”

For a moment his outspokenness silenced Joanna, then she was furious, driven to a whole new level of anger. She wondered what David had told this man about her. Enough to make him dislike her intensely-that was for sure. His aversion to her was not overt, but she could feel it like a constant current beneath the surface, no matter how skillfully, how wickedly, he had kissed her.

“If you listen to gossip in the clubs you will hear all manner of lies,” she said. “You mistake, Lord Grant. I have no desire to remarry.”

Never.

He raised one black brow. “Merely to kiss random strangers, then?”

Oh, this man was provoking. More than that, he was infuriating. Because she knew she did not have a leg to stand on. She had kissed him, after all, not the other way about. It had been an impulse, a desperate attempt to dissuade John Hagan, her husband’s cousin, who had been becoming ever more persistent and disturbingly importunate in his attentions over the past few weeks. Trust her to choose the one man in London who not only called her bluff but also raised the stakes by claiming her as his mistress.

“I think you will find,” she said coldly, “that in announcing our apparent liaison you will have created quite a stir in the ton. John Hagan will waste no time in spreading the scandal. I cannot believe that was what you intended when you came to condole with me.”

“I merely took my cue from you.” His dark eyes studied her, again disconcertingly keen and thorough. There was no liking in them nor the admiration to which she was accustomed, nothing but cool, calculating consideration. Had he really been David’s friend? It seemed extraordinary to her. He was steady where David had been quicksilver, slipping through the fingers. The set of his mouth was firm and decisive where David had been weak and easily swayed. Every angle of Alex’s face looked hard, as though chiseled from the rock of his Scots heritage.

“So why did you kiss me then?” His voice had the faintest of Scots lilt, too. It sounded exotic. “I asked you before but it seems you have a bad habit of failing to answer those questions you dislike.”

Damn him, he had noticed that as well, had he? She raised her chin.

“I needed to … persuade John Hagan to cease his attentions to me,” she said. She folded her arms tightly about her body in an attempt to ward off the fear that chilled her whenever John Hagan was close by. “He is David’s cousin,” she explained, “and as such he claims to be the head of the family now.”

“So he seeks to take his cousin’s widow as well as his place?”

Joanna’s eyes narrowed at his tone. “As you heard.”

“You came up with a somewhat extreme solution.”

Joanna’s skin prickled with antagonism at the disbelief that rang clear in his voice. “He would not accept a more subtle dismissal. He has been importuning me for weeks.”

“Then it is fortunate I was here. Or would you have called in one of the servants-one of your handsome matching footmen-and kissed him instead?”

Temper flickered through Joanna. She had seldom felt so discomposed. There was something about this man that cut straight through her defenses, something so provocative that got under her skin. She could not deny that he was disturbingly, fatally attractive, but she had absolutely no wish to succumb to that attraction. Men, she had discovered, were generally more trouble than they were worth. Dogs were preferable. Max, lying so sweetly on his tasseled cushion, loved her with an uncomplicated devotion that far outstripped any attentions she had ever received from fickle males.

“My footmen are handsome, are they not?” she said sweetly. “Although I did not expect you to admire them, too.”

“You mistake.” Alex sounded amused. “It was an observation only-that you surround yourself with attractive and expensive items. The footmen, the dog …” His gaze swept around the library, over the bowl of lilies that Joanna had arranged so carefully as a centerpiece on the rosewood table and the elegant china displayed on the mantelpiece and her collection of watercolors. For some reason his scrutiny made Joanna feel lacking in some way, as though she was shallow, with tastes to match. She had always been pleased with her style and her flair for design. Damn him for disparaging them.

“I also hear that you were the darling of the ton,” he said. “I am sure that is no lie. I hope it pleases you.”

“It is most gratifying.” She had never sought to be a leader of society, but somehow popularity and prominence had come her way anyway. In truth, what had happened was that she had used her friends and acquaintances to ward off the loneliness of being abandoned by her husband for years on end and she had come to value the life she had carved out for herself. In all the nine years of their marriage she calculated that she had been with David for perhaps a fifth of the time, possibly less. In contrast, her closest friends were always there for her.

“You had a similar celebrity when you were last in London,” she reminded Alex sharply. Three years before, David and Alex had returned from some naval expedition to the South Americas with tales of hacking their way through dense jungle, discovering ancient ruins and being attacked by strange and wild creatures. At least David had boasted of it, displaying the teeth marks some giant cat had made on his arm. Joanna had uncharitably wished it had eaten him rather than being shot for its pains. She had hated the way in which David had reveled in his celebrity, rolling home drunk from some brothel at dawn, reeking of perfume and with some whore’s cosmetics smeared all over him. It seemed so cheap. David had bragged his way around London from the gambling tables to the ballrooms to the bawdy houses. He had been brash and vulgar, but people had excused it as part of his larger-than-life character, David Ware the hero, beloved by all men. Pain and loss twisted inside her. When she had wed she had expected her life to be so different, with a loving husband and a brood of children. She had been quite remarkably naive.

Alex, in contrast, she seemed to recall, had scorned the ton’s excited fawning and had escaped to Scotland instead whilst his comrade took all the credit for their exploits and enjoyed all the fame. And now she saw Alex’s firm mouth had turned down at the corners with distaste to be reminded of his illustriousness.

“I do not seek celebrity.” He made it sound as though she had suggested he was engaged in some activity that was illegal or repellent or possibly both at the same time. “You will not see me courting the ton whilst I am here. Indeed, I plan to leave London as soon as I have my orders from the Admiralty.”

“I will have to dismiss you from my bed first,” Joanna said waspishly, “since you have announced to all society that you occupy it.”

Once again he gave her that disconcerting, wholly unexpected smile. It was the look of an adversary not an admirer. “I imagine you will enjoy that,” he murmured.

“I shall.”

“How will you dismiss me?”

Joanna put her head on one side and considered him thoughtfully. “I am not certain. Be assured that it will be public and humiliating, though, and you will probably be the last in society to know. It is the least that you deserve for embarrassing me so.”

His smile deepened. “It was worth it.”

Joanna gritted her teeth. She was known for her glacial coolness and was certainly not going to let this man change that. She knew Alex had only claimed to be her lover in order to punish her for her presumption in using him. It was a salutary lesson not to tangle with him. However far she went, he would go further.

But for now he would go out her front door and she would be glad to see him leave.

She held out her hand to him.

“Well, Lord Grant, I thank you for calling and I wish you well on your future travels.”

He took her hand again. It had probably been a mistake to offer it, for the sensation of his touch rippled along her nerves, making her tremble. For one mad moment she thought that he was going to kiss her again and her heart started to race. She could almost feel the seductive warmth of his mouth against hers, breathe in the scent of his body, taste him.

“A perfectly judged dismissal, Lady Joanna,” he said. He did not release her hand. “Should you ever require a lover again …”

“Have no fear, I shall not call on you,” Joanna said. “Heroes are not to my taste.”

The very last thing she wanted was another hero. The thought turned her so cold she almost shivered. She had thought she had found a hero in David. She had idolized him. And then she had found that he was a cad, an idol with feet-and other parts-of clay.

Alex smiled at her. Warm, intimate, his smile made her dizzy. She felt feverish, unable to breathe until he had released her hand, as susceptible as a green girl.

“Then I’ll bid you good day,” Alex said.

He had bowed and had gone before she could pull herself together sufficiently to ring for the butler to show him out. Even after the door had closed behind him Joanna thought she could feel the air of the library burn with the intensity of his presence.

She sat down on the rug and put her arms about Max, who accepted the hug with a tolerant sigh. I do not want another hero, Joanna thought. I would be an utter fool ever to marry again. For a moment the pain hovered at the corners of her mind, but she was so adept at dismissing it now that it was gone in a trice, leaving nothing but a habitual emptiness behind. She rested her chin on Max’s topknot and breathed in the smell of dog. His little body was warm and reassuring in her arms.

“We shall go shopping, Max,” Joanna said. “Just like we always do.”

Shopping, balls, parties, riding in the park, the repetition, the familiarity, the emptiness lulled her back into security just like it always did.

AS HE TURNED THE CORNER from Half Moon Street into Curzon Street Alex thought about David Ware’s delectable widow. It was no wonder that she had men beating a path to her door. She was spectacular, a striking woman with a cool confidence that hid an inner passion strong enough to kindle a man’s emotions to a blaze. She was a prize, a trophy to rival the greatest conquest a man could make. Who would not wish to have such a woman adorning his home and warming his bed? Alex reflected that he must be the only man in London who did not like Lady Joanna Ware, and even that was no bar to wanting her.

He remembered Ware’s last bitter words about his wife as he lay on his deathbed, the fever ravaging his body, his face white and tight with pain and bitterness:

“No need to ask you to take care of Joanna. She’s always been able to do that for herself …”

Alex could see how it might appear so. There was a cool, brittle self-containment about Joanna Ware that would not appeal to those men who liked their women winsome and obedient. Yet he had also sensed vulnerability in her along with that strength. He had seen it in her eyes when she had used him as a defense against John Hagan. Or he had thought so-but he was probably mistaken. Lady Joanna was no doubt a manipulative woman who used men to her advantage. She had certainly tried to use him and as a result had got a great deal more than she had bargained for.

Lady Joanna’s lover. His body tightened at the thought of it. He had never believed himself to be an imaginative man for he embraced cool reason above all things but now he discovered that he had depths of imagination he had never previously suspected. To take Joanna Ware to bed, to peel that tempting cherry-red gown from her body and expose her pale skin to his eyes and to the touch of his lips, to bury himself in her and drive them both to heights of intolerable pleasure. He almost walked into a lamppost thinking about it. He felt as primed as a callow youth. His body felt constrained with a need he had never previously experienced. A need he could never indulge. Joanna Ware was out of bounds. He did not even like her. And he was a man who had kept tight control over his physical needs and never felt any emotional ones. It had been that way since Amelia had died and he had no intention of changing that situation.

Instinctively he quickened his step although he could never outrun the memories or the guilt surrounding the death of his wife. He had never been able to lose those phantoms. Now, for some reason, he could not dismiss David Ware’s final words either:

“Joanna … devil take her …”

What on earth had given Ware so strong a dislike of his wife? No, dislike was too mild a word to describe that venom. Such hatred. Alex shrugged, trying to shake the matter off. He had fulfilled his duty. He had called on the less-than-stricken widow and he had also delivered to Ware’s lawyer a letter that his comrade had entrusted to him on his death. The matter was closed, obligations discharged. He would retire to his hotel until he had word from the Admiralty on his next posting. He hoped they would not keep him waiting long. Unlike most officers who enjoyed their shore leave he was anxious to be gone. London in May felt ripe and rich and earthy with the promise of summer and yet he did not want to linger. Perhaps London held too many memories for him. Perhaps he had been away from England too long for it to feel like home anymore. In truth he had no home. He did not want one, had not wanted one for seven years-until he had walked into Joanna Ware’s library and had felt that sensation of warmth and welcome. But such domestic comforts could never be for him.

