RANSLEIGH ROGUES Where these notorious rakes go, scandal always follows …

Max, Will, Alastair and Dominic Ransleigh—cousins, friends … and the most wickedly attractive men in Regency London. Between war, betrayal and scandal, love has never featured in the Ransleighs’ destinies—until now!

Don’t miss this enthralling quartet from Julia Justiss.

Now follow Alastair’s journey in

THE RAKE TO RESCUE HER

AUTHOR NOTE

Is there anything more satisfying than love the second time around?

When I first envisaged my Ransleigh Rogues I knew that Alastair had suffered a broken heart and, as a poet and dreamer, felt the tragedy more deeply than an ordinary man. When I later envisaged the lady who’d wounded him I realised a love like theirs was once in a lifetime; somehow they had to get back together.

Diana returned Alastair’s love with the same passion. But to safeguard the two men she loved—her father and Alastair—she was forced into marriage, and forbidden to tell Alastair why she’d repudiated him.

Eight years later they meet by chance, after the death of her husband, and Diana takes the opportunity to explain what she did. When she admits to Alastair that there is nothing she can do to make it up to him, he angrily suggests she become his mistress.

Expecting to be rejected, he is amazed when Diana agrees. An affair begun to purge her from his heart soon gives him glimpses into the horrors of her marriage—and makes him determined to free the woman he’s never stopped loving from the demons of the past and protect her from present danger.

For the embattled Diana, stripped of everything and everyone she loved, recovering from her bleak existence is difficult. Under Alastair’s fierce protection she gradually comes to trust and love again.

I hope you will enjoy their journey.

The Rake to Rescue Her

Julia Justiss

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JULIA JUSTISS wrote her first ideas for Nancy Drew stories in her third-grade notebook, and has been writing ever since. After publishing poetry in college, she turned to novels. Her Regency historicals have won or been placed in contests by the Romance Writers of America, Romantic Times magazine, National Readers’ Choice and Daphne du Maurier. She lives with her husband in Texas. For news and contests visit www.juliajustiss.com

To the Evelettes: You’ve hugged me, cried with me, and been there for me every step of the way on the long twilight journey of the last two years. I love you guys!

Contents

Cover

Introduction

AUTHOR NOTE

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

It was her.

Shock rocked him like the blast of air from a passing cannonball. Struck numb in its wake, Alastair Ransleigh, late of His Majesty’s First Dragoons, stared at the tall, dark-haired woman approaching from the other side of Bath’s expansive Sidney Gardens.

Even as his disbelieving mind told him it couldn’t be her, he knew on some level deeper than reason that it was Diana. No other woman had that graceful, lilting step, as if dancing as she walked.

Heart thundering, he exhaled a great gasping breath, still unable to move or tear his gaze from her.

So had she glided into the room the day he’d first met her, bringing a draught of spring air and enchantment into the Oxford study where the callow collegian he’d once been had gone to consult her father, a noted scholar.

Memory swooped down and sank in vicious claws. Just so he’d watched her, delirious with delight, as she walked into the Coddingfords’ ballroom eight and a half years ago. Awaited her signal to approach, so her father might announce their engagement to the assembled guests.

Instead, she’d given her arm to the older man who had followed her in. The Duke of Graveston, he’d belatedly recognised. The man who then announced that Diana was to marry him.

A sudden impact at knee level nearly knocked him over. ‘Uncle Alastair!’ his six-year-old nephew Robbie shrieked, hugging him around the legs while simultaneously jumping up and down. ‘When did you get here? Are you staying long? Please say you are! Can you take me to get Sally Lunn cakes? And my friend, too?’

Jolted back to the present, Alastair returned the hug before setting the child at arm’s length with hands that weren’t quite steady. Fighting off the compulsion to look back across the gardens, he made himself focus on Robbie.

‘I’ve only just arrived, and I’m not sure how long I’ll stay. Your mama told me you’d gone to the Gardens with Nurse, so I decided to fetch you. Yes, we’ll get cakes. Where’s your friend?’

Still distracted, he followed his nephew’s pointing finger towards a boy about Robbie’s age, dressed neatly in nankeens and jacket. The child looked up at him shyly, the dark hair curling over his forehead shadowing his blue, blue eyes.

Diana’s eyes.

With another paralysing shock, he realised that Robbie’s friend must be her son.

The son that should have been his.

Pain as sharp as acid scalded his gut, followed by a wave of revulsion. Buy the boy cake? He’d as soon give sustenance to a viper!

Shocked by the ferocity of his reaction, he hauled himself under control. Whatever had occurred between himself and Diana was no fault of this innocent child.

It was the suddenness of it, seeing her again after so long with no warning, no time to armour himself against a revival of the anguish of their bitter parting. The humiliation of it, he thought, feeling his face redden.

Certain there must be some mistake, he’d run to her. Desperate to have her deny it, or at the very least, affirm the truth to his face, he’d shouted after her as the Duke warned him off and swept her away. Never once as he followed them did she glance at him before his cousins dragged him, still shouting, out of the ballroom...

Hurt pierced him, nearly as sharp as on that night he remembered with such grisly clarity. An instant later, revitalising anger finally scoured away the pain.

Ridiculous to expend so much thought or emotion on the woman, he told himself, sucking in a deep, calming breath. She’d certainly proved herself unworthy of it. He’d got over her years ago.

Though, he thought sardonically, this unexpected explosion of emotion suggested he hadn’t banished the incident quite as effectively as he’d thought. He had, however, mastered a salutary lesson on the perfidy of females. They could be lovely, sometimes entertaining, and quite useful for the purpose for which their luscious bodies had been designed, but they were cold-hearted, devious, and focused on their own self-interest.

So, after that night, he had treated them as temporary companions to be enjoyed, but never trusted. And never again allowed close enough to touch his heart.

So he would treat Diana now, with cordial detachment.

His equilibrium restored, he allowed himself to glance across the park. Yes, she was still approaching. Any moment now, she would notice him, draw close enough to recognise him.

Would a blush of shame or embarrassment tint those cheeks, as well it should? Or would she brazen it out, cool and calm as if she hadn’t deceived, betrayed and humiliated him before half of London’s most elite Society?

Despite himself, Alastair tensed as she halted on the far side of the pathway, holding his breath as he awaited her reaction.

When at last she turned her eyes towards them, her gaze focused only on the boy. ‘Mannington,’ she called in a soft, lilting voice.

The familiar tones sent shivers over his skin before penetrating to the marrow, where they resonated in a hundred stabbing echoes of memory.

‘Please, Mama, may I go for cakes?’ the boy asked her as Alastair battled the effect. ‘My new friend, Robbie, invited me.’

‘Another time, perhaps. Come along, now.’ She crooked a finger, beckoning to the lad, her glance passing from the boy to Robbie to Alastair. After meeting his eyes for an instant, without a flicker of recognition, she gave him a slight nod, then turned away and began walking off.

Sighing, the boy looked back at Robbie. ‘Will you come again tomorrow? Maybe I can go then.’

‘Yes, I’ll come,’ Robbie replied as the child trotted after his mother. Grabbing the arm of the boy’s maid, who was tucking a ball away in her apron, his nephew asked, ‘You’ll bring him, won’t you?’

The girl smiled at Robbie. ‘If I can, young master. Though little notice as Her Grace takes of the poor boy, don’t see that it would make a ha’penny’s difference to her whether he was in the house or not. I’d better get on.’ Gently extricating her hand from Robbie’s grip, she hurried off after her charge.

Alastair checked the immediate impulse to follow her, announce himself to Diana, and force a reaction. Surely he hadn’t changed that much from the eager young dreamer who’d thrown heart and soul at her feet, vowing to love her for ever! As she had vowed back to him, barely a week before she gave her hand to an older, wealthier man of high rank.

Had he been merely a convenient dupe, his open devotion a goad to prod a more prestigious suitor into coming up to snuff? He’d never known.

Sudden fury coursed through him again that the sight of her, the mere sound of her voice, could churn up an anguish he’d thought finally buried. Ah, how he hated her! Or more precisely, hated what she could still do to him.

Since the night she’d betrayed him, he’d had scores of women and years of soldiering. He’d thrown himself into the most desperate part of the battle, determined to burn the memory of loving her out of his brain.

While she seemed, now as then, entirely indifferent.

Mechanically he gave his nephew a hand, walking beside him while the lad chattered on about his friend and his pony and the fine set of lead soldiers waiting for them in the nursery, where they could replay all the battles in which Uncle Alastair had fought. It required nearly the whole of the steep uphill walk from Sidney Gardens across the river back to his sister’s townhouse in the Royal Crescent for him to finally banish Diana’s image.

Damn, but she’d been even lovelier than he remembered.

* * *

Sending Robbie up to the nursery with a promise to join him later for an engagement with lead soldiers, Alastair turned over his hat and cane to his sister’s butler. He’d placed boot on step to follow his nephew up the stairs when Simms halted him.

‘Lady Guildford requested that you join her in the morning room immediately upon your return, Mr Ransleigh, if that is possible.’