“Alex!” Someone hailed him from across the street and Alex turned to see a tall, fair, excessively handsome young man threading his way through the throng of pedestrians and carriages. Despite his relative youth he carried himself with supreme assurance and he was drawing openly admiring glances from every woman he passed, young or old, impressionable debutante or respectable matron. Heads turned, jaws dropped. The ladies fluttered and swayed in his wake like a field of poppies going under the scythe and in return he scattered on them smiles that were so wicked Alex thought that sooner or later one of the ladies would inevitably swoon and require resuscitation. As the man reached his side, grinning broadly, Alex gave a resigned sigh.

“Stopping the traffic as usual, Dev?”

“What else was I supposed to do?” his cousin said. He held out his hand to shake Alex’s with enthusiasm. “You’re a difficult man to catch up with, Alex. I’ve been hunting you all over London.”

They fell into step, Dev accommodating his stride to Alex’s slight limp. “I thought that you were with the East India Squadron,” Alex said. “When did you get back?”

“Two weeks since,” James Devlin said. “Where are you staying? I asked after you at White’s but they had no word.”

“I’m at Grillon’s,” Alex said.

His cousin stared. “Why on earth?”

“Because it’s a good hotel. And I did not want to be found.”

Devlin laughed. “Now, that I do understand. What have you done? Ravished a few debutantes? Ransacked a Spanish merchant ship or two?”

Alex’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “Ravishing debutantes isn’t my style. Nor is piracy.” He looked at his cousin thoughtfully. “I heard that you sailed into Plymouth last year with Spanish-gold candlesticks five foot tall strapped to your masthead.”

“You’re mistaken,” Devlin said, grinning. “That was Thomas Cochrane. I had a diamond chandelier swinging from the mainsail.”

“Hell’s teeth,” Alex said involuntarily. “Didn’t that interfere with your navigation? No wonder the Admiralty thinks you are a scoundrel.” He looked Devlin over. His cousin was wearing a flamboyant blue waistcoat that matched his eyes and had a pearl swinging from one ear. It should have looked effeminate but Devlin somehow managed to get away with it, possibly because he was so undeniably masculine. Alex shook his head. “And that pearl earring does not help matters,” he said. “Who are you modeling yourself on? Blackbeard? For God’s sake, remove it should you be planning to set foot before the board of the Admiralty.”

“The ladies love it,” Devlin said. He gave his cousin a sideways look. “Speaking of which, I thought you might be in town to find a bride.”

“Did you?” Alex said dryly.

“No need to cut me dead,” Dev said, unabashed. “Everyone knows that Alasdair’s death means that Balvenie is now in need of an heir, and as you have a taste for dangerous adventure you might wish to produce one before your next expedition.”

“That would be quick work,” Alex said.

“I can see you do not mean to tell me your plans,” Dev said.

“Well spotted.” Alex shrugged his shoulders irritably. His Scottish estate of Balvenie was indeed without an heir since his young cousin Alasdair Grant had died the previous winter. The lad’s death from scarlet fever, a tragedy in itself, had been a double blow since Alasdair had been the sole heir to the Grant barony. Alex, who had successfully managed to ignore the pressures on him to remarry and beget an heir whilst Alasdair was alive, was now uncomfortably aware that this was yet another responsibility, another duty he did not wish to perform. To take some simpering little debutante or some colorless widow and make her Lady Grant for the sake of a son was deeply repugnant to him. To remarry at all was the very last thing he wished to do. And yet what choice did he have if Balvenie was to be safeguarded for the future? He felt the guilt and obligation-those twin ghosts that always dogged his steps-press a little closer.

“I have no current matrimonial plans, Devlin,” he said a shade wearily. “I would make the devil of a husband.”

“Some might say you would be perfect,” Dev said. “Since you would be absent.”

Alex’s lips twisted with appreciation. “There is that, I suppose.”

Dev cast him another glance. “Anyway, I’m glad I found you, Alex. I could use some help from you just now.”

Alex recognized that tone of voice. It was the one Dev had used since he had been a child when his wild exploits had almost always led to Alex’s bailing his young cousin out of all manner of trouble. Dev was three and twenty now, but the wild exploits were the same and so, generally, were the dire consequences. His cousin, Alex thought, only escaped hanging by the skin of his teeth and by using his fabled charm.

“What is it this time, Dev?” he asked, exasperated. “You cannot possibly be strapped for cash with all your prize money. Have you seduced an admiral’s daughter? If so, my advice would be to marry her. It would be good for your career advancement.”

“Always your Scots Calvinist upbringing comes to the fore,” Dev said cheerfully. “I have seduced an admiral’s daughter, but I was neither the first nor the only one. Nor is that the problem.”

“Then you find me agog,” Alex said ironically.

There was a pause whilst Dev steered Alex down a side street and into a nearby coffee shop. The Turk’s Head was dark, hot and smelled richly of coffee beans and spices. They slid into a booth in a quiet corner, Alex ordering coffee and Dev chocolate.

“Chocolate?” Alex asked, inhaling the sweet scent of the steaming cup as it arrived.

“Be glad I didn’t order violet-flavored sherbet,” Dev said, laughing. “Francesca adores it.”

“How is your sister?” Alex inquired.

Dev’s mouth turned down slightly at the corners. “I don’t know. She doesn’t talk to me anymore. I think she’s sad.”

“Sad?” Alex was startled. Somewhere in the recesses of his body the guilt kicked him again. James and Francesca Devlin were his only close relatives now and he had barely seen them in the past couple of years. When their mother, his father’s sister, had died, he had salved his conscience by buying Devlin his commission and finding Francesca a home with a distant aunt to chaperone her, and had promptly departed overseas. He was not a rich man; he had only his navy salary and a small income from his Scottish estates, but he took his responsibilities seriously, materially at least. Emotionally it was a different matter. He wanted no dependents, no obligations. Such relationships were a burden. They held him back, chafing like wet rope against the skin. Always he wanted to get out of London, back to sea, to find some new quest and some new adventure, to escape.

Balvenie needs an heir …

There were some responsibilities that could never be escaped. Again Alex shrugged his shoulders to sough off the unwanted responsibility. Devlin was right, but he could not contemplate remarriage. It would be another burden, another unconscionable tie.

“Is there something Chessie needs?” he asked. “You should have told me if she required more money—”

“She doesn’t,” Dev said, giving him a very straight look. “You are more than generous to her, Alex.” He frowned. “It is company Chessie needs,” he said. “Aunt Constance isn’t much fun as a companion for a girl in her teens. Oh, she’s a very good sort of woman,” he added swiftly as Alex raised his brows, “but a bit too good, if you know what I mean. She spends half her time at prayer meetings, which is all very worthy but not very exciting for Chessie. And the poor girl wants a come-out ball next year, but I doubt Aunt Constance will agree to that. No doubt she would deem it too frivolous—” He broke off, fidgeting with his dish of chocolate, playing with the spoon. “Listen, Alex—” He looked up suddenly. “I need your help.”

Alex waited. Dev, he realized, was nervous.

“It’s to do with money,” Dev said suddenly. His frown deepened. “Well, sort of to do with money, if you take my meaning.”

“Not at all,” Alex said. “What happened to the proceeds from the diamond chandelier?”

“Spent long ago.” Dev looked defiant. “The thing is, I’ve sold out of the navy, Alex, and bought a share in a ship with Owen Purchase. Or at least I am trying to raise the funds to do so. We plan an expedition to Mexico.”

Alex swore. Owen Purchase had been a colleague of his at the Battle of Trafalgar, one of the Americans who had fought with them against the French. Purchase was an inspired sea captain, almost a legend, and he had always been a hero to Dev.

“Why Mexico?” Alex asked succinctly.

“Gold.” Dev matched his terseness.

“Poppycock.”

Dev laughed. “You don’t believe in tales of lost treasure?”

“No. And neither should you, and Purchase definitely shouldn’t.” Alex ran a hand through his hair. Would his cousin never grow up? He could not believe that Dev had thrown his commission away for a wild-goose chase. “For God’s sake, Dev,” he said with more edge than he had intended, “must you always be playing these mad, dangerous games?”

“It’s better than freezing my arse off in some snowbound wilderness searching for a trade route that isn’t there,” Dev said, his candor taking Alex completely by surprise. “The Admiralty are using you, Alex. They pay you some pittance to risk your life in the noble cause of empire and just because you feel guilty over Amelia’s death you let them send you to one godforsaken place after another—” He broke off as Alex made an involuntary movement of fury and raised his hands in a gesture of peace. “My apologies. I overstepped the mark.”

“Damn right you did.” Alex growled. He clamped down on his anger. He did not discuss Amelia’s death with anybody. There were no exceptions. And Dev’s blistering comments were too painful, too near the bone. Amelia had died five years previously and ever since then Alex had deliberately taken postings that had been as extreme, as reckless and as dangerous as he could find. He wanted nothing else. Even sitting here now with Dev he could feel the urge to escape, the desire to turn his back on all these tedious responsibilities and family burdens. It jarred him into guilt even as he wanted simply to take ship and set sail for wherever the wind blew him. But for now he was trapped in London anyway, hog-tied by the Admiralty whilst they decided what to do with him.

“One of these days,” he said, venting some of his frustrations by glaring at his cousin, “someone is going to put a bullet through you, Devlin, and it might well be me.”

Dev relaxed. “I don’t doubt it,” he said cheerfully. “Now, about the favor I’m asking …”

“You have a damned nerve.”

“Always, but.” Dev cocked a brow. “It’s easy and it won’t cost you a penny of your own money and after all, you owe it to me as the big brother I never had.”

Alex sighed. Even as he could feel himself softening toward his cousin he wondered how Dev managed to get round him so easily. But then, Dev could charm anything that moved.

“Your logic is faulty,” he snapped, “but do go ahead.”

“I need you to attend Mrs. Cummings’s rout this evening in Grosvenor Square,” Dev said.

Alex looked at him. “You’re joking.”

“I am not.”

“Then you do not know me very well even after twenty-three years,” Alex said. “I detest balls, routs, breakfasts and parties of all kinds.”

“You will love this one,” Dev said, grinning. “It is in your honor.”

“What?” Alex gave his young relative a withering look. “Now you have taken leave of your senses.”

“And you are turning into a curmudgeon,” Dev said. “You need to get out more and enjoy yourself. What did you have planned for tonight-an evening alone, reading a book in your hotel?”

That, Alex thought, was dangerously close to the mark and did make him sound like a superannuated older relative rather than a cousin with only nine years seniority.

“Nothing wrong in that,” he said.

Dev laughed. “But a rout will be much more fun. And Mr. Cummings is frightfully rich and I need to persuade him to sponsor my voyage to Mexico. So I thought …”

“I see,” Alex said, seeing exactly where this was going.

“Both Mr. and Mrs. Cummings are desperately keen on explorers,” Dev said in a rush, suddenly sounding very young. “They think you are most dashing. So when they discovered that I was your cousin, well. They promised to help me if I could persuade you to attend the rout …”

Alex rolled his eyes. “Devlin,” he said warningly.

“I know,” Dev said, “but I thought you would be attending anyway, since Lady Joanna Ware will be there and she is your mistress—”

“What?” Alex brought his coffee cup down with a crack that made the table shudder.

“It’s the on dit,” Dev said. “I heard it from Lady O’Hara just before we met up. You’re the talk of the town.”

“Ah,” Alex said. “Yes.” By his calculations it had been all of an hour since John Hagan had left Half Moon Street. Evidently the man had lost no time in spreading the scandal of Lady Joanna Ware’s supposed liaison. Perhaps it served to smooth over his rejection to broadcast that Joanna Ware had another lover. Contempt for Hagan seared him.

“I admire your taste,” Dev was saying. He gave Alex a frank look. “I’d always heard Lady Joanna was cold as the grave-would have tried my luck if I’d thought otherwise.”

“You can give that idea up, infant,” Alex said very dryly. The sensation of masculine possession that gripped him when he thought about Joanna Ware was sharp and shocking. He realized that he had reacted entirely on instinct. It was an alien sensation. “And don’t speak disrespectfully of Lady Joanna either,” he added, wondering as he did so why on earth he felt the need to defend her.

Dev raised his brows. “Very vehement, Alex.”

“And she is not my mistress,” Alex finished testily.

“Then why the bad temper?” Dev grinned. “Or are you frustrated because she is not your mistress?”

“Enough,” Alex snapped.

Dev shrugged elegantly. “But you will be there tonight?” He did not quite manage to erase the note of pleading from his voice.

“You should have asked Purchase,” Alex said grimly. “He likes that sort of thing.”

“Purchase is dining with the Prince Regent,” Dev said. “An invitation which I understand you declined, Alex.”

“I hate all the celebrity nonsense.”

Dev laughed. “But this is different. This is for me.”

Alex thought about it. He did not approve of Dev’s decision to turn in his commission, but the damage was done now. He could try to dissuade his cousin from his harebrained Mexican scheme, but he doubted he would be successful; Dev had his own share of the family obstinacy. And Alex knew he ran the risk of looking a complete hypocrite if he played the role of heavy-handed older brother. It was true that he had pursued his own adventures with the approval and support of the King’s Royal Navy, but what real difference was there between a man seeking adventure under his country’s flag and one setting out to prove himself in a different way? Dev was motivated by courage and a quest for adventure and independence. And he was not running away from the ghosts of the past, a charge that Alex had to plead guilty to, in part at least.

Alex tapped his fingers impatiently on the table edge. As he had told Dev, he detested social events with a deep and abiding hatred. Yet if he attended the rout he could assuage a little of the guilt he felt over neglecting his family by helping Devlin.

And he would see Lady Joanna Ware again.

For a moment he felt as green as he had done as a teenager at Eton, hoping to catch sight of the housemaster’s daughter. The desire to see Joanna was very strong even as he acknowledged it was the single most foolish thing that he could do. If he wanted a woman he should buy a courtesan for a night, or two nights or however many nights it took to slake his lust. That would be straightforward, uncomplicated. Desiring David Ware’s tempting widow was neither of those things. The difficulty was that it was Joanna Ware he wanted, not some Covent Garden light skirt. He doubted that bedding a Cyprian would even take the edge off his hunger, for he did not want a whore. He could pretend that this lust was no more than the natural consequence of being away from female company for months on end, but if he told himself that he would know that he was a liar.

Joanna Ware. She was temptation incarnate. She was infuriating. She was forbidden to him. He disliked her.

He would go to the rout and see if she had the temerity to dismiss him as her lover to his face, in full public view.

He remembered that when David Ware had slipped the lawyer’s letter into his hand on his deathbed there had been a most peculiar, triumphant smile on Ware’s face and he had whispered:

“Joanna likes surprises, damn her.” Alex doubted that Lady Joanna would be very pleased with this particular surprise. She had not expected to see him again. She disliked him equally as much as he disliked her.

Devlin was still waiting for his reply.

“Very well,” he said slowly. “Yes, I will be there.”

Chapter 2

“WHAT IS LORD GRANT LIKE?” Mrs. Lottie Cummings, ton hostess extraordinaire, scandalous matron and one of Lady Joanna Ware’s dearest friends, ignored the guests piling into her reception rooms in favor of quizzing her friend on the shocking news of her affaire. “You know I have only ever heard tell of him, Jo darling, and have not even seen a portrait.”

“Well,” Joanna said, “he is tall.”

“So is my aunt Dorothea.” Lottie gave an impatient wiggle. “Dearest, you are going to have to do better than that.”

He is not really my lover … Why on earth had she let this go on for as long as it had? Why not simply say: “We are not lovers. It is all a hum …”

Joanna was not sure. Anger at Alex’s high-handed behavior, and what she acknowledged was a rather childish pettiness because he disapproved of her and disliked her, had made her want to punish him. It was a foolish game of tit for tat and unworthy of her. The trouble was that if she denied the liaison now it would cause almost as much of a sensation as the original announcement. Such were the rather superficial obsessions of society. And a deeper, more disturbing truth was that she actually liked the idea of Alex Grant as her lover, liked it all too well as she imagined what it might be like to take him to her bed, to feel his hands on her body, to give herself to him with all the abandoned desire she had never actually felt for a man before. She had loved David passionately when they had wed, but the intensity of her infatuation had never been matched by physical desire. When David had touched her she had felt vaguely anticipatory, as though something more exciting should be happening. Unfortunately it never did. And then the relationship had turned so hideously sour that she had never wanted David to touch her ever again.

In recent years-in most years, actually-her marriage bed had resembled the snowy wastes of the Arctic, pristine, empty and untouched, and having lost her illusions about David Ware, that was exactly how she had wanted it. She had been horribly lonely through the years of her marriage, a wife and yet no true wife, but even when David had died she had not trusted any man sufficiently to allow him close. And Alex Grant could not be that man. He was not for her. David had poisoned him against her, she was sure, and most importantly he was cut from the same cloth as David, an adventurer, an explorer, a man who would forsake his home and his family, and walk out into the unknown, leaving everything that should have been most precious and valuable to him behind.

“Well?” Lottie prompted impatiently.

“He is dark,” Jo said.

Lottie sighed. “Again, my aunt Dorothea can give him a run for his money on that.” She threw up her hands. “Darling … you know I lead such a boring life! A little more vicarious excitement, if you please.”

“That’s the best I can do, Lottie,” Joanna said. “Lord Grant and I are not really lovers. The gossip is not true.”

Lottie was looking at her pityingly. “Jo, darling, you don’t have to explain or excuse yourself to me. Nobody blames you for taking a lover! Why, it is an age since David died. And I hear that lovely Lord Grant is very, very luscious. Is it true—” Lottie’s dark eyes sparkled suddenly “—that he has the most fearsome scars on his chest from wrestling a polar bear?”

“I have no notion,” Joanna said. “Why would anyone want to wrestle a bear? It sounds highly dangerous.” She remembered the slight limp that characterized Alex’s gait. She had a vague memory that David had mentioned that Alex had been badly injured on some expedition some years before. Unlike her late husband, however, he did not seem inclined to make capital out of it.

“Lottie,” she repeated, “you aren’t listening to me. Lord Grant and I are no more than acquaintances and pray don’t talk like this-you are shocking Merryn.” She looked at her younger sister, who had been sitting quietly by whilst Lottie chattered. Merryn was as restrained as Lottie was loud, her serenity an antidote to Mrs. Cummings’s staggeringly indiscreet personality. Merryn had the habit of silence, a habit she had fostered throughout their uncle’s long and difficult last illness. It was bad luck for the youngest, unmarried daughter, Joanna thought, that convention dictated that nursing duties always fell to them. Sometimes she felt just a little guilty at having left Merryn to cope with their uncle alone. She had escaped the stultifying atmosphere of the vicarage years before and had never returned. As far as she knew, neither had their middle sister, Tess. Merryn was the one who had borne the brunt of the Reverend Dixon’s choleric nature.

“Don’t mind me,” Merryn said, her pansy-blue eyes lighting with amusement. “Oh, and I think that the polar bear story was an invention, Lottie.”

Lottie was pouting. “Well, if Jo has not seen Lord Grant’s chest, we cannot know for sure, can we? Do you make love in the dark, Jo darling? You are even more prim and proper than I had imagined!”

“I am exceptionally straitlaced,” Joanna agreed truthfully. “Lottie, I know I may seem flighty, but it is all show and no substance.”

Lottie opened her dark eyes very wide. “Oh, I know that, darling! All the gentlemen say you have a heart of ice! So clever of you to be so beautiful and heartless and unobtainable, for it keeps them panting after you!”

“I don’t do it to encourage them,” Joanna said a little uncomfortably, for Lottie’s words held an undercurrent of envy as well as being close to the truth. “It is simply that I do not trust men very much.”

“Oh, well, darling—” Lottie planted a consoling hand on her arm “—neither do I, but what is that to the purpose? I seduce them and cast them aside and that keeps me happy.”

Joanna wondered if it was true. She knew the conquest bit was-Lottie’s discreet affaires were well-known in ton circles, but whether her infidelities made her happy or not, Joanna had never been able to tell. They both lived in a world of mirrors where artifice and superficiality were highly prized and depth and sincerity mocked to scorn. Lottie never ever broached serious subjects with her and after ten years in the ton Joanna never confided in anyone either, having discovered early on that secrets were not respected. What was meant for private discussion quickly became the on dit.

“Well, if you wish to set your cap for Lord Grant, pray do not worry about cutting me out,” she said now. “I am not having an affaire with him.” She sighed. “And I cannot believe that you invited him this evening, Lottie, nor laid on this rather extravagant display in his honor.”

When she had arrived at Lottie’s rout and discovered that Alex Grant was promised for the evening, she had been appalled and incredulous. That Alex, with his apparent contempt for the adulation of society, should be such a hypocrite as to accept this ball in his honor had disappointed Joanna in some obscure way, reinforcing as it did that he was just another self-aggrandizing adventurer after all. And there could be no mistake. Lottie had said he had sent a message to confirm his attendance and as a result the dining room was decorated with huge ice sculptures, one of which was a life-size model of a man wielding an icy sword in one hand and the British flag in the other, clearly meant to represent Alex himself as he conquered yet another swath of virgin territory. There were also drapes of white satin sheathing the staircase to imitate a frozen waterfall and green and red lanterns hung from the ballroom ceiling to emulate the northern lights. The highlight of the entire display was a rather moth-eaten stuffed polar bear standing in the corner of the entrance hall and glaring balefully at all the guests as they arrived. It was all gloriously vulgar, but somehow it worked because Lottie had such brazen style.

“Is it not marvelous?” Lottie beamed. “I excel myself.”

“You certainly do,” Joanna murmured.

“And you are dressed the part, too,” Lottie added, casting an approving glance over Joanna’s white satin evening gown and diamonds. “How inspired! I adore you in the color, Jo darling! The other ladies will all be dressing as debutantes now you have set the fashion!”

“I do not think,” Merryn said unexpectedly, “that all this show will be quite to Lord Grant’s taste, Lottie. He is reputed to be somewhat reserved.”

“Nonsense.” Lottie beamed. “He will adore it.”

“Well, if he does not I am sure he will be too polite to say so,” Merryn said. “I hear he is the very epitome of chivalry.”

“You seem to know a great deal about him,” Joanna teased gently as her sister blushed. “Who can have been singing Lord Grant’s praises to you?”

“No one,” Merryn said, blushing harder. “I have been reading of his exploits, that is all. Mr. Gable has been writing about him in the Courier. He is quite the returning hero. Apparently he turned down an invitation to dine from the Prince Regent, which only made people more determined to secure his attendance at their events. He is the toast of all the clubs.”