Alastair paused, debating. He’d hoped, before meeting his all-too-perceptive sister, to return to the solitude of the pretty guest chamber to which he’d been shown upon his arrival early this morning, where he might finish piecing back together the shards of composure shattered by his unexpected encounter with Diana. But failing to respond to Jane’s summons might elicit just the sort of heightened interest that he wished to avoid.

With a sigh, he nodded. ‘Very well. You needn’t announce me; I’ll find my way in.’

Moments later he stepped into a back parlour flooded with mid-morning sunlight. ‘Alastair!’ his sister exclaimed with delight, jumping up from the sofa to meet him for a hug. ‘I’m sorry I was so occupied when you arrived this morning! Though if I’d had any inkling you were coming, I would have had all in readiness,’ she added, a tinge of reproof in her tone.

‘Do you mean to scold me for showing up unannounced, as Mama always does?’ he teased.

‘Of course not! I assume you’re not here for some assignation, else you’d not come to stay with me.’

‘Assignation?’ he said with a laugh. ‘You’ll make me blush, sister mine! And what would a proper matron like you know about assignations?’

‘Nothing whatever, of course, other that you’re rumoured to have many of them,’ Jane retorted, her face flushing.

‘You shouldn’t listen to gossip,’ Alastair said loftily. ‘But let me assure you, if I did have an “‘assignation” in mind, I’d choose a more convenient and discreet location than Bath to set up a mistress.’

‘It pains me that you’ve become so cynical. If only you’d become acquainted with any of the lovely, accomplished and well-bred girls I’ve suggested, you’d find that not all women are interested only in title and position.’

‘Of course not. You married Viscount Guildford out of overwhelming passion, the kind you’d have me write about,’ he said sardonically.

Her flush deepened. ‘Just because a match is suitable, doesn’t mean there can’t be love involved.’

‘Oh, I’m a great believer in love! Indulge in it as often as I can. But I could hardly make one of your exemplary virgins my mistress,’ he said, then held up a hand as Jane’s eyes widened and she began to sputter a reply. ‘Pax, Jane! Let’s not brangle. I came to see you and Robbie, of course, and I do hope I’m welcome.’

‘Always!’ she said with a sigh, to his relief letting the uncomfortable topic go. He loved his sister and his mother dearly, but the succession of women with whom he’d been involved since his break with Diana—with their attempted claims on his time, his purse or his name—had only strengthened his decision never again to offer his heart or hand.

Jane looped her arm with his, leading him to a seat beside her on the sofa. ‘Of course you may come and go as you wish! But if the ladies in your life would prefer to prepare a proper welcome and perhaps cosset you a bit, you must forgive us. We waited too many long anxious years while you were in the army, not sure you would ever make it back.’

‘But I did, and I wager you find me as annoying as ever,’ Alastair pronounced, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. ‘So, was it my unannounced visit that I’ve been summoned to answer for? I thought, with Guildford off in London toiling away for some Parliamentary committee, you’d be delighted to have me break the tedium of marking time in Bath while your papa-in-law takes the waters. How is the Earl, by the way?’

‘Better. I do think the waters are helping his dyspepsia. And I can’t complain about being in Bath. It may not be the premier resort it once was, before Prinny made Brighton more fashionable, but it still offers a quite tolerable number of diversions.’

‘So which of my misdeeds required this urgent meeting?’

To his surprise, despite his teasing tone, his sister’s face instantly sobered. ‘Nothing you’ve done, as well you know, but I do need to make you aware of a...complication, one of some import. I’m not sure exactly how to begin...’

Brow creased, Jane gazed warily at his face, and instinctively he stiffened. ‘Yes?’

‘It’s...’

Though Alastair would have sworn he neither moved a millimetre nor altered his expression in the slightest, Jane’s eyes widened and she gasped. ‘You’ve already seen her! You have, haven’t you?’

Damn and blast! He was likely now in for the very sort of inquisition he’d heartily wished to avoid. ‘If you mean Diana—the Duchess of Graveston, that is—yes, I have. At any rate, I believe it was her, though we didn’t speak, so I’m not completely sure. It has been years, after all,’ he added, trying for his calmest, most uninterested tone. ‘A lady who looked like I remember her came to Sidney Gardens when I went after Robbie, to fetch her s-son.’ Inwardly cursing that he’d stumbled over the word, Alastair cleared his throat.

Distress creased his sister’s forehead. ‘I’m so sorry you encountered her! I just this morning discovered her presence myself, and intended to warn you straight away so you might...prepare yourself. That woman, too, has only just arrived, or so Hetty Greenlaw reported when she called on me this morning.’ Her tone turning to annoyance, Jane continued. ‘Knowing of my “close connection to a distressing incident involving my maternal family”, she felt it her duty to warn me that the Duchess was in Bath—the old tattle-tale. Doubtless agog to report to all her cronies exactly how I took the news!’

‘With disinterested disdain, I’ll wager,’ Alastair said, eager to encourage this diversion from the subject at hand.

‘Naturally. As if I would give someone as odious as that scandalmonger any inkling of my true feelings on the matter. But,’ she said, her gaze focusing back on his face, ‘I’m more concerned with your reaction.’

Alastair shrugged. ‘How should I react? Goodness, Jane, that attachment was dead and buried years ago.’

Her perceptive eyes searched his face. ‘Was it, Alastair?’

Damn it, he had to look away first, his face colouring. ‘Of course.’

‘You needn’t see her, or even acknowledge her existence. Her whole appearance here is most irregular—we only received word of the Duke’s passing two days ago! No one has any idea why she would leave Graveston Court so quickly after his death, or come to Bath, of all places. With, I understand, almost no servants or baggage. I highly doubt a woman as young and beautiful as Diana means to set up court as a dowager! If she’s angling to remarry, she won’t do her chances any good, flouting convention by appearing in public so scandalously soon after her husband’s death! Although if she did, I’d at least have the satisfaction of being able to cut her.’

‘That might not be feasible. Robbie has struck up a friendship with her son,’ he informed her, making himself say the word again without flinching. ‘He invited the boy to meet him again in the gardens tomorrow.’ Alastair smiled, hoping it didn’t appear as a grimace. ‘So I can take them both for cakes.’

If he hadn’t been still so unsettled himself, Alastair would have laughed at the look of horror that passed over his sister’s face as the difficulty of the situation registered.

‘I shall come up with some way to fob off Robbie,’ Jane said. ‘It’s unthinkable for you to be manoeuvred into associating with her.’

Recalling the strength of his nephew’s single-mindedness when fixed on an objective—so like his mama’s iron will—Alastair raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘If you can succeed in distracting the boy who chattered all the way home from the Gardens about his new friend, I’ll be surprised. Besides, if Diana goes about in Society, I’m bound to encounter her from time to time.’

‘You don’t mean you’ll chance seeing her again?’ his sister returned incredulously. ‘Oh, Alastair, don’t risk it!’

‘Risk? Come now, Jane, this all happened years ago. No need to enact a Cheltenham tragedy.’

Pressing her lips together, Jane shook her head, tears sheening her eyes. ‘I know you say you’re over her, and I only pray God it’s true. But I’ll never forget—no one who cares about you ever could—how absolutely and completely bouleversé you were. The wonderful poetry you wrote in homage to her wit, her beauty, her grace, her liveliness! The fact that you haven’t written a line since she jilted you.’

‘The army was hardly a place for producing boyish truck about eternal love,’ Alastair said, dismissing his former passion with practised scorn. Besides, poetry and his love for Diana had been so intimately intertwined, he’d not been able to continue one without the other. ‘One matures, Jane, and moves on.’

‘Does one? Have you? I’d be more inclined to believe it if you had ever shown any interest in another eligible woman. Do you truly believe all women to be perfidious? Or is it what I fear—that your poet’s soul, struck more deeply by emotion than an ordinary man’s, cannot imagine loving anyone but her?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said stiffly, compelled to deny her suspicion. ‘I told you, that childish infatuation was crushed by events years ago.’

‘I hope so! But even if, praise God, you are over her, I shall never forgive her for the agony and embarrassment she caused you. Nor can I forgive the fact that her betrayal turned a carefree, optimistic, joyous young man almost overnight into a bitter, angry recluse who shunned Society and did his utmost to get himself killed in battle.’

To his considerable alarm, Jane, normally the most stoic of sisters, burst into tears. Unsure what to do to stem the tide, he pulled her into a hug. ‘There, there, now, that’s a bit excessive, don’t you think? Are you increasing again? It’s not like you to be so missish.’

His bracing words had the desired effect, and she pushed him away. ‘Missish! How dare you accuse me of that! And, no, I’m not increasing. It’s beastly of you to take me to task when I’m simply concerned about you.’

‘You know I appreciate that concern,’ he said quietly.

She took an agitated turn about the room before coming back to face him. ‘Have you any idea what it was like for your friends, your family—witnessing the depths of your pain, fearing for your sanity, your very life? Hearing the stories that came back to us from the Peninsula? You volunteering to lead every “forlorn hope”, always throwing yourself into the worst of the battle, defying death, uncaring of whether or not you survived.’