Joanna had shuddered at the word hero. “I cannot see what there is to celebrate in a failed attempt to find the Northern Pole. As I understand it, David and Lord Grant set out to discover a northeast trade route via the Pole, failed to do so, became trapped in the ice, David died and Lord Grant sailed home.” She raised her hands heavenward in a gesture of exasperation. “Hardly a cause for celebration. Or am I missing some essential fact here?”

Lottie tapped her wrist disapprovingly with her fan. “Do not be so harsh, Joanna darling. It is all about excitement and danger and the adventure of exploration! Lord Grant is the very essence of the noble hero, silent, solitary and fiendishly attractive, just like David.”

“David,” Joanna said dryly, “was hardly silent and solitary.”

Lottie fidgeted, avoiding her eyes. “I suppose David was rather more forthcoming—”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Joanna said even more dryly.

Lottie grabbed a glass of champagne and drained it in one gulp. “Jo darling, you know I am sorry that I let him seduce me, but he was such a hero that it seemed impolite to refuse!” She fixed Joanna with her big, dark eyes. “And it was not as though you cared!”

“No,” Joanna said, turning her face away, “I did not care whom David seduced.”

There had been so many women. In the months following David’s death she had received visits from any number of them claiming to be her late husband’s mistress, including two former servants, three publicans’ daughters and one girl who worked in the milliner’s where Joanna had habitually bought her hats. She had wondered why David had seemed so keen to accompany her shopping when he had last returned to London. And considering that he was barely in the country most of the time, he had a most remarkable record of debauchery. That he had been able to conduct an affaire with Lottie and that she and Lottie were still friends was, Joanna thought bitterly, a reflection on the emptiness of her marriage and the shallowness of her friendships.

She caught Merryn watching her and gave her sister a reassuring smile. Merryn had lived so sheltered a life in the Oxfordshire countryside. Joanna had no wish to shock her sister.

“Anyway, we were speaking of delicious Lord Grant, not of your dead, dissolute husband,” Lottie said with her usual insensitivity. She seemed impervious to the atmosphere. “Does he kiss nicely, Jo darling? My advice would be to jilt him if he does not. It is appalling to be slobbered over by a man who does not understand how to kiss. Trust me, I should know.”

Merryn started to laugh and Joanna’s distress eased a little. At the very least, Lottie could always be relied upon to lighten the mood with some outrageous comment or exploit. Joanna spared a moment’s sympathy for the luckless Mr. Cummings, a banker rich beyond the dreams of avarice whose sole purpose in life appeared to be to fund Lottie’s lifestyle and be henpecked for his troubles.

“I am not going to talk about that,” she said. For a moment the frenetic buzz of the ballroom disappeared and she was back in her library, held in Alex Grant’s arms, and he was kissing her with explicit demand, and the warmth unfurled through her body and her toes curled within her evening slippers.

Lottie gave a little crow of pleasure. “Look at her face! He must kiss beautifully!”

“How gratifying to know that if I am to be jilted it will not be for my lack of expertise,” an amused male voice drawled from beside Joanna. “Your servant-in that as in everything-Lady Joanna.” His glance slid over the white satin evening gown. “How very charming and virginal you look tonight.”

Joanna jumped and spun around on her rout chair. Alex Grant was standing looking down at her, his dark eyes glittering. It was difficult to see how she could have missed his arrival, since an admiring throng of guests were pushing and jostling to claim his attention. The noise in the room was rising and there was a buzz of excitement rippling through the crowd like a breeze through corn. Joanna had seen it before with the eager crowds who had flocked to greet David as a conquering hero, had seen, too, the way in which David had lapped up that attention. Once again she felt a shiver of memory and the coldness seep into her bones.

Behind Alex was a very handsome young man, as fair as Alex was dark, who was watching her with a bright and inquisitive appraisal. Joanna smiled at him and he looked gratified and blushed rather endearingly. Joanna looked at Alex, who did not blush and looked even more sardonic. Joanna had the feeling that it would take a great deal to put him out of countenance.

“So, are we still lovers?” Alex asked softly as he bent over Joanna’s hand. His breath stirred the tendrils of curls about her ear, sending goose bumps skittering over her skin. She looked up into his eyes. He had eyelashes a woman would kill for, she thought, thick and dark. Nature could be very unfair. And he had eyes that she could see now were very dark gray rather than brown, but so smoky that they were unreadable.

She realized that she was staring-and that he was smiling, one eyebrow raised in quizzical challenge.

“As much as we ever were,” she said tartly. “Which is to say not at all.”

“A pity,” Alex said. “I have seldom had so little physical pleasure from an affair.”

“Well, if you would rather be in the Haymarket than Curzon Street, pray do not let us detain you,” Joanna snapped. Really, this man was beyond provocative.

Lottie gave an agonized squawk at the thought that her guest of honor might turn on his heel and leave. “No, indeed, Lord Grant will find my rout a great deal more fun than a bordello. I guarantee it!”

Joanna caught Merryn’s eye. Merryn giggled.

“May I introduce my cousin Mr. James Devlin,” Alex said, drawing forward the tall young man. “He is a great admirer of yours, Lady Joanna.”

Introductions were exchanged. James Devlin bowed to Joanna and then to Merryn. He looked suitably dazzled, though Joanna suspected he had practiced that look quite a bit on impressionable debutantes. Merryn, she was happy to see, remained composed and seemed unimpressed, though a tiny telltale blush suggested that her sister was not indifferent to Mr. Devlin’s admiration. Joanna felt a huge rush of relief and pleasure, followed by an equally strong pang of anxiety. She knew that she was protective of Merryn-as the eldest of three girls she had mothered the others, a state of affairs that had been almost inevitable given her parents’ indifference to their offspring. She did hope that now Merryn had emerged from their uncle’s sickroom she might have the chance to form an attachment to a nice young man. But could James Devlin be described as nice? Probably not. He looked far too dangerous to be let loose on innocent young ladies.

Alex, meanwhile, was being extremely courteous to Lottie, thanking her for hosting such an elegant event. Despite her dislike of him, Joanna was intrigued to see how easily, how seductively, he could charm.

“You do me too much honor, Mrs. Cummings,” he said.

“I told her the same,” Joanna said sweetly. “As you hate being lionized for your fame, my lord, I am sure you must detest all this fuss.”

James Devlin smothered a laugh. “Lady Joanna has you there, Alex.”

“I am sure that I can cope with it,” Alex drawled, “since Lady Joanna is here to ensure that I do not become too conceited.”

“Oh, but your reluctance simply makes you more desirable, Lord Grant,” Lottie gushed. “Every lady here would love to melt that icy aloofness of yours and set your world alight!”

Joanna stifled an unladylike snort of laughter. “Pray speak only for yourself, Lottie,” she said. “I have no desire to start a conflagration, though your ice sculptures may prove useful in putting out the blaze.”

“Ice sculptures?” Alex said, slanting a look down at her.

“Yes, indeed,” Joanna said. “If you have not already seen them, my lord, I suggest that you look at once. You will particularly admire the rendition of yourself laying waste the unresisting acres of the Arctic and planting your flag in truly phallic fashion!”

Lottie glared at her and stroked her fan suggestively down the sleeve of Alex’s immaculate evening coat. “Perhaps you may settle a small matter for me, my lord?” she purred. “Is it true that you wrestled a polar bear and have the scars to prove it? Joanna absolutely refuses to tell me!”

“Because I have no notion,” Joanna said, “and less interest.”

Alex gave her another quizzical look. It brought the blood burning hotly into her face, which was exceptionally annoying since the last time she had blushed had probably been when she was about twelve years old.

“You disappoint me, Lady Joanna,” he said.

“I am aware of that,” Joanna said. “You have made your disapproval of me quite plain.”

“Oh, please,” Lottie fluttered, “do show us. Are they as impressive as Lord Nelson’s wounds were? I hear that he, too, encountered a bear in the Arctic wastes.”

“Madam—” Alex flicked Lottie’s fan firmly away as the feathers tickled his wrist “—I fear I would need to know you a great deal more intimately before I strip off in your ballroom, or indeed any other room.”

He turned to Joanna and offered his hand. “May I have the pleasure of this dance, Lady Joanna? I seldom dance, but I imagine I might manage the cotillion.”

“Flattered as I am that you are prepared to try for me,” Joanna said, smiling demurely, “I fear we cannot dance if you wish to join me in discouraging rumors of our affaire, my lord. Alas, my card is full anyway.”

“Then discard it and start afresh,” Alex said. “I wish to speak with you.”

“Don’t you ever say please, my lord?” Joanna asked, stung by his high-handedness. “It may be that I would have a greater desire to converse with you if you exercised a little courtesy.”

Something wicked kindled in Alex’s eyes, making Joanna catch her breath. “If you please,” Alex murmured. “You see, Lady Joanna, that sometimes I will beg-if there is something I want enough.”

Their gazes locked for a long moment. A smile crept into Alex’s eyes. Joanna felt as though the ground was shifting slightly under her feet. But she was getting the measure of this man now and his ability to discomfit her. She allowed a cool little smile to tilt her lips in return.

“Unlike you, my lord,” she said, turning to James Devlin, “your cousin had the foresight to send me a note this afternoon requesting the first dance with me.” She got to her feet and offered her hand to James. “Mr. Devlin, I should be delighted. That is—” she hesitated “—if you will be happy sitting out on your own, Merryn?”

“I shall go and chat to Miss Drayton,” her sister said. “Don’t worry about me.”

The look of chagrin on Alex’s face as he realized that he had been outwitted was rewarding, Joanna thought. Dev shot him a look that was half rueful, half triumphant. “You are always impressing on me that planning is half the battle, Alex,” he said. “Those are your own tactics.”

“Outmaneuvered, my lord!” Lottie declared. “You will have to dance with me instead. Mr. Cummings will be delighted-once he has opened the ball with me he never dances again but retires to his study to look at those tiresome piles of money.” She stood up and held out a hand imperiously to Alex and after a moment he took it. Joanna’s stomach gave a little lurch. Lottie, it seemed, was indeed intent on seduction, for she was already sliding her hand through Alex’s arm in a most intimate way and looking up at him with a predatory, catlike gleam in her eyes. And really, Joanna thought, it was contrary of her to be cross when not only was she not Alex’s mistress but she had practically told Lottie to seduce him anyway.

The eager press of guests in Lottie’s reception rooms fell back a little to allow them through the archway into the ballroom. All about her, Joanna was aware of the feverish whisper and hiss of conversation, the sycophantic smiles of the ladies as they fluttered to attract Alex’s attention, the hearty greetings of the men, the whole of society angling for his attention and notice.

“I say, ma’am,” Devlin said, walking beside her, “is this not extraordinary? Who would have thought that Alex, of all people, would be so in demand! It is like escorting royalty!”

“I think Lord Grant is probably more popular than the Prince Regent,” Joanna said dryly. “Society is very fickle, Mr. Devlin, and very bored. We are always looking for the next sensation and at the moment that is your cousin. Explorers are all the rage. No doubt this time next year the fashion will be for Chinese wallpaper or Scottish breeds of dog.”

“Alex is hardly comparable to a dog, ma’am,” Dev protested, though with a smile. “And he is the quarry of all the matchmaking mamas, of course.”

“Is he?” Joanna felt a strange dropping feeling in her stomach. “I had no notion that Lord Grant was seeking a bride.”

“Oh, I do not think he wants a wife,” Dev said candidly, “but Balvenie currently has no heir.”

“I see. Of course.” Joanna felt the cold gnawing inside her. David, too, had wanted a son. “Yes,” she said. “Most men want an heir.”

Even though she sought to keep her tone level there must have been some note in it that caught Dev’s attention for he gave her a quick, puzzled look. She smiled at him blandly and saw his brow clear. Oh, it was so easy to pretend …

It had taken them so long to fight their way through the crowds that the cotillion was already over and the orchestra, seeing them approach, swung into a lively rendition of Thomas Arne’s march from Britannia in Alex’s honor. Glancing at him, Joanna saw that his face was absolutely impassive. Lottie was clinging to his arm and beaming with reflected glory and the entire ballroom broke into spontaneous applause.

“It would be more appropriate,” Joanna whispered to Dev, “to have played Mr. Arne’s ‘Much Ado about Nothing.’”

Alex gave her an unreadable look and Joanna realized that he had heard her. Dev was looking from one to the other with a puzzled expression on his handsome face.

“I say, you really do not like one another very much, do you, Lady Joanna? When Alex told me that you were not really … um … intimate I thought that he was merely … um—” He broke off in confusion, sounding all at once a great deal less sophisticated than his appearance suggested.

“I fear I am prejudiced against explorers, Mr. Devlin,” Joanna said, taking pity on him, “having been married to one.”

“Oh, but surely David was the most admirable of men,” Dev said, his face lighting up. “He was a hero of mine when I was only a small boy.”

“I fear,” Joanna said, “that heroes can be uncomfortable men to live with.” She saw his look of blank astonishment and added bitterly, “It can be so hard to live up to the expectation.”

The triumphal march finished on a flourish, the applause rang out again and Alex bowed acknowledgment to the crowd before Lottie positively dragged him into the next set that was forming for a country-dance.

“I hope that Alex will forgive me cutting him out,” Dev said as he and Joanna moved through the opening figures. “I was surprised he asked you to dance, ma’am. A combination of an old wound and lack of inclination usually keeps him from the floor.”

Joanna had been surprised as well. Whilst Alex’s injured leg did not seem to hinder him unduly, she could not imagine that a half-hour country-dance would be comfortable for him. She had observed from the grim set of his mouth when Lottie had questioned him on his polar bear injuries that this was another issue he did not discuss. Like the subject of his popularity as an explorer and the death of his wife, it was not up for debate, and there was something most stern and quelling about Alex Grant when he decided a topic was not open for discussion. Joanna doubted that many people gainsaid him. He was too authoritative and too intimidating.

“Alex only accepted Mrs. Cummings’s invitation tonight as a favor to me,” Dev was saying. “He is nowhere near as unhelpful as he can seem, you know, ma’am.”

“I will take your word for it, Mr. Devlin,” Joanna said, smiling. “And as I am sure that your cousin is indifferent to whom I dance with, so you are in no imminent danger of his calling you out.”

“Well, I hope not,” Dev said. “He did warn me off you earlier, though.” He gave her a look of frank admiration. “Can’t say I blame him, ma’am.”

“Your cousin is presumptuous,” Joanna snapped. She shot a furious look at Alex across the floor. Since it seemed extremely unlikely that David had made Alex promise to protect her in some touching deathbed scene-she was sure that the reverse must be true-she could only assume that Alex had warned his young cousin away because he thought her dangerous to Devlin’s virtue. For a moment she watched Alex dancing with Lottie. Mrs. Cummings was turning a respectable country-dance into something a great deal more tactile. She was all over Alex like ivy, Joanna thought, feeling for those polar bear scars herself. As she saw Alex pry Lottie’s fingers away from his shirtfront, she decided Lottie’s persistent attentions were the least penance that he deserved.

“In your note to me this afternoon you mentioned a favor, Mr. Devlin,” she said, turning back to Dev. “How can I help you? Though if it is anything to do with your cousin, I should warn you that I have absolutely no influence with him at all.”

“Know what you mean, ma’am,” Dev said gloomily. “Alex knows his own mind too well to welcome other counsel.”

“You mean that he is arrogant,” Joanna said.

Dev winced. “Well, that could be one word for it, I suppose. Truth is, I am in bad odor with him at the moment for abandoning my navy commission to take part in an expedition to Mexico.” He looked at her appealingly. “I wondered if you might speak with him, ma’am, and smooth matters over for me?”

“I could try,” Joanna said, “but it would only make things worse for you, Mr. Devlin. I am afraid that when it comes to incurring your cousin’s disapproval, I am streets ahead of you.”

The figure of the dance took them past the corner where Merryn was sitting chatting to Miss Drayton. Joanna saw that Devlin was watching her sister.

“Lady Merryn does not dance?” he said when they came back together again.

“My sister prefers more intellectual pursuits,” Joanna said, smiling. Merryn was a bluestocking who was unconventional enough to make no secret of her preference for intelligent debate over dancing. It did, however, limit her circle of friends and many people in the ton, Lottie included, thought her a complete original because of her lack of interest in frivolity.

She realized that Dev was watching her with a surprisingly perceptive gaze. “A pity,” he said. “Because I am sure she would be a graceful dancer. But I admire a woman who is different.”

“If you can discuss naval architecture with her then you will win her approval,” Joanna said lightly. The music drew to a close and she and Dev joined in the smattering of applause from the dancers. “She has been attending the lectures at the Royal Institution with some of her friends.”

“Indeed?” Dev said. There was a frown between his brows. “I attended the talk last week, the one about a new design for the American frigates. I must have seen Lady Merryn at the meeting although—” he hesitated “—I thought that I had glimpsed her in quite a different place.”

“Then it seems you have an interest in common,” Joanna said, smiling. She put a hand on Dev’s arm. “A word of advice, though, Mr. Devlin. Merryn has lived in the country for most of her life and is unused to the ways of the ton. I would be sorry to see her … disappointed in any way.”

Again she saw a slight frown mar Dev’s brow and saw, too, an expression in his eyes that she could not understand, but then his face cleared and he put his hand over hers and gave her gloved fingers a comforting squeeze.

“Have no fear, ma’am. I don’t trifle with young ladies.” He paused. “Well, honesty compels me to admit that I do, but I swear I shall do nothing to upset you with regard to your sister.”

“Devlin.” Jo turned to see that Alex had shaken off Lottie Cummings, whom Joanna was surprised to see dancing with John Hagan, and was prowling across the floor toward them, for once ignoring the handshakes and acclaim of those trying to gain his attention. His gaze was on their clasped hands and it seemed to Joanna that Dev released her more slowly, and more provocatively, than was strictly necessary.

“Alex,” Dev said, a grin curling his mouth. “Have you come to cut in on us?”

“Mr. Cummings,” Alex said, his gaze riveted on Joanna’s face, “wishes to discuss your Mexican expedition plan with you, Dev, so you had better unhand Lady Joanna and join him in the drawing room.”

Dev’s face lit up. “Did you put in a word for me, Alex? I say, you are the most splendid chap! Your servant, Lady Joanna.” He sketched Joanna a bow. “Please excuse me.”

“Of course,” Joanna said, smiling. “Good luck.”

“May I escort you to the dining room, Lady Joanna?” Alex asked. He was quite definitely not smiling. “Such energetic flirtation as you have indulged in with my cousin must lead you to require some refreshment, I think.”

Joanna shot him a look of dislike. “We were merely dancing, my lord.”

Alex arched a brow. “Is that what you call it?”

“I heard that you had warned Mr. Devlin to keep away from me,” Joanna said as they passed through the door into the dining room, where Lottie’s ice sculptures were wilting in the heat from the candles. “Being of a charitable disposition I assumed that it was because my late husband had asked you to take a brotherly interest in my welfare and you wished to protect me from young rakes.”

Alex laughed. “You could not be more mistaken, Lady Joanna. Your husband intimated to me that you were well able to take care of yourself and I am inclined to believe him.”

Joanna felt a stab of sensation that felt curiously like misery. So David had made her sound like a brass-faced bitch and Alex had believed him. Of course he had. Why would he not? Everyone believed David Ware to be the most complete hero, and Alex had been David’s closest friend. She gave herself a little shake. What had she expected? David was never going to sing her praises; they had been estranged for years, locked in mutual loathing. How could it be otherwise when David had felt that she had failed him in the only thing he had required of her? Within five years of their marriage they had quarreled violently, terminally, and after that they had barely spoken to one another again.

Joanna drew a deep breath to compose herself. David was dead and it should not matter now. Yet Alex Grant’s poor opinion of her seemed to count for more than it ought.

She stopped dead next to the life-size ice model of Alex himself. “Indeed?” she said scathingly. “It ill becomes you to step in at this eleventh hour to protect your cousin from some imaginary danger, Lord Grant. You have left him to fend for himself in the past, have you not, and his sister, too, so I hear, whilst you traipse about the globe in search of glory—”

Alex’s gloved hand closed about her wrist tightly enough to make her gasp and break off. The look in his eyes was feral though he kept his tone soft. “Is this your attempt to jilt me in full public view?” he asked. There was an edge of steel to his voice. “I confess I had hoped for something more original than a list of all the ways in which I had failed my family.”

“Do not be so hasty,” Joanna said. She held his gaze with hers. “You will not be disappointed by your dismissal, I assure you.” She shook him off, rubbing her wrist where he had held her. His grip had not hurt, but there had been something in his touch and in his eyes, something primitive and fierce, that had shaken her. The tone of their encounter had shifted in the space of a second from enmity sheathed in courtesy to all-out antagonism. Joanna could see that in the heat of the moment she had invested in Alex all the faults she had detested in David, and perhaps that was unfair, but she was in no mood to be generous. He had not extended any generosity to her, after all. He had disliked her from the start.

“You may rest easy for your cousin’s virtue,” she said. “I am not interested in callow youths, whatever you may think.” She looked him up and down. “Nor in adventurers, for that matter, however romantic and mysterious others may find them.” She squared her shoulders. “Lord Grant, I do not know what my husband said about me to make you have such an aversion to me, but I do not care for either your disapproval or your judgmental attitudes.”

“David never spoke of you to me,” Alex said. “Other than just before he died.”

Joanna was gripping her fan so tightly between her gloved hands now that she heard the struts creak. She could see a most indiscreet crowd of guests jostling in the doorway of the room, eager to witness the scene playing out between Lady Joanna and her supposed lover.

“Well,” she said sarcastically, “if David was on his deathbed then whatever he said must be true.”

“Perhaps,” Alex said. His mouth was set in a thin, angry line. “You may tell me if it was true or not. David told me never to trust you, Lady Joanna. He said that you were deceitful and manipulative. Can you tell me what you had done to incur such hatred from your husband?”

Their eyes met and locked and Joanna could feel the burn all the way through her body. Alex’s gaze was narrowed on her face with dark intensity and suddenly she hated him, too, for believing her faithless, feckless husband, for taking David’s word without question, for damning her unheard. She wanted to explain to him; she wanted it with a passion that shocked her, that stole her breath and made her heart ache-but she knew she could not confide in Alex Grant, a man who was practically a stranger. “Trust no one” was her maxim when it came to the ton and she had held true to it ever since the day, as a new bride, she had walked into Madame Ermine’s gown shop in Bond Street and had heard two women discussing her intimate affairs in exquisite scandalous detail. It was from that gossip she had first learned of David’s infidelity. As a result, she trusted no one with her secrets, especially not her late husband’s closest friend, colleague and ally.