‘But I did survive,’ he replied. Far too many worthy men had not, though, while he came through every battle untouched. ‘Angry Alastair’s luck’ the troops had called it. He’d discouraged the talk and turned away the eager volunteers for his command who listened to it since that famous luck never seemed to extend to the men around him.

‘Please tell me you will not see her,’ Jane said, pulling him back to the present.

‘I certainly won’t seek her out. But with Robbie having befriended her son, I imagine I won’t be able to avoid her entirely.’

‘I must think of some way to discourage the friendship. I really don’t want my son to take up with any offspring of hers. He’s probably as poisonous as she is!’

‘Come now, Jane, listen to yourself! You can’t seriously hold the poor child accountable for the failings of his mother,’ Alastair protested, uncomfortably aware that, initially, he’d done just that.

‘He’s the spawn of the devil, whatever you say,’ Jane flung back. ‘You don’t know all the things that have been said about her! I never mentioned her when I wrote you, feeling you’d been hurt enough, but there were always rumours swirling. How she defied the Duke in public, showing no deference to his friends or family. Turned her back on her own friends, too, once she became his Duchess—the few who remained after she jilted you. They say she became so unmanageable the Duke had to remove her to his country estate. I know she’s not been in London in all the years since my marriage. I’ve even heard that, as soon as the Duke fell seriously ill, she took herself off to Bath, refusing to nurse him or even to remain to see him properly buried!’

‘Enough, Jane. I’ve no interest in gossip, nor have I any intention of being more than politely civil to the woman, if and when the need arises. So you see, there’s nothing to upset yourself about.’

At that moment, a discreet knock sounded and the housekeeper appeared, bearing news of some minor disaster in the kitchen that required her mistress’s immediate attention. After giving his sister another quick hug, Alastair gently pushed her towards the door. ‘I’ll be fine. Go re-establish order in your domain.’

After Jane had followed the housekeeper out, Alastair walked back to his room, trapped by his still-unsettled thoughts. It was sad, really, that the girl he remembered being so vivacious, a magnet who drew people to her, had, if what Jane reported was true, ended up a recluse hidden away in the country, the subject of speculation and rumour.

Did she deserve it? Had she duped him, cleverly encouraging his infatuation so he might trumpet her beauty to the world in fulsome poetry, drawing to her the attention of wealthier, more prestigious suitors? Whether or not she’d deliberately led him on, she had obsessed him completely, inducing him to lay his foolish, naive, adoring heart at her feet.

He ought to thank her for having burned out of him early so unrealistic an expectation as eternal love. Still, something of that long-ago heartbreak vibrated up from deep within, the pain sharp enough to make him clench his teeth.

As before, anger followed. He would offer her nothing except perhaps a well-deserved snub.

Though even as he thought it, his heart whispered that he lied.

Chapter Two

Entering the modest lodgings in Laura Place she’d hired two days previous, her son and his nursery maid trailing obediently behind her, Diana, Dowager Duchess of Graveston, mounted the stairs to the sitting room. ‘You may take Mannington to the nursery to rest now,’ she told the girl as she handed her bonnet and cloak to the maid-of-all-work.

‘Will you come up for tea later, Mama?’ the child asked, looking up at her, hope shining in his eyes.

‘Perhaps. Run along now.’ Inured to the disappointment on the boy’s face, she turned away and walked to the sideboard by the window, removing her gloves and placing them precisely on the centre of the chest. Only after the softly closing door confirmed she was alone, did she release a long, slow breath.

She should have hugged Mannington. He would have clung to her, probably. Like any little boy, he needed a mama he could cling to. And she could hug him now, without having to worry over the consequences—for him or for her.

Could she find her way back to how it had once been? A memory bubbled up: the awe and tenderness she’d felt as she held her newborn son, a miracle regardless of her feelings about his father.

The father who, little by little, had forced her to bury all affection for her child.

She remembered what had happened later that first day, Graveston standing over the bed as she held the infant to her breast. Plucking him away, telling her he’d summon a wet nurse, as a duchess did not suckle her own child. He’d cut off her arguments against it, informing her that if she meant to be difficult, he’d have a wet nurse found from among one of his tenant farmers and send the child away.

So she’d turned his feedings over to a wet nurse, consoling herself that she could still watch him in his cradle.

A week later, she’d returned to her rooms to find the cradle gone. The child belonged in the nursery wing, Graveston told her when she’d protested. It wasn’t fitting for a woman as lowly born as the wet nurse to spend time in the Duchess’s suite. If she insisted on having the child with her, he’d end up hungry, waiting for his supper while he was dispatched to the servant’s quarters.

Of course, she hadn’t wanted her son to go hungry. Or to have his balls taken away, as Graveston had done months later when she’d tarried in the nursery, rolling them to him, and been late for dinner.

Though for the first and only time in their marriage, she had tried to please her husband, nothing she did was enough. The day she’d learned her toddler son had been beaten because their laughter, as she played with him in the garden under the library window, had disturbed the Duke, she’d realised the only way she could protect him was to avoid him.

And the only way she could do that was to harden her heart against him as thoroughly as she’d hardened herself to every other instinct save endurance.

She remembered the final incident, when having noticed, as he noticed everything, that she’d had little to do with the boy of late, Graveston threatened to have the child whipped again when she’d not worn the new dress he’d ordered for her to dinner. He’d watched her with the intensity of an owl honing in on a mouse as she shrugged and told him to do as he liked with his son.

She’d lost her meal and been unable to eat for three days until she’d known for certain that, no longer believing the boy a tool to control her, he’d left the child alone.

Only then had she known he was safe.

She sighed again. Having worked so hard to banish all affection, she’d not yet figured out how to re-animate the long-repressed instincts to mother her child. Now that he was older, it didn’t help that she couldn’t look at the dark hair curling over his brow or the square-jawed face without seeing Graveston reflected in them.

With a shudder, she repressed her husband’s image.

Her late husband, she reminded herself. That liberation was so recent, she still had trouble believing she was finally free.

Living under his rule had perfected her mask of imperturbability, though. Lifting her eyes to the mirror over the sideboard, she studied the pale, calm, expressionless countenance staring back at her. Despite unexpectedly encountering Alastair Ransleigh after all these years, she’d not gasped, or trembled, or felt heat flame her face. No, she was quite sure the shock that had rocked her from head to toe had been undetectable in her outward appearance and manner.

The shock had almost been enough to pry free, from the vault deep within where she’d locked them away, some images from that halcyon spring they’d met and fallen in love. Had she truly once been unreserved, adoring him with wholehearted abandon, thrilling to his presence, ravenous for his touch? She winced, the memories still too painful to bear examining.

She took a deep breath and held it until the ache subsided. Sealing her mind against the possibility of allowing any more memories to escape, she turned her mind to the more practical implications of their unexpected meeting.

She supposed she should have expected to run into him eventually, but not this soon—or here. What was Alastair doing in Bath? His family home, Barton Abbey, was in Devon, and though he’d also inherited properties elsewhere, what she’d gleaned from news accounts and the little gossip that reached Graveston Court indicated that he’d spent most of his time since returning from the army either at his principal seat or in London.

Would she have fled to Bath, had she known he was here? She’d had to go somewhere, quickly, as soon as Graveston’s remains had been laid to rest, somewhere she could live more cheaply and attract less notice than in London, but fashionable enough to attract excellent solicitors. Go while the servants were in turmoil, uncertain what to do now that their powerful master was no longer issuing orders, and before Blankford, her husband’s eldest son and heir, had time to travel back to Graveston from hunting in Scotland.

What would she do if the new Duke, not content with claiming his old home, was bent on retribution against the woman he blamed for his mother’s death and his father’s estrangement? What if he pursued her here?

Putting aside a question for which she had no answer, Diana turned her mind back to Alastair. What was she to do about him?

She wouldn’t remember how many years it had taken to lock his image, their love, and the dreams she’d cherished for the future into a place so deep within her that no trace of them ever escaped. All she had left of him was the pledge, if and when it was ever possible, to tell him why she’d spurned him without a word to marry Graveston.

She might well have that opportunity tomorrow if she accompanied Mannington to the park, where he hoped to encounter his new friend again. Should she take it?

Of course, the other boy might not come back, and if he did, Alastair might not accompany him. So rattled had she been by Alastair’s unexpected appearance, she’d not even caught the boy’s surname, though he must be some connection of Alastair’s. Even his own son, perhaps.

That Alastair Ransleigh had managed to disturb her so deeply argued for avoiding him. The process of locking away all emotion and reaction, of practising before her mirror until she’d perfected the art of letting nothing show in her face, had been arduous and difficult. She wasn’t sure how to reverse it, or even if she wanted to. Should that barrier of detachment ever be breached, whatever was left of her might crack like an eggshell.

As if in warning, despite her control, one memory from her marriage surfaced. The hope that she might some day speak to Alastair again had been the only thing that had kept her from succumbing to despair, or heeding the insidious whisper in the night that urged her to creep through the sleeping house to the parapets of Graveston Court and free herself in one great leap of defiance. Besides, though Alastair had almost certainly expunged her from his heart and mind years ago, in fairness, she owed him an explanation for that nightmare night of humiliation.