“You assume that I am the one who was in the wrong,” she said bitterly, now. “I am sorry you believe that.”

She saw a hint of doubt in Alex’s eyes; or at least she thought that she did. It was faint and fleeting like a shadow that came and went in the blink of an eye. Then he shook his head slightly.

“That is not good enough, Lady Joanna.”

Joanna’s temper snapped. She had been estranged from David for five long years before he had died and had nursed her grief silently through every one of them. This man was trying to force it out into the light of day and in doing so was destroying all the layers she had built up to protect herself.

“Well, Lord Grant,” she said, “it will have to do. I owe you nothing, and nothing I could say would change your opinion of me anyway, so I shall save my breath.” She squared her shoulders. “I recall that you wanted me to end our supposed liaison. Let me oblige you and then we need not see one another again.”

She turned to the ice sculpture and broke off the sword in the man’s hand. The ice gave a very satisfying crack as the sword came free. Mrs. Cummings’s guests caught their collective breath on a gasp.

Joanna snapped the sword sharply in two and handed Alex the pieces.

“That is what I think of explorers and their amatory abilities,” she said clearly so that the entire company could hear her. “It is to be hoped that you can navigate your way better across the frozen wastes than you can around a woman’s body, or you may end in Spain rather than Spitsbergen.” She smiled. “Consider yourself jilted, Lord Grant,” she added sweetly. “Good night.”

Chapter 3

MRS. LOTTIE CUMMINGS stood alone in her dining room surveying the detritus her guests had left behind. In a rare gesture of generosity she had given the servants what was left of the night off and told them they could finish cleaning and tidying the following day. The candles were snuffed and the air smelled faintly of smoke. What light filtered into the room came from the first rays of dawn that streaked the eastern sky over London. Her ice sculptures were melting, dripping sadly into the large cut-glass bowls beneath with a splash that sounded like tears. Lottie felt depressed and she could not, for the life of her, understand why.

The evening had been the most tremendous success, a complete crush, and she knew it would be spoken of for months to come. Even without the thrilling quarrel between Lady Joanna Ware and her alleged lover, Lord Grant, it would have been deemed vastly entertaining. The food had, as always, been exquisite, the music perfection itself and the ice sculptures were the finishing touch. So why, Lottie wondered, trailing her fingers in the remainder of a bowl of rose-petal cream and licking it off thoughtfully, did she feel as though she had lost a guinea and found a farthing? It was true that her husband, Gregory, had barely shown his face at the rout, but then he never did. They went their separate ways and had done since the beginning. She had married him for his money not his personality, which was just as well, Lottie thought, since he did not have one. No, indeed, Gregory’s neglect was not the cause of her blue devils. She did not want his attention. But she wanted someone’s attention, someone more exciting, more daring, someone altogether more thrilling than poor old Gregory.

It was a pity that Alex Grant had turned down her whispered offers of a liaison. Lottie had not expected to be rejected. It happened to her very seldom. She had known Alex’s reputation for coldness but had thought she would be just the woman to thaw him. She had not for a moment believed the twaddle other impressionable women whispered that he was still mourning his dead wife or some such rubbish. He was a man, wasn’t he, and therefore led by his lusts. She had seen the way Alex had been looking at Joanna and she knew he wanted David Ware’s luscious widow. But he was wasting his time there. Lottie sucked the remaining cream from her fingers. Joanna really was frigid, poor girl-David had told Lottie that when they had been in bed together one day. No, indeed, far better for Lottie to be the one to show the lovely Lord Grant the comforts she could offer a dashing adventurer. Except that Alex had rejected her advances. He had done so courteously, charmingly even, but it was still a rebuff and Lottie was still offended. She had immediately sent a servant to Gregory to tell him that on no account should he fund Alex’s scapegrace cousin on his ridiculous Mexican voyage. It had been a petty revenge, perhaps, but it had made her feel better …

The click of a door closing softly and the sound of a footfall on the marble tiles of the hall made her turn swiftly. She had thought that she was alone, but now she saw that a tall shadow had fallen across the doorway.

“I thought that you had left some time ago,” she said as James Devlin came forward into the room.

Dev shook his head. “Your husband and I were talking.”

“And?” Lottie prompted. Had blasted Gregory defied her and offered the stupid boy his money anyway? She felt infuriated.

But Dev was shaking his head. “He won’t fund me. Says the venture is too risky.”

“I am so sorry.” Lottie swam forward and laid a gentle hand on his arm. “You must be so disappointed, darling.” He looked disappointed, she thought, all youthful spirits downcast, so sweetly handsome she wanted to kiss him better. She pressed a glass of champagne on him. It was flat from standing but he still drank it down in one go and she gave him another, picking up a glass herself and clinking it against his in salute.

“Where does that leave you now?” she said sympathetically.

“With a half share in a ship and no money to sail it anywhere.” He sounded philosophical. Bless him, Lottie thought, he really was the dearest boy. Perhaps he was not as mature or as forceful as his cousin, a boy to Alex’s man, but he was here and he was extremely handsome and she was bored and miserable.

She took Dev’s empty glass from his hand and placed it on the table, leaning past him and brushing her breasts firmly against his arm in the process. It was a gesture that could have been entirely accidental-or not. She felt him stiffen, more so in some places than others, and smiled.

“Darling,” she said, straightening up and standing close enough so that their bodies were just touching, “is there anything that I can do to help you feel better?”

He was, she was delighted to discover, of extremely quick intellect. She really did not have to make her meaning any plainer.

His hands came up to grasp her upper arms and draw her in for a kiss that was not the hesitant, inexperienced embrace she might have expected but something altogether more knowing. She kissed him back eagerly, almost greedily, running her hands over his back and down over his buttocks, too, in those deliciously fitted pantaloons, pressing herself against his aroused cock, urging him closer. He met her demands with amusement and skill and she was just beginning to think she had fundamentally underestimated him, when he lifted her up and placed her on the table, tumbling her backward amidst the half-finished meringues and leftover fruit and moving their game into another league entirely. She felt strawberries squash against the back of her bodice and their rich, sweet scent stung the air.

“My gown!” She liked this dress too much to let some impetuous lover spoil it. But it was too late.

“You’re rich enough to buy another.” His voice was lazy. He completed the ruin of her clothes by tugging the bodice down to her waist so that her breasts were exposed. The material of the gown ripped, but before she could complain, she felt the cold, slippery caress of strawberries rubbing against her naked skin and then his mouth, licking, sucking, tasting her. She squirmed breathless and unbelieving beneath his ministrations, feeling the lust spiral tighter and tighter within her belly, trying not to cry out in disbelief and pleasure at the expert touch of his lips and hands. The door was open, she recalled hazily. Anyone might come in. The servants. They were always listening at keyholes, bearing tales. She had taken some risks in her time-indeed, to her it was part of the fun of the game-but this man was reckless to the point of madness. She had had no idea, no suspicion. Gregory knew of her little indiscretions, but he would divorce her if the scandal were too great. His pride would demand it. She simply had to put a stop to this. But oh, it was too sweet, too pleasurable to end.

His hand was beneath her skirts, on her thigh, and she ached to feel him within her. But then something touched her slick heat, something hard, smooth and broad, sliding inside her, icy cold encased in her warmth, the hilt of the frozen sword from the ice sculpture. The shock, the sheer illicit, erotic thrill of it made her half rise from the table with a gasp that was a mixture of astonishment, disbelief and wild excitement.

“You cannot do that—”

“I can.” He was easing her back down amongst the smashed meringues and scattered strawberries, leaning over to kiss her even as he threw up her petticoats, spread her wider and worked that wicked sword hilt inside her. He tasted of champagne and strawberries. She could feel the ice melting against her inner thighs, running in rivulets down her skin even as the heat inside her blazed to impossible levels. She arched upward and came in one huge, overwhelming roll of sensation, biting down on one of her embroidered napkins to prevent herself from screaming loud enough to wake the whole house.

When she came to her senses she realized that there was fruit in her hair and she was lying half-naked in a pool of melted ice. Dev was laughing down at her. In the half light he looked young and vital and very, very wicked. Lottie’s heart skipped a beat.

“You enjoyed that?”

“Oh, you.” Lottie was disconcerted to realize that she felt rather more for him than simple gratitude. She struggled to push aside some unfamiliar emotions and achieve her customary languor.

“Well, darling,” she murmured, “what a find you have proved to be!” She reached for him and was gratified to discover that he was very hard for her.

“Not here,” he said, scooping her up into his arms with an ease that was very seductive. “What do you say to a tryst in the gardens?”

“The summerhouse is nice at this time of year,” Lottie murmured as he strode toward the door leading out to the terrace. “Actually, I find that the summerhouse is nice at any time of year.”

ALEX GRANT SAT IN THE OFFICES of Churchward and Churchward, lawyers to the aristocratic and discerning, in High Holborn, and tried not to feel too impatient. This had most decidedly not been part of his plan. Since he was still kicking his heels in London waiting for his next commission from the Admiralty, he had decided to ignore all the tempting offers from the ton to grace their social events and to spend the day visiting a former colleague at the naval hospital at Greenwich. But when he had arisen that morning, his steward, Frazer, had told him glumly that not only were there no orders but there was an urgent letter from the lawyers-and true enough, when he opened Mr. Churchward’s missive that gentleman’s agitation had leaped from the page, summoning him immediately to a meeting in his chambers.

Now he was here, though, Mr. Churchward was remaining obstinately silent, for Lady Joanna Ware had not yet arrived and it would be quite improper, so Mr. Churchward said, for him to acquaint Lord Grant with the nature of the problem until her ladyship was present.

Alex drummed his fingers impatiently on the table beside him. His leg was aching today, the result no doubt of his exertions in Mrs. Cummings’s ballroom the previous night. It put him in an intolerant mood. There was no sound in Mr. Churchward’s office but for the rustle of papers, the muted rumble of traffic in the street below and the tick of the clock as it marked just how long Lady Joanna was keeping them waiting.

Alex had not intended to see Lady Joanna Ware again before he left London and the fact that he was now obliged to do so-or would be if she ever arrived-was sufficient to annoy him intensely. It was not, he assured himself, that he could not accept his congé. It was true that Lady Joanna had dismissed him the previous night in a manner that was fully as public and embarrassing as she had promised, but he was man enough to take that. She had given him fair warning, he had underestimated her and he had been bested. No, what troubled him was the matter of David Ware’s last words.

Alex had never questioned his late colleague’s integrity before and it disturbed him to find himself doing so now, particularly as he had no reason to doubt Ware’s embittered words about his wife. And yet. And yet Joanna Ware’s pale stricken face was before his eyes and remembering her expression made him feel as though he had been kicked squarely in the gut.

“You assume that I am the one who was in the wrong … I am sorry you believe that.”

He had felt her pain then. He had not wanted to; he had no desire to be moved by this woman or to feel any affinity for her and yet he had not been able to help himself.