Very well, she thought, nodding to herself in the mirror. She would accompany her son to the park, and if Alastair did appear, she would approach him. He might well give her the cut direct, or slap her face, but if he allowed her to speak, she would fulfil her vow and tell him the story.

At the thought of seeing him again, a tiny flicker of anticipation bubbled up from deep within. Holding her breath and squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she stifled it.

* * *

Having awakened before dawn to pace his room until daylight, Alastair chose to avoid breakfast, knowing he wouldn’t be able to hide his agitation from his eagle-eyed sister. When mid-morning finally came, Alastair set out from the Crescent, his exuberant nephew in tow.

Much as he’d tried to tell himself this was just another day, a trip to the park with Robbie like any other, he failed miserably at keeping his mind from drifting always back, like a lodestone to the north, to the possibility of seeing Diana again—a possibility that flooded him with contradictory emotions.

The defiant need to confront her and force a reaction, and curiosity over what that reaction might be, warred with the desire to cut her completely. Overlaying all was a smouldering anger that she had the power to so effectively penetrate his defences that he’d been required to employ every bit of his self-control to keep the memories at bay—a task he’d not fared so well at while half-conscious. He’d slept poorly, waking time and again to scattered bits of images he’d hastily blotted out before trying to sleep again.

Fatigued and irritable, he tried to focus on Robbie’s eager chatter, which alternated between enthusiastic praise of the horse his uncle had ridden to Bath, a wheedling plea to be allowed to sit on said horse, and anticipation at meeting his new friend again.

‘The boy may not be able to come today,’ Alastair said, the warning as much for his own benefit as for Robbie’s. ‘You may have to settle for just the company of your dull old uncle.’

‘Uncle Alastair, you’re never dull! And you will let me ride Fury when we get back home, won’t you? We can still stop for cakes, can’t we? And I’m sure James will come again. His nurse promised!’

‘Did she, now?’ Alastair raised a sceptical eyebrow, amused out of his agitation by the ease with which his nephew turned a possibility into a certainty, simply because he wished it. How wonderful to possess such innocence!

But then, maybe it wasn’t. He’d had his innocence torched out of him by one splendid fireball of humiliation.

Whatever reply Robbie made faded in his ears as they entered Sidney Gardens—and Alastair saw her. Shock pulsated from his toes to his ears, and once again, for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

Dressed modestly all in black—at least her critics couldn’t fault her there—Diana sat on a bench, as her son tossed his ball to the nursemaid on a nearby verge of grass. While Alastair worked to slow his pulse and settle his breathing, Robbie, with a delighted shout, ran ahead to meet his friend.

Now was the moment, and with a sense of panic, Alastair realised he still wasn’t sure what he wanted. If Diana turned to him, should he speak with her? Ignore her? If she did not acknowledge him, should he go right up to her and force his presence on her?

Before he could settle on a course of action, with a grace that sent a shudder of memory and longing through him, Diana rose from the bench—and approached him.

‘Mr Ransleigh,’ she said as she dipped a curtsy to his stiff bow. ‘Might I claim a moment of your time?’

A reply sprang without thought to his lips. ‘Do you think you deserve that?’

‘I am sure I do not,’ she replied, the serenity of her countenance untroubled by his hostile words. ‘However, I vowed if I were ever given a chance, I would explain to you what happened eight years ago.’

The violet scent she’d always worn invaded his senses. Unconsciously, he looked down, into eyes as arrestingly blue as he remembered from the day they first captivated him. No lines marred the softness of her skin, and the few dark curls escaping from under her bonnet made him recall how he’d loved combing his fingers through those thick, sable locks. Desire—powerful, potent, unstoppable—rose up to choke him.

He had to get away. ‘Do you really think, after all this time, that I care what happened?’ he spat out. ‘Good day, Duchess.’ Pivoting on one boot, he paced away from her down the gravelled path.

He heard the crunch of her footsteps following behind him. Torn between a surge of triumph that this time, she was pursuing him, and a need to escape before he lost what little control he had left, he could barely make sense of her words.

‘Although I may not deserve to be heard, since you are a gentleman, Mr Ransleigh, I know you will allow me to speak. Infamous as I am, it’s best that I do so here, now, out of sight and earshot of any gossips.’

‘I have never paid any attention to gossips,’ Alastair flung back, turning to face her. She halted a step away, and he couldn’t help noticing the flush in her cheeks, the rapid breathing that caused her bosom to rise and fall beneath the modest pelisse—as if she were recovering from a round of passion.

Desire flared again, thick in his blood, pounding in his ears. Curse it, why must the Almighty be so cruel as to leave him still so strongly attracted to this woman?

But what she said was true—if she was determined to speak with him, it was far better here than at some ball or musicale or—worse yet—a social function at which Jane was also present. ‘Very well, say what you must.’

‘Walk with me, then.’

In truth, some tiny honest particle of his brain admitted, he wasn’t sure he could have turned away. Curiosity and lust pulled him to her, stronger than reason, common sense, or his normal highly developed sense of self-preservation.

Despite the volatile mix of anger, confusion, pain and desire coursing through him, he also noted that, though she asked him to walk with her, she did not offer him her arm.

Not that it mattered. So intensely conscious was he of her body a foot from his, he could almost hear her breaths and feel the pulse in her veins.

‘I met the Duke of Graveston at one of the first balls of my debut Season,’ she began. ‘He asked me to dance and accorded me polite interest, but I thought nothing of it. He was older, married, and I had eyes for only one man.’

Her words struck him to the core, despite the fact that she said them simply, unemotionally, as if stating a fact of mild interest. Swallowing hard, he forced his attention back to her narrative, the next few words of which he’d already missed.

‘...began seeing him at home, visiting Papa. They had similar scientific interests, Papa said when I asked him. It wasn’t until some months later that I learned just what those “interests” truly were. By that time, the Duke’s wife had died. To my astonishment, he proposed to me. I politely refused, telling him that my heart and hand had already been pledged to another. He...laughed. And told me that he was certain I would change my mind after I carefully measured the advantages of becoming his Duchess against marrying a young man of no title who was still dependent upon his father.’

Though they walked side by side, Alastair noticed Diana seemed increasingly detached, as if, transported to some other place and time, she was no longer even conscious of his presence. ‘He returned a week later, asked me again, and received the same answer. In fact, I urged him to look elsewhere for a bride, as, though I was fully aware of the honour of his offer, it did not and would never interest me. He said that was regrettable, but he had chosen me for his wife, and marry him I would.’

Alastair had to laugh at that fantastic statement. ‘Are you truly trying to persuade me that he “gave you no choice”? That horse won’t run! This isn’t the Middle Ages—a girl can’t be forced into marriage.’

She nodded, still not looking at him. ‘So I thought. But I was wrong. You see, those “visits” to Papa hadn’t just been spent in scientific discourse. They’d also been gaming together—a pleasant match among friends, Papa later called it when I taxed him about it. But the Duke was a very skilful player, and Papa was not. When I refused again to marry him, he produced vouchers Papa had signed—vouchers worth thousands of pounds. Unless I married him, he said, he would call them in. Of course, there was no possible way Papa could have repaid such a sum. He would be sent to debtors’ prison, the Duke said. How long did I think, with his delicate health, he would last in Newgate? At first, I was certain the Duke was joking. He soon convinced me he was not. He warned that if I said a word about this to my father, he would have him clapped in prison, regardless of what I did. I didn’t dare call his bluff.’

Scarcely about to credit anyone capable of perpetrating such a Byzantine scheme, Alastair retorted, ‘Why did you not come to me, then? True, I’d not yet inherited, but I could have persuaded my father to advance me a sum, and borrowed more on my expectations.’

‘He threatened to ruin you, too, if I gave you even a hint of what he intended.’

‘Ruin me? How?’ Alastair replied derisively. ‘I was never a gamester, and though I was certainly no saint at university, I’d done nothing serious enough to dishonour my name, no matter how the facts might be distorted.’

She paused a moment, as if to say more, then shook her head. ‘This would have.’

‘No, it’s all preposterous!’ Alastair burst out. ‘Graveston did have a sinister presence about him, but I can’t believe he convinced you he would do what he threatened.’

She turned to give him a sad smile. ‘Do you remember my little spaniel, Ribbons?’

‘The black-and-white one with the ears that trailed in the wind?’

‘Like ribbons, yes. After the Duke revealed his intentions, he gave me a day to think it over. When he returned the next day, he asked me how my dog was. I’d not seen Ribbons that morning, and when I looked, I found him—dead. The Duke merely smiled, and told me as his Duchess, I could have as many dogs as I liked.’

Despite himself, Alastair felt the implication of those words like a blow to the stomach.