It was easy to canonize a man after his death, especially a man like David Ware, who had already been hailed as a hero. Joanna must have been a very pretty adornment to Ware’s fame, burnishing his glory with her elegance and style. But then something must have happened; everything had gone wrong between them.

“You assume that I am the one who was in the wrong …”

Somewhere in the recesses of Alex’s body he felt a wayward pang of sympathy for Joanna Ware. And yet his doubts lingered. On his deathbed Ware had called his wife a deceitful, manipulative bitch, harsh words, bitterly spoken. There had to be a reason.

Impatiently Alex dismissed his thoughts. He was not at all sure why he was expending so much time in thinking about Joanna Ware. It was infuriating and completely unacceptable that he felt drawn to her in some odd way in direct contradiction to what they both wanted. Yet he could not shift the feeling. It persisted. It made him angry and uncomfortable. He also profoundly disliked being dragged into David Ware’s personal affairs. When he had delivered his late colleague’s letter to the lawyers, he had thought that was an end to the matter and yet here he was; against his will he had been drawn further into Ware’s business.

He itched to be gone.

There was a flurry of noise outside the door and then the clerk threw it open with a somewhat theatrical flourish and Lady Joanna Ware swept into the room. Alex got to his feet. Mr Churchward leaped up, too, apparently so eager to greet his client that he managed to knock a pile of papers off his desk.

“My lady!” Churchward looked momentarily stunned and Alex knew how he felt. Joanna’s entrance had brought something bright and vital into the fusty room, chasing away the cobwebs and the shadows. For a moment Alex felt dazzled, as though he was looking directly into the sun. It was odd, he thought, for his overriding impression of Joanna had from the start been one of cool superficiality and self-containment and yet now she was all warmth and charm. It was like watching a different woman. She was shaking Mr Churchward’s hand and smiling in genuine pleasure to see the lawyer and her brittle façade was quite gone, replaced by a sincerity that seemed entirely genuine.

This morning Joanna was dressed in a primrose silk morning gown with a matching spencer trimmed with black lace. A delicious little hat sat on her upswept chestnut curls. She looked breathtakingly pretty, very young and disconcertingly innocent. It was a smart, stylish, expensive outfit, neat as a pin and yet somehow subtly seductive. Alex, unversed and uninterested in fashion, had not the least idea why the sight of so apparently respectable a gown should have precisely the reverse effect on him and make him feel distinctly unrespectable. It covered all of Joanna from neck to toe and it made him want to uncover her, preferably immediately and in intensive detail. He shifted slightly.

“I am surprised to see that your dog can move,” he said as the terrier trotted into the office in Joanna’s wake, the yellow ribbon in its topknot complementing her yellow silk perfectly. “I hope he has not found the exercise of walking from your carriage too onerous.”

Joanna turned. Her violet-blue eyes fixed on Alex and she did not look pleased to see him. Her luscious mouth tightened into a deeply disapproving bow, which contrarily Alex found extremely attractive.

“My dog’s name is Max,” she said, “and he is a border terrier and as such perfectly capable of vigorous activity. He simply chooses not to exert himself.” The dog, as though to make the point, graciously accepted a biscuit Mr. Churchward had taken from his drawer, curled up neatly in a patch of sunlight on the floor and went to sleep.

“Mr. Churchward did not tell me that you would be here,” Joanna added. “I was not expecting to see you.”

“I was not expecting to be here,” Alex said as he held her chair for her. “So both of us are disappointed.” He shrugged, turning to the lawyer. “As Lady Joanna has finally deigned to grace us with her presence,” he said, “shall we commence?”

“Thank you, my lord,” Mr. Churchward said frostily. He fidgeted a little with his papers and settled his glasses more firmly on his nose. “Madam.” His voice quivered a little and Alex realized that he was laboring under a strong emotion, “may I first say how sorry, how very sorry I am to be the bearer of yet more bad news in relation to your husband’s death. When we met a year ago to discuss the distressing terms of his will—” He broke off and shook his head. “It pains me greatly,” he added, “to bring yet more trouble upon you.”

“Dear Mr. Churchward—” there was more warmth in Joanna’s tone than Alex had ever heard from her before “—I fear you are making me nervous!” She smiled reassuringly at the lawyer though Alex thought there was an edge of anxiety beneath her assumption of ease. “You cannot be held responsible in any way for my late husband’s behavior,” Joanna said. “Pray do not concern yourself.”

Looking from Joanna’s composed features to Mr. Churchward’s anguished ones, Alex wondered for the first time about the depositions of David Ware’s will and about the codicil, that very document that he had carried back all the way from the Arctic at Ware’s behest. He had assumed that his late comrade had left his not-inconsiderable fortune to Lady Joanna to allow her to continue to live in the lavish style to which she was clearly accustomed. That would surely have been in keeping with Ware’s character, with his honor and his sense of duty. But now, looking at the lawyer’s gloomy face-and remembering Ware’s venom toward his wife-Alex realized that his assumption might well have been false.

“What were the terms of Ware’s will?” he interrupted.

Both Joanna and the lawyer jumped as though they had forgotten he was there. Joanna refused to meet his eyes, smoothing the material of her skirts in a quick, fidgety gesture. Churchward flushed.

“My lord, I beg your pardon, but I am not certain that it is your business.”

Joanna looked up suddenly and Alex felt the impact of her gaze like a physical blow, it was so keen and clear.

“On the contrary, Mr. Churchward,” she said, “I imagine that Lord Grant is here because David has somehow embroiled him in my affairs. If that is the case then he deserves to know the truth from the beginning.”

“If you wish, madam.” Churchward sounded huffy. “It is most irregular, however.”

“David,” Joanna said gently, “was irregular, Mr. Churchward.” She glanced back at Alex, took a deep breath and seemed to be choosing her words with some care. “My late husband,” she said, “left his estate to his cousin John Hagan in his will and cut me off without a penny.” She paused. “You may be aware, Lord Grant, that Maybole was bought with David’s navy prize money?” She waited and Alex nodded. David Ware, as a younger son, had not inherited an entailed estate. He had bought a piece of land at Maybole in Kent and had built a gaudy mansion in which Alex had been just the once.

“His arrangements,” Joanna continued, “left me somewhat financially embarrassed.” Once again she dropped her gaze and smoothed some imaginary crease from the pristine folds of her skirts.

“He did not explain his actions to me,” she finished, “but no doubt he had his reasons.”

“No doubt he did,” Alex said. He was shocked and puzzled that his late colleague had been so ungallant as to leave his wife penniless. It seemed quite out of character, but then had Ware not implied that he had good reason to mistrust his wife? Presumably he had done the minimum for her that he was required to do under the law.

“In my experience Ware was a good judge of character and never acted without just cause,” he said stiffly. “The provocation must have been considerable.”

He saw the angry color mantle Joanna’s cheeks. “Thank you for your unsolicited opinion,” she said coldly. “I might have known that you would take his part on the basis of no evidence whatsoever.”

“It was unforgivable of Commodore Ware to make so little provision for Lady Joanna,” Churchward muttered. The lawyer, Alex was interested to see, made no attempt at impartiality. “It was not the action of a hero.”

Mr. Churchward, Alex thought, was a man who approved of things being done in the proper way and David Ware had apparently transgressed that code in failing to provide sufficiently for his wife.

“Surely you had a jointure, Lady Joanna,” he said abruptly. “I cannot believe Ware left you utterly destitute.”

There was a small silence. Joanna bit her lip. “David did leave me a small sum of money, it is true …”

Alex felt a rush of relief that his faith in his late friend had not been misplaced. He could see clearly enough what must have happened. Ware had left his wife a perfectly adequate settlement but she was so spendthrift and careless that it was never enough.

“I suppose that it is a sum that you easily outrun with your extravagance?” he said. He allowed his gaze to sweep over Joanna and did not hide his scorn. “I can well imagine that you are expensive to run.”

“I am not a carriage,” Joanna said haughtily. “And yes—” she smoothed the skirts of her yellow silk “—I appreciate fine things—”

“Then you have only yourself to blame,” Alex said. “It is a simple matter of economics. If you do not possess the money in the first place, don’t spend it.”

“Thank you for the lesson,” Joanna snapped. There was a slight flush in her cheeks now, but the sparkle in her eyes was anger not embarrassment.

“Last night,” she said, “you did not scruple to point out to me that David hated me, Lord Grant.” She made a slight gesture. “You will be pleased that there is evidence to support your assertion.”

Alex saw Churchward stiffen with outrage. The lawyer, he thought with amusement, was looking as though he would like to run him through-if such martial thoughts ever occurred to a peaceful man of the pen.

“My lord!” Churchward sounded reproachful. “How very ungallant of you to suggest such a thing.”

“But true,” Joanna said smoothly. “David hated me and through various ingenious means sought to punish me, even after he was dead. Clearly he was every bit as resourceful as everyone claimed him to be.” She sighed. “Anyway, we must let that go and turn to the current matter.”

“A moment.” Alex held up a hand. He was thinking of the beautiful house in Half Moon Street and the attractive and expensive items with which Lady Joanna Ware surrounded herself. He wondered who was paying for them if her jointure really was as minuscule as she claimed. David Ware’s close relatives were dead and Alex had the impression that Joanna herself, whilst an Earl’s daughter, had come from a relatively impoverished country family. If Ware had left her practically without a feather to fly then her comparative wealth was curious, to say the least.

“If you inherited little of Ware’s fortune and the bulk of it went to John Hagan,” he said slowly, “how are you funded?”

He heard Mr. Churchward give a snort of disgust. The lawyer, like Lady Joanna herself, had picked up on the implications of his question:

“Who is supporting you? Is it a lover?”

Lady Joanna raised her brows; a smile curved her delectable mouth.

“I thought that they taught manners at the naval academy, Lord Grant,” she said. “Did you play truant for those lectures?”

“I find it easier to ask a direct question when I want a straight answer,” Alex said.

“Well, you are not barking questions at your men now,” Joanna said. She lifted one slim shoulder in an elegant shrug. “Nevertheless, I will answer your question.” Her tone was cold now. “The house in Half Moon Street belongs to Mr. Hagan. As for the rest-prepare yourself for a shock.” Her violet-blue eyes mocked him. “I hope that you are strong enough to withstand it, Lord Grant.” She paused. “I work for my living.”

“You work?” Alex was shocked. “As what?” He made no attempt to erase the incredulity from his tone.

Joanna laughed. “Certainly not as a courtesan—” her tone was derisory “—in case you thought that the only talent I might have to offer.”

“As to that,” Alex said, holding her eyes, “I really would not know if it is one of your talents.” He paused. “Would I?”

Her eyes flashed, smoky with dislike. “Nor will you.”

“My lord, my lady!” Mr. Churchward intervened. The tips of his ears glowed bright red. “If you please.”

Joanna dropped her gaze. “People pay me to design the interior of their homes, Lord Grant. I am considered to have excellent taste, sufficient that people wish to buy it for themselves. They pay me well and a few years ago I was also fortunate enough to inherit a legacy from my aunt.” She shifted in her seat, glancing again at Mr. Churchward, who was looking most uncomfortable. “But we wander from the point. Mr. Churchward has more bad news to impart, I believe. Let us put him out of his misery.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Churchward said unhappily. He placed the letter Alex had delivered two days before on the top of his desk and smoothed it as though in doing so he could somehow alter the content.