She continued, ‘As you know, we were a small household—just Cook and two maids and a man-of-all-work, all of whom had been with us for years. I questioned each one, and they all swore they’d seen—or done—nothing unusual. I realised then, if the Duke could bribe one of my own household to harm an innocent dog, or infiltrate someone who would, he was perfectly capable of forcing Papa into prison and ruining you. That the only thing to prevent him extracting retribution upon the people I loved would be for me to marry him. His final requirement in leaving you both unharmed was to never tell either of you the truth. You must both believe I married him of my own free will.’

Struggling to decide whether to accept the story she’d just told, Alastair shook his head. ‘It’s...it’s unthinkable that someone would act in such a fashion.’

‘Very true. Another reason why the Duke didn’t worry about my confiding in anyone but you or Papa. Who would believe such a story?’

‘Well, I don’t,’ Alastair retorted, making up his mind. Feeling both betrayed and disgusted that she would try to fob off on him such a Banbury tale, he said, ‘Besides, do you really think your apology now makes any difference to me? Frankly, I would respect you more if you just admitted the truth—that the lure of a duchess’s coronet outweighed whatever I could offer you.’

She turned to him, for a long moment silently studying his face. ‘I have told you the truth. I cannot make you believe it, of course. But I did want you to know that it was not for any lack in you that I wed another man.’

‘I never thought it was.’

‘I don’t expect your respect. I’m rather certain you despise me, and I can’t blame you. Nor is there anything I could ever do to make up to you for the embarrassment and humiliation of the Coddingford ball.’

The words exited his lips before he was even aware he meant to speak. ‘Well, since I’m currently between mistresses, you could fulfil that role until I tire of you.’

Aghast, he waited for her to gasp with outrage or slap his face. To his astonishment, after staring at him for another moment, she said, ‘Very well. Make the arrangements and send me word. Fifteen Laura Place.’

Before Alastair could respond, two small boys pelted up from behind them, one grabbing his hand. ‘Can we go for cakes now, Uncle Alastair?’ Robbie asked. ‘James and I are powerful hungry.’

‘Yes, Mama, may I go today?’ Diana’s son asked her.

‘Today you may go,’ his mother responded. While the two boys whooped and slapped each other’s backs, without another glance at Alastair, Diana turned and walked away.

Stunned, incredulous—and incredibly tempted—Alastair gazed after her until the turn in the pathway took her from view.

Chapter Three

After admonishing the boys that the hoydenish behaviour allowed in the park would not be tolerated in an establishment that served cakes, Alastair shepherded his young charges and Lord James Mannington’s nursemaid across Pulteney Bridge, down High Street, around the Abbey and into the bakery off North Parade that served the famous buns. In a mechanical daze, he ordered cakes for the boys and the blushing maid, dismissing with a distracted wave her protest that he need not include her in the treat.

It was good that both boys had learned their manners well—or that the presence of the nursemaid restrained them. For with his mind whirling like a child’s top, he could not afterwards recall a single thing they’d said or done at the shop.

Melted butter congealing on the bun set before him, Alastair went over again and again in his mind the exchange between himself and Diana—particularly the last bit, when he, incredibly, had offered her carte blanche and she, even more incredibly, had accepted.

If he’d had more time after that fraught final exchange, he probably would have retracted the hasty words, perhaps covering the naked need they’d revealed by delivering the stinging response that he’d only been joking, for Diana did not meet the minimum standards for beauty, wit and charm that he required of a mistress.

Instead, he’d done nothing, standing mute as a statue while she walked away.

Regardless of how he felt over her former treatment, he should be ashamed of himself for tendering such an insulting offer. To a dowager duchess, no less, who now outranked him on the social scale by several large leaps! As soon as he arrived back at his room at the Crescent, he should write her a note of apology, recanting the offer.

And yet... For the first time, he admitted to himself what meeting Diana again had made only too painfully clear. Despite the bold assertion to the contrary he’d given his sister, he had never really got over losing her. Every woman he’d met since had been measured against her and found lacking; every mistress he’d bedded had been physically reminiscent of her, unconsciously chosen to blot her out of his mind and senses.

None ever had.

Since Diana had accepted his offer, maybe he should go through with it. After all, there was no way the real woman could measure up to the romantic vision his youthful, poetic soul had once idolised...especially after how she’d treated him. Marrying a duke to ‘save’ him? What kind of dupe did she take him to be?

Maybe possessing her now would finally burn out of him the pain and yearning that had haunted him so long.

Like a thief lured into a dwelling through an unlocked window, now that his mind had tumbled on to the possibility of an affair, he couldn’t keep himself from exploring it further. The desire she so readily evoked, banked rather than extinguished, raged back into flame.

Anticipation, excitement and eagerness boiled in his blood, and only by reminding himself that two young innocents and their virginal nursemaid sat mere feet away, was he able to restrain his mind from picturing himself possessing her.

He’d do it, then. Unless Diana sent a note rescinding her acceptance, he would go through with it.

After sending her son and the maid home in a sedan chair, Alastair hurried the now-sleepy Robbie up to the heights of the Crescent. As soon as he’d dispatched the boy back to the nursery, he descended the stairs at a run, bent on finding the most exclusive leasing office he could.

It was imperative to find just the right property for their rendezvous—in a location elegant enough for the purpose, but well-enough hidden that the ever-vigilant Jane was unlikely to discover it.

* * *

An hour later, the bargain concluded, he was escorted out by the beaming proprietor, whom he’d paid double his usual fee for his silence and to obtain possession of the property immediately. Holding the key to a fine townhouse in Green Park Buildings, a respectable address but one well to the west of the most fashionable streets, Alastair set off back to the Crescent.

He’d wait one night, to see if a note arrived from Diana, reneging on her initial acceptance. If he did not hear from her by tomorrow, he’d send her a note, arranging to meet after supper that night.

Excitement shivered and danced in his blood, sparkled in his mind. He couldn’t remember ever being this consumed by anticipation.

An exalted state that was sure to end in disillusion, once he became better acquainted with the real Diana. Which was exactly what he wanted.

The sooner the affair began, the sooner it would be over—and he would be free of her at last.

* * *

In the evening of the following day, Diana sat at her dressing table, a note in hand. As she glanced at her name inscribed in Alastair’s bold script, another memory pierced her chest like an arrow.

How many times during their courtship had she opened just such a note, finding within a beautiful verse in honour of her? Praising her wit, her virtue, her loveliness.

How unworthy of them she’d felt.

How unworthy of them she’d proved.

This current missive could hardly be more different. Instead of elegantly penned lines of clever metaphors, similes, and alliteration, there wasn’t even a complete sentence. Merely an address and a time—this evening, nine o’clock.

Despite her hard-won self-control, uneasiness and something more, something dangerously like anticipation, stirred within her. Stifling it, she debated again, as she had off and on since receiving the summons this morning, whether or not to dispatch a last-minute refusal of his shocking offer.

It was risky, allowing him to be near her. Graveston had possessed the power to restrict her activities and movements, to hurt her physically, but had never been able to touch her soul—a failure that had maddened him and represented her only victory in their battlefield sham of a marriage. Alastair Ransleigh would never touch her in anger...but it was the touch of tenderness, the touch of a man she’d once desired above all else, that threatened her in a way the Duke had never managed, despite his relentless cruelty.

She’d certainly have to be on guard, lest he get close enough to threaten her emotional reserve. Still... Once, she’d been so happy with Alastair. Might giving herself to him bring her a glimpse of that long-vanished happiness?

But then, she was reading much too much into this. The insulting nature of Alastair’s offer was proof he despised her.

Would it have made any difference, had she explained just how the Duke intended to destroy him? Probably not, she concluded. He hadn’t even believed the Duke’s threat of debtors’ prison for Papa, and what the Duke had promised for Alastair had been far more outrageous.

No, there wasn’t any question of warmth or affection between them. She’d humiliated him before all of Society, abused his trust, and like any man, he wanted retribution. She was fair enough to think he deserved it.

Not that yielding her body would prove much of a humiliation for her, not after years of submission to a man who believed he had the right to use her whenever and however he pleased. Whatever his reasons for proposing the liaison, giving herself up to Alastair would be an improvement over the subjugation of her marriage. Alastair, at least, she’d always admired and respected.

In any event, the arrangement probably wouldn’t last long. Once Ransleigh had his fill of her, he’d cast her aside, leaving her free to...do what with the rest of her life?

Frowning, she dropped the note on the dressing table and rose to take a restless turn about the room. Alastair Ransleigh’s sudden reappearance had distracted her from focusing on how to deal with Lord Blankford, a matter of far more importance.

There was a chance Blankford might simply ignore her and Mannington. With a sigh, she quickly dismissed that foolish hope. Her husband’s eldest son had been raised to believe that a duke’s desires were paramount, and that he could manipulate, reward or smite all lesser beings with impunity. It was highly unlikely, given how closely the character of the heir mirrored that of the sire, that the injury he believed she’d committed against him and his mother would go unpunished.

At the very least, he would try to take Mannington away from her. Even if he didn’t have evil designs upon the child, she wouldn’t allow a dog, much less a little boy, to grow up under the influence of such a man. She might not, up until now, have proved herself much of a mother, but she would do everything in her power to prevent her innocent son’s character from being distorted by the same despicable standards held by his father and elder brother.

Even as she thought it, she shook her head. How could she, whom her husband had methodically isolated from any friends and family, prevail against one of the highest-ranked men in England?

Putting aside, for the moment, that unanswerable question, then what? Even if she managed to protect her son from Blankford, Mannington needed more than rescue from evil influences to grow into the confident, compassionate, honourable man she’d like him to be.

She first needed to re-establish some sort of normal, motherly link with the boy—something she’d been forced to avoid while Graveston lived. Now that she need no longer fear showing him affection, how was she to retrieve, from the abyss into which she’d buried it, the natural bond between a mother and her child? That she’d hated the man who sired him was not Mannington’s fault. Like every child, to grow and thrive he needed love—of which, until now, he’d received precious little.

For the first time in many years, she allowed herself to think about her own childhood—a time so idyllic and distant that it seemed to belong to another person, or another life. Despite losing his wife in childbirth at an early age, Papa had managed to submerge his own grief and create a home filled with love, security, joy and laughter. How had he done so?

Settling back on the dressing-table bench, she stared at her image in the mirror, digging through the bits of memory.

They’d certainly not had the material advantages available to a duke. As a younger son from a minor branch of a prominent family, no objection had been posed to Papa pursuing a career as an Oxford tutor, nor of his marrying for love a gentleman’s daughter of great beauty and small dowry. After Mama’s death, they’d taken rooms close to the university, where he might more easily mentor his students and pursue his own botanical studies. As both Mama and Papa had no other close kin, it had always been just the two of them.

She’d learned her letters at his knee, studied her lessons in his office, painted and played piano for him in the adjacent studio. Picnics beside the river turned into treasure hunts, often enlivened by games of hide-and-seek, as she helped Papa search for rare plants. Every day ended with him reading to her, or telling her a bedtime story. Later, as his eyesight began to fail and his health grew more frail, she had read to him.

First thing, then, she ticked off on one finger, she’d need to spend more time with Mannington...James, she corrected herself. No longer a tool of the Duke to control her, but simply a child. Her son.

A frisson of long-suppressed tenderness vibrated deep within her, as barely discernible as the scent of a newly opening rose.

Having deliberately avoided him since he’d been a toddler, she wasn’t sure where to start. Other than accompanying him to the park, what did one do with a young boy?

Perhaps she could start by reading to him at bedtime. All children liked being read to, didn’t they? If he enjoyed the interaction, his happiness should warm her, too, and begin the difficult process of dismantling the barriers she’d put in place to stifle any feeling towards him.

But the creation of a true home meant more than just spending time with him. Her father had not been nearly as prominent or powerful as her husband, but he’d been an enthusiastic, optimistic man who inspired love and admiration in everyone with whom he came into contact. Even students not especially interested in botany grew to appreciate the natural universe whose wonders he unfolded to them.

He’d exuded an infectious joy in life, in every little detail of living, from lauding the warmth of the fire on a cold evening, to savouring tea and cakes with her in the afternoon, to the enthusiasm with which he read to her, altering his voice to play all the parts from Shakespeare, or emoting the sonnets with an understanding that brought the beauty of the words and the depth of their meaning to life. He’d loved being a scholar, never losing his excitement at finding and recording in meticulous drawings all the plants he collected.

She could almost hear his voice, telling her how everything fit together in the natural world, with all having its place. She, too, had been designed with particular talents and abilities, her contributions unique, irreplaceable, and a necessary part to the whole.

She swallowed hard and her eyes stung. She hadn’t remembered that bit of encouragement for years. Did she have a place and a purpose? Having lost first Alastair and then her father, was there something more for her than mere survival?

She could start by saving her son from Blankford. She could try her best to unlock her feelings and love him again. She could attempt to create the kind of home he deserved, that every child deserved, where he was wanted, appreciated, nourished.

The last would be a stretch. She wasn’t her father, or even a pale echo of him. Once, another lifetime ago, she’d been a fearless girl who loved with all her heart and met life with reckless passion...

But how could she, who had forgotten what joy was, offer that to a child she might not find her way back to loving?

Sighing, she raised an eyebrow at the image in the mirror. The reflection staring back at her, the only friend and ally she’d had during the hellish years of her marriage, merely looked back, returning no answers.

She’d just have to try harder, she told the image. Once Alastair Ransleigh finished with her, she could close the book of her past and begin a new volume, with James.

Pray God she’d have enough time to figure it out before Blankford made his move.

But first, tonight, she must begin repaying the debt she owed Alastair. Her hands trembling ever so slightly, she rang for the maid and began to dress.

Chapter Four

Alastair paused in his pacing of the parlour of the small townhouse he’d rented, listening to the mantel clock strike three-quarters past eight. Unless she’d changed her previous habit of promptness, in another fifteen minutes, Diana would be here.

His pulses leapt as a surge of anticipation and desire rushed through him. Too impatient to sit, he took another turn about the room, then set off on yet another tour of the premises.

He’d arrived at eight, wanting to ensure everything was as he’d ordered. The new staff dispatched by the agency, all with impeccable references, had done their jobs perfectly. The immaculate house gleamed, every wooden surface and silver object polished to a soft glow in the candlelight. Taking the stairs, he inspected the sitting room adjoining the bedroom, nodding dismissal to the maid who’d just finished setting out a cold buffet. In the bedroom itself, a decanter of wine stood on the bedside table, and two glasses reflected the flames of the lit candles on the mantel above.

Wine to lend courage to him—or to her? he wondered with a wry grin. Maybe for consolation, if the joke was on him and Diana simply did not show up.

Which would, he admitted, be a justifiable rebuke for his ungentlemanly behaviour.

Even as he thought it, he heard the click of the front door opening, and a murmur of voices as the new manservant admitted a visitor.

So she had come after all.

Alastair descended the stairs nearly at a run.

‘I’ve shown the, ah, lady into the parlour,’ the servant told him. ‘Will you be needing anything else, sir?’

‘Nothing more tonight, Marston. Thank you.’

Expression impassive, the servant bowed and headed off towards the service stairs. Alastair wondered, not for the first time, what the handful of employees thought of their new situation—and how much they’d been told when the agency he’d consulted had hired them. Certainly upon arrival, if not before, they would have realised they were being called upon to staff the love nest of some wealthy man’s chère-amie. He’d not been able to glean from the behaviour of Marston, the cook or the maid whether they disapproved or were indifferent to the situation.

To tell the truth, he felt a bit uncomfortable. In his previous liaisons, after hiring a house, he’d simply given the lady of the moment the funds to bring or hire her own staff—and had never given the servants’ opinions a thought. But this was Diana—and how she was regarded by the staff, he realised suddenly, did matter to him.

Rather ridiculous that he was concerned she be treated like a lady, when he’d set up this whole endeavour to humiliate her.

No, not to humiliate—simply to slake his desire for her, so that he might achieve the indifference that seemed to come so easily to her. So he could get over her and get on with his life, as she so obviously had.

Heartbeat accelerating, Alastair walked into the parlour.

A lady stood at the hearth with her back to him, enveloped in a black cape with the hood drawn up over her hair. Very discreet, Alastair thought, glad that she was evidently as concerned as he that this liaison be kept secret.

She turned towards him, and the visceral reaction she’d always evoked flooded him immediately, speeding his pulses, drying his mouth, filling him with desire and gladness.

‘Good evening, Alastair,’ she said. ‘Where would you like me?’

Something almost like...disappointment tempered his enthusiasm. So there’d be no illusion of polite conversation first—just a proceeding straight to the matter at hand. She’d always been honest and direct, Alastair remembered.

Which was just as well. She wasn’t here to revive an old relationship, but to bury the long-dead corpse of one.

‘Come,’ he said, motioning to the hallway.

Obediently she exited the parlour, brushing past him in a cloud of violet scent that instantly revived his lust and determination. She mounted the stairs, pausing at the top until he indicated the correct bedchamber.

He let her precede him into the room, already so taut with arousal that his hands were sweating and his breath uneven. In one fluid movement, she swept off her cloak and cast it in a shimmer of satin on to the chair beside the bed, then turned to him, waiting.

He scanned her hungrily. The full swell of bosom, the graceful curve of neck and cheek, the dusky curls gleaming brightly in the firelight, the lush pout of a mouth...the eyes staring sightlessly ahead of her, the face as devoid of expression as a statue. As if she were bored, waiting for the episode to be over.

While he stood, barely able to breathe, gut churning with eagerness and longing.

Sudden fury consumed him. But before he could sort through his wildly varying impulses—send her away or seduce her into feeling something—she sank to her knees before him and calmly unbuttoned his trouser flap. Wrapping her hands around his swollen length, she guided him into her mouth.

Shocked that she would play the courtesan so unresistingly, he opened his lips to tell her to stop...but at the touch of the exquisite softness of her tongue, moving over and around his throbbing member, thought dissolved into pure sensation. Gasping, he fisted his hands in her hair, every fibre of his being focused on the delicious friction of her mouth and tongue as she pushed him deep within, withdrew to suckle the sensitive tip, laved it with her tongue and took him deep again. Passion built with unprecedented swiftness until mere moments later, he climaxed in a rush so dizzying and intense he nearly lost consciousness.

Staggering backward, he collapsed on the bed, his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest. Dazed, he dimly noted Diana rising and walking noiselessly over to the washbasin on the bureau.

Sometime later, his heart finally settled back into its normal rhythm and enough rational thought returned that he recognised what had just transpired. He’d meant to slake his lust, not use her like a doxy—or bolt straight to conclusion, like a callow youth with his first woman.

Shame and embarrassment filled him. Looking around, he found Diana sitting silently in the chair, gazing into the fire, her cloak wrapped around her.

‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant for that to be an exclusive experience,’ he said. ‘I assure you, I can do much better.’

And he meant to. Of the many things that had attracted him to Diana during their courtship, one that had drawn him most strongly was her passion. She’d gloried in his kisses, giving herself to him with wild abandon, guiding his hands to her breasts, moulding her hands over his erection. He might not be able to love her again or truly forgive her, but they could at least have the honesty of pleasure between them.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said.

‘It does to me,’ he replied, and held out his hand.

This time, he vowed as she took it, he would undress her slowly, as he’d dreamed of doing so many times. Kiss and caress each bit of skin revealed. Use all the considerable skill he’d amassed over nearly a decade of pleasuring women to give her the same intense release she’d just given him.

‘I didn’t hire you a lady’s maid,’ he said, turning her so he could begin unlacing the ties at the back of her bodice. ‘I shall perform that function myself.’

She didn’t reply, which was just as well, for as the ties loosened, the bare nape of her neck so distracted him he’d not have comprehended her words anyway. Unable to resist, he bent to kiss her.

That intoxicating violet scent wrapped around him again as he tasted her skin. Desire returning in a rush, he slid his hands into her hair, winnowing out the pins with his fingers until the heavy mass fell to her shoulders and cascaded down her back. Wrapping his hands in the thick lengths, he pulled her closer, moving his lips from her neck to the shell of her ear.

Already fully erect again, he parted the hair and pulled it forward over her breasts, unveiling the pins and lacing that secured bodice and skirt. Making quick work of those, he peeled off the top and nudged her to step out of the skirt, then guided her to the bed.

Seating her on the edge, he tilted up her head and took her mouth, moving his lips slowly, gently over their silken surface as he dispensed with her stays. At the pressure of his tongue, she parted her lips, allowing him entry to the softness within.

While he licked and suckled, he moved his hands to cup her breasts, full and ripe under the thin linen of her chemise. His breathing unsteady now, he thrust a pillow behind her and urged her back against it, then slid the chemise up, baring her from ankle to waist.

Going to his knees, he slowly rolled down her stockings, kissing and licking the soft skin of her knees, calves, ankles, toes, then moving in a slow ascent back up to her thighs. Urging those apart, he kissed his way slowly higher, while his hands moulded and caressed her hips and derrière.

By now, he was more than ready to enter her and find consummation again. But wanting this time to give maximum pleasure to her, holding himself under tight control, he moved his mouth closer and closer to her centre as he slid a finger over and around the nether lips. Another bolt of lust struck him as he found her moist and ready.

Unable to wait any longer, he moved his mouth to her core, parting the curls to run his tongue along the plump little nub nested within. But though his own breathing was by now erratic, Diana did not, as he’d expected, grip his back or wrap her legs around his shoulders. She didn’t arch into him, her body picking up the ancient rhythm leading to fulfilment. Eyes tightly closed, she simply lay against the pillow, her face tense, her hands fisted.

Perhaps she’d been schooled that an uninhibited response was unladylike—he’d have to re-educate her about that. Or perhaps complete possession was necessary to trigger her reaction—he was certainly ready!

Murmuring, his hands gentle and caressing, he moved on to the bed and straddled her parted thighs, positioning himself over her. Kissing her, he lowered himself, slowly penetrating her.

He thought she flinched, and halted. But as he pressed carefully downward, her body greeted him in hot, slick warmth. Thrilled, he pushed deeper into the soft, yielding depths, until he’d sheathed himself completely.

Sweat broke out on his brow and his rigid arms trembled as he stilled deep within her, battling the urge to thrust and withdraw, thrust and withdraw in wild rhythm to reach the pinnacle that shimmered just out of reach.

But though her body was obviously primed to receive him, Diana did not moan, or tilt her hips to pull him deeper...or move at all; she lay, eyes still closed, passively beneath him.

Knowing that even remaining motionless, he’d not be able to stave off his own climax much longer, and wanting desperately to bring Diana with him on that journey to ecstasy and back, Alastair wondered what to try next.

Granted, his previous amours had all been experienced, or at least enthusiastic participants. Almost, he was ready to withdraw completely—except that despite her self-control, her body didn’t lie. The peaked nipples and liquid heat within told him that she wasn’t unreceptive. The tightly closed eyes, clenched fists and rigid posture told him she was exerting all her will to resist responding.

Well, he’d see about that. Slowly he began moving in her, rocking deep, caressing the little nub with every stroke, then bending to suckle the taut nipples.

But though he was soon riding the razor’s edge, trying to stave off climax, Diana remained stiffly unmoving. Desperate, he redoubled his efforts.

Only to have her place a hand on his sweaty chest. ‘Go ahead, finish now,’ she said, her eyes still closed. And rocked her hips to force him deeper.

He wasn’t sure he could have resisted much longer anyway. But as she finally moved beneath him, the dyke of his control broke and wave after wave of pleasure crested, washing over him with a force that robbed him of breath and consciousness.

Suddenly aware that his weight must be crushing her, he rolled to the side and up on the pillow.

‘May I wash now?’ she asked, not meeting his gaze.

Too passion-drugged for coherent thought, he simply nodded. And watched as she slid off the bed, walked to the bureau, and calmly plied the sponge and linen towelling, then turned to face him, still naked.

Despite the perplexing episode that had just transpired between them, she was still so lovely, still called so strongly to some uncontrollable something deep within him, that all he wanted was to pull her back into bed and love her again.

‘May I dress now? Or do you require...more tonight?’

That prosaic question dashed whatever remained of his sensual haze, unleashing a boiling cauldron of emotions. Disappointment. Puzzlement. Curiosity. Embarrassment.

Anger.

No previous experience had prepared him to deal with an outcome like this. But he’d not take her again tonight, much as he wanted to, not until he’d had time to figure out what had happened and what to do about it.

‘That will be all for now,’ he said curtly, the dismissal eroding what little remained of the euphoria. She nodded, seeming entirely untroubled by the cold, transactional nature of the interlude.

In silence he dressed her. ‘Have Marston summon you a chair,’ he said at last, when the final tape had been tied, the pins replaced and her hair, much too thick for his fumbling attempts to recreate a coiffure, had been thrust under her bonnet.

‘Will you require me tomorrow?’ she asked, still not meeting his eyes.

‘I’ll send you a note. You’ll make yourself available?’

‘As you wish. Goodnight, then, Alastair.’

With a nod, she exited the chamber.

Alastair listened until her footsteps faded down the stairs. Then, with an oath, he poured himself a glass of wine and downed it in one swallow.

What the hell had just happened?

Chapter Five

Frustration boiled up, and Alastair had to exert all his self-control to keep from hurling the unoffending wine glass into the hearth, just for the satisfaction of hearing it smash.

Had Diana been secretly laughing at him, mocking his all-too-evident desire with her ability to resist him?

Oh, how things had changed! After their engagement, she’d tantalised him, trying to drive him wild enough to overcome his refusal to take her before they were wed. He’d insisted she deserved better than some furtive, hurried coupling in the library or garden, where her father or a servant might at any moment interrupt. When they finally tasted consummation, he wanted them to be able to love each other freely, at length and at leisure.

This time, he had been eager and she’d been...indifferent.

If he’d not had numerous ladies testify to his expertise as a lover, he’d have been unmanned by her total lack of response.

But that wasn’t quite right, he corrected himself. Her body had responded; of that, he was certain. But for some reason, she’d refused to allow herself to experience pleasure.

To punish him for coercing her into this, so he might not revel in her satisfaction at his hands?

He didn’t think so. She’d exhibited no triumph at having resisted his skill; there’d been nothing of gloating superiority in her being able to render him helpless with pleasure, while refusing to allow him to do the same for her.

Besides, though he might have had the bad taste to propose the liaison, he’d done nothing to force her into accepting. As she certainly knew, were she to have refused the offer, he would have left it at that.

Instead, it was almost as if she had withdrawn entirely, not permitting herself to experience pleasure.

How had the passionate girl he remembered come to this?

Was this startling transformation her late husband’s fault? For the first time he began to doubt his certainty that the account she’d given him of her marriage was a complete, or at least exaggerated, fabrication.

A sympathy he did not want to feel welled up in the wake of that doubt.

Stifling it, he jumped up and began to pace. There had to be some way to penetrate that wall of resistance. Break through to reach the body trembling for completion, and bring it to satisfaction.

If she’d been repulsed by him, or truly unresponsive, he would have, regretfully, dismissed her tonight. Instead, there’d been an intriguing disconnect between her will and her body’s arousal.

He’d hoped a few episodes would be enough to set him free of her. But he knew now with certainty that he could never let her go until he’d reached her, coaxed forth the response simmering beneath the surface, until she cried and shuddered in his arms with all the passion he’d not allowed himself to taste all those years ago.

How best to tempt her?

Pouring another glass of wine, he set himself to consider it.

* * *

Dismissing the sedan chair, Diana let herself into the townhouse and crept up to her chamber on legs that were still not steady. Summoning the maid to help her out of the gown—mercifully, the girl made no comment on hair that looked like an escapee from Bedlam had arranged it—she then dismissed her.

Sleep was out of the question. With her body still humming with awareness and her hard-won calm in tatters, she settled into the chair before the hearth, heart racing as she tried to determine what to do next.

Oh, she had been so right to fear letting Alastair Ransleigh get close to her! She’d thought, after eight years of fulfilling a man’s desires in whatever way demanded of her while mentally distancing herself from the activity, she would be able to service Alastair with detachment.

And so she had...but just barely.

The process had been much easier with the Duke, who had no interest in her physical satisfaction. In fact, he’d mentioned on several occasions that he thought it demeaning for a man to have a wife who disported herself in the bedchamber like a harlot; such behaviour was for strumpets, not for the high-born woman chosen for the honour of breeding the offspring of a lord.

Given his opinion, she might have been tempted to ‘disport’ herself on occasion, had it not meant lengthening the time she had to suffer his touch. As it was, she slowly perfected the ability to wall herself off from what was happening to her. Viewing actions, even as she performed them, as if she were a spectator observing them from afar had allowed her to tolerate the bedchamber requirements of her role.

But Alastair was not the Duke she hated. And hard as she tried to block out what he was doing, ignoring it had proved impossible. Alastair’s touch had been more veneration than violation, and it had taken every iota of self-control she’d developed over eight miserable years to keep herself from responding.

He’d always had the power to move her. She’d not allowed herself to remember that. Once she was irrevocably married, it would have been a cruelty beyond endurance to recall the joy of being caressed by a man whose touch thrilled her, while being forced to submit to intimacies with a man she loathed.

She’d given herself up to Alastair completely that halcyon summer, eager for him to possess her, arguing against waiting until after the wedding for them to become lovers.

She smiled wistfully. Would it have made any difference, had she not been a virgin when the Duke sought her out?

Probably not. He’d regarded her as a treasure like the Maidens of the Parthenon, and like them, she’d have been collected even if ‘damaged’. He’d merely have constructed an inescapable cage to prevent any lapses after marriage, and waited to bed her until he was sure she was not carrying another man’s child.

And simply disposed of the evidence, if she had been.

But that was neither here nor there, she told herself, pulling her focus back to the present. The problem was how to deal with Alastair Ransleigh now.

Perhaps if she had remembered how quickly and deeply Alastair affected her, she’d have armoured herself better to resist him. After this evening, she no longer suffered from that dangerous ignorance. So what was she to do to avoid another near-disaster?

Forbidding herself to react had simply not been effective. Especially since, unlike the Duke, he’d clearly wanted her to respond. Wanted to give her pleasure...as a gift?

Or was that to be the form of his revenge: making her respond to him, making her burn for his touch, then abandoning her, as she had abandoned him? Would he not be satisfied until he’d succeeded in doing so?

Could he succeed?

She didn’t want to feel anything. Not passion, not desire, not longing, not affection. Overcoming the forces ranged against her, doing what she could to safeguard the boy unlucky enough to be her son, would require all the strength she could muster. A wounded bird marshalling all her efforts to lead the predator away from her nest, she couldn’t afford to bleed away any of her limited energy in resisting Alastair Ransleigh.

His reappearance was a complication she didn’t need.

She could simply not see him again. Send him a note saying she’d changed her mind. Follow the instincts for self-preservation that were screaming at her to run. Unlike the Duke, who had ignored her refusals, she knew with utmost certainty that if she sent such a message, Alastair would let her go.

But that would be taking the coward’s way out. All these years, she’d promised herself that if she ever had the chance, she would do what she could to make amends to him. Reneging on their agreement and bolting at the first sign of peril would snuff out what little honour she had left, like a downpour swamping a candle.

Deep within, beneath the roiling mix of shock, dismay, and frustrated desire, a small voice from the past she’d shut away whispered that she couldn’t let him go. Not yet.

She shut her ears to it. She’d made him a promise, that was all, and honour demanded she keep it. However difficult it proved, however long it took, she would endure, as she always had.

Decision made, she walked over to the dressing table, seated herself on the bench, and regarded her image in the mirror. The forehead was puckered with concern; with fingers she refused to let tremble, she gently smoothed the skin there, beside her eyes, around her mouth, until the woman in the glass looked once again calm and expressionless.

She took a deep breath and held it, held it, held it until she couldn’t any longer. Blowing it out, she took another lungful of air, wiping her mind free of anything but the passage of air in and out, the rhythmic ticking of the mantel clock throbbing in her ears.

Over and over she repeated the familiar ritual. Anxiety, foreboding, and worry gradually diminished until all emotion vanished into the nothingness of complete detachment.

She was the lady in the glass—a shadow of a real woman, a trick of light and mirrors, untouchable.

Only then did she rise and walk to her bed...squelching the tiny, stubborn bit of warmth that stirred within her at the thought that tomorrow, she would see Alastair again.

* * *

The following evening after dinner, Diana paced the parlour restlessly. Without the Duke’s overbearing presence to impose a structure on her days, she was finding herself at a loss for what to do.

Long ago, in another life, she’d enjoyed reading, but she’d had no books to bring with her. It might be...pleasant to resume that activity, or do some needlework.

She should visit the shops and look for a book or embroidery silks. Though she needed to carefully hoard her limited coin against her uncertain future, she could spare enough for a book, couldn’t she?

She had gone out today, visiting the park with Mannington—James. It was still a surprise, discovering how...liberating it was to leave the house and walk about freely, with no possibility of being recalled, lectured, or punished.

And she’d followed through on her resolution to try reaching out to her son. Haltingly, she’d talked to him, even thrown him his ball, to the astonishment of his nursemaid.

She should go up to the nursery and offer to read to him now.

Her cautious mind immediately retreated from the suggestion. Soon she must leave to meet Alastair, and she’d need all the mental and emotional defences she could summon. Having bottled up any tentative reactions after the walk to the park, she didn’t dare breach the calm she’d re-established by approaching her son again.

But putting her son’s needs on hold, now that it was no longer necessary to do so to protect him from his father, was just another form of the same cowardice that made her desperate to avoid Alastair Ransleigh, she admonished herself.

Mannington had suffered through six years without a mother worthy of the name. She wasn’t sure she could ever become one, but she should at least try.

To do so, she’d need to loosen the stranglehold she’d imposed over her emotions. She’d grown so adept at stifling any feelings, she wasn’t sure how to allow some to emerge, without the risk that all the rage, desolation and misery she’d bottled up for years might rush out in an ungovernable flood that could sweep her into madness.

Still, finding her way back to loving a boy whose face so forcefully reminded her of his father was likely to be a long process. He needed her to begin now.

Resolutely, she made her way to the nursery.

She opened the door to find her son in his nightgown, rearranging a few lead soldiers near the hearth. The nursemaid looked up, startled, from where she was turning down the boy’s bed.

‘Did you need something, my lady?’ Minnie asked.

‘I...I thought I would read Mannington a story.’

Something derisive flashed in the girl’s eyes. ‘I’m sure that’s not necessary, my lady. The lad’s nearly ready for bed, and I can tuck him—’

‘Would you really read me a story, Mama?’ James interrupted, hope in his tone and astonishment on his face, as if she’d just offered to reach out and capture the moon that hung in the sky outside his window.

‘If you’d like...James,’ she replied, his given name still coming awkwardly to her tongue.

His eyes brightening, he abandoned the soldiers and ran over to her. ‘Would you, please? I’d like it ever so much!’

‘Could you fetch me a book?’ she asked the maid, who was still regarding her with suspicion—as if she had evil designs on the boy, Diana thought with mild amusement.

She couldn’t blame the girl for her scepticism. Minnie had been James’s nurse for four years, and never before had his mother appeared at his nursery door with such a request.

How many stories had Papa read her by the time she’d reached the age of six? she wondered. Hundreds.

‘A book, my lady?’ Minnie said at last. ‘Don’t have any, your ladyship. I—I don’t know how to read.’

Diana had abandoned books years ago, and never thought to see that her son had access to them. ‘I see. Well, perhaps we can purchase one tomorrow. Shall we say tomorrow night, then, James?’

His face falling, he reached out as she turned to leave and clutched her hand. ‘Can’t you stay, Mama? You could pretend to read.’

A tiny flicker of humour bubbled up. ‘Very well, I’ll