“Lord Grant delivered this letter to me on behalf of your husband,” he said to Joanna. “It is a codicil to his will.”

“David entrusted it to me when he was dying,” Alex added.

Joanna looked at him thoughtfully. He could not read her expression now. Those violet eyes were guarded. “Another of David’s melodramatic deathbed gestures,” she said. “You did not mention this when you called on me, Lord Grant.”

“No,” Alex said, “I did not. I had no idea if the contents were relevant to you or not.”

He saw her lashes come down, veiling her expression still further. Only the tattoo beaten by her fingers on the desk suggested she was in any way discomposed. He knew what she was thinking, though. He could read her as clearly as if she had spoken. She thought him David’s pawn; that his loyalty to her late husband had enabled Ware to use him. Alex found that he did not like to be judged that way, as though he had no independent thought. Then he recognized with grim irony that he had judged Joanna Ware, too. Not on his experience of her but on Ware’s word alone. The tension thickened, the atmosphere in the room feeling prickly with antagonism.

“Please proceed, Mr. Churchward,” Joanna said politely.

Churchward cleared his throat. “‘Written in my own hand, by Commodore David Ware on the seventh of November in the year nine.’” He looked at them over his glasses.

“‘I have decided that I have been remiss,’” he read aloud, “‘in leaving so little in my last will and testament to my wife, Lady Joanna Caroline Ware. I am aware that various parties might criticize my neglect of her, so I hereby redress the balance in this codicil to my will.’”

Alex looked at Joanna. She did not look like a woman eagerly anticipating a hitherto-unexpected windfall. Her expression was that of someone expecting a very nasty surprise.

“‘I leave to Lady Joanna’s care and welfare-’” Mr. Churchward paused and swallowed so hard that his Adam’s apple bobbed “‘-my baby daughter, Nina Tatiana Ware.’”

Alex felt a short, sharp jolt of shock. He had known that Ware had taken a Russian mistress during their last expedition to the Arctic. Ware’s association with the girl had been no secret; he had boasted of it, claiming that she was Pomor nobility even if he had found her in a whorehouse. Ware’s men had joked about their captain’s promiscuity and the fact that even on a trip where women were few and far between, he had found both time and opportunity for his whoring. Alex had thought that the girl had left Spitsbergen for the Russian mainland. But Ware had never mentioned a child before. Alex could only assume that approaching death had shaken his colleague into taking some action toward his bastard daughter.

Churchward’s words reclaimed his attention. “‘Nina is currently four years old and an orphan resident in the monastery at Bellsund, in Arctic Spitsbergen.’” The lawyer’s voice wobbled. “‘I know my wife will be delighted at this proof of my fecundity.’” Churchward’s voice dwindled and died away. Looking at Joanna, Alex could see that she had turned chalk white, her eyes vivid in a parchment-pale face. “Madam—” Churchward said helplessly.

“Pray proceed, Mr. Churchward,” Joanna said again. Her voice was quite steady.

“‘There are two conditions contingent on this legacy,’” Churchward read. “‘Firstly that my wife must travel in person to the Bellsund Monastery in Spitsbergen where my daughter is currently being cared for, and bring her back to London to live with her.’” Mr. Churchward’s voice was getting faster and faster as though by hurrying over the words he could somehow lessen their impact. He shot both Joanna and Alex a hunted glance like a rabbit trapped in the poacher’s sights. “‘I am aware,’” he continued, the letter shaking now in his hand, “‘that Joanna will detest the strictures that I have placed upon her, but that her desire for a child is so strong she will have no choice other than to put herself into the greatest danger and discomfort imaginable in order to rescue my daughter-’”

He stopped as Joanna took a sharp breath. “Madam—” he said again.

Joanna had turned even paler, so deathly white that Alex thought she might faint. “He abandoned a baby girl in a monastery,” she whispered. “How could he do such a thing?”

Alex got up and threw open the door into the outer office, calling for a glass of water. One of the clerks scurried away to fetch it.

“Fresh air,” Churchward said, pushing open the window and causing a draft to blow in that scattered the papers on his desk, “burnt feathers, sal volatile—”

“Brandy,” Alex said grimly, “would be more effective.”

“I do not keep spirits in my place of work,” Churchward said.

“I would have thought that you would need them sometimes,” Alex said, “for the benefit of both yourself and your clients, Mr. Churchward.”

“I am perfectly all right,” Joanna interposed. She was sitting upright, still very pale but with a dignity drawn about her now like a cloak. Alex pressed the glass of water into her hand, holding it steady with his hand clasped about hers. She raised her eyes thoughtfully to his face before she drank obediently. A shade of color came back into her cheeks.

“So,” she said after a moment, “my late husband manages to manipulate me from beyond the grave. It is quite an achievement.” She met Alex’s gaze. “Were you aware that David had an illegitimate daughter, Lord Grant?” She placed the glass gently on the table.

“No,” Alex said. “I knew that he had a mistress but not that the woman bore him a child. She was a Russian girl who claimed she was Pomor nobility. I thought she had returned to the mainland, but she must have died shortly before Ware if the baby is now an orphan.”

Joanna’s gaze was cloudy and disillusioned. “A Russian noblewoman,” she said slowly. “David would have loved that. How that would have enhanced his prestige!”

“The girl was young,” Alex said, “and wild. Her family had cast her out, washed their hands of her, I believe.” He looked at Joanna’s tight expression and felt something shift inside him. “I am sorry,” he said. He realized that he meant it. Whatever his opinion of Joanna Ware, he knew that this must be an immensely difficult issue for her to confront. He had to reluctantly admire her unflinching acceptance when most women would be having the vapors to have been bequeathed their husband’s bastard child.

“I am not naive enough to think that David was not capable of such a thing,” Joanna said slowly. “Indeed, perhaps I should be grateful that there are not more of his offspring scattered about the globe, or at least not as far as I am aware.” She looked at him. “Are you aware of any more of his sideslips, Lord Grant?”

“No.” Alex shifted. “I am truly sorry.” Ware’s profligate tendencies were the one aspect of his friend’s character that Alex had always had difficulty accepting. Some had seen Ware’s dissolute whoring as part of his heroic, charismatic persona. Alex had, in contrast, considered it the single weakness that David Ware had possessed, but a weakness he could condone because Ware’s marriage bed had been so cold and his relationship with his wife so fraught with dislike.

He looked at Joanna. She did not look like a woman who would wither a man to nothing in her bed. She looked warm and tempting and eminently appealing. Whatever the quarrel with Ware had been, it must have been so bitter and deep that she had driven him away.

“You do not try to soften the blow.” A faint smile touched Joanna’s lips. “There is no comfort to be had from you, is there, Lord Grant?”

“Very little, I fear,” Alex said. “But I am also sorry that Ware saw fit to do this.”

“Well, that is something, I suppose,” Mr. Churchward interposed huffily.

“Because,” Alex finished, “I fear his judgment must have been severely lacking to leave the future of his daughter in Lady Joanna’s hands.”

He saw Joanna’s eyes open very wide in shock. “You think me an unsuitable guardian?”

“How could I think otherwise?” Alex said. “Ware mistrusted you. He told me so. I cannot see why he would leave his daughter’s upbringing to a woman he disliked so strongly.”

Joanna chewed her lower lip hard. “Always you fall back on David’s judgments, Lord Grant,” she said. “Do you have no independent thoughts of your own?”

Alex brought his hand down flat on the table with a slap that made the piles of legal documents jump and flutter. He was furious-with Ware for involving him in his unpleasant personal vendetta against his wife, with Lady Joanna for forcing him to question his judgment and with himself for doubting his loyalties for even a second, for doubt them he did, the suspicions and misgivings wreathing his mind as unsubstantial as smoke and yet somehow impossible now to dismiss.

“Ware was my friend and colleague for over ten years,” he said through his teeth. He wondered if he was trying to convince Joanna-or himself. “He was an inspirational leader to his men. He never let me down. He saved my life on more than one occasion. So, yes, I trust his word and his judgment.”

They glared at one another until Mr. Churchward raised a pacifying hand.

“Lord Grant.” Mr. Churchward’s voice brought them back to the point. “Perhaps we could postpone the discussion until I have finished?” He polished his glasses, replaced them on his nose and resumed: “‘Further, I hereby appoint my friend and colleague Alexander, Lord Grant, as joint guardian with my wife to my daughter, Nina, to share all the responsibilities and decisions relating to her upbringing.’” Mr. Churchward cleared his throat. “‘Lord Grant will in addition be sole trustee, controlling all financial aspects relating to my daughter’s rearing and education.’”

“What?” Alex exploded. He felt trapped, baffled and angry. He could barely believe what he was hearing. Ware had been his friend since childhood. Alex had thought they had known one another well. Yet despite knowing his history, his way of life and the demands of his profession, Ware had put him in this invidious position, burdened him with the responsibility for his child, her welfare and upbringing, a duty Alex would be obliged to share with the wife that David Ware had hated. Truly, Ware had lost his mind. Either that or he had embroiled Alex in his game of revenge against his wife with a callous disregard for the feelings of everyone but himself, and Alex could not, would not believe that a man of Ware’s honor would do such a thing.

He looked at Joanna. Her eyes burned as hard and bright as sapphires. “So,” she said slowly, “I am to have the child reside with me but you will hold the purse strings for both of us, Lord Grant.”

“So it seems,” Alex said. He could feel Joanna’s gaze riveted on his face with such intensity that he could sense the power of her fury and distress no matter how well she strove to hide it.

“You said at the start of this interview that you did not know the contents of this letter, Lord Grant.” Her tone was dry, skeptical and hard. “I find that difficult to believe when you and David were evidently so deep in each other’s confidence.”

“Believe it,” Alex said. He was struggling with his own response to Ware’s outrageous behavior and was in no mood to be gentle. “I had no notion. I want this burden as little as you do.”

“Then just as you think that David was mistaken to leave a child’s welfare in my hands,” Joanna said very politely but with the anger burning though the words as hot as a furnace, “so I cannot imagine why my late husband thought for one moment that you were the appropriate person to have care of a small child nor control of her fortune.”

“At least I have proved that I can provide materially for my family,” Alex said, giving her a contemptuous look that brought the color flying into her cheeks. “I do not shirk my responsibilities. In contrast, your rackety lifestyle in the ton is hardly suited to the stable existence Miss Ware will require, Lady Joanna.”

Joanna’s eyes were icy with outrage. “I beg your pardon? Rackety? You know nothing of my way of life, Lord Grant, other than what is based on David’s lies and your own arrogant assumptions!” Her tone dripped disdain. “If it comes to that, you are the one who rackets about the world like a poorly aimed cannonball. You may provide materially for your family but you have no interest in engaging with them in any emotional sense!”

Alex’s anger and guilt kindled to a blaze at her words. He had inherited little in the way of fortune but had plowed every penny he had back into his estates and into ensuring his cousins were well provided for financially. It was enough. It had to be enough because it was all that he could give. Amelia had been the one who had been warm and loving. When she had died he had cut that emotion from his life. The thought of Amelia twisted a bitter knife in him again. He had failed once before; he could not fail Ware in this obligation. He was hog-tied, compelled by honor and his own guilty conscience to assist Ware’s orphaned daughter.

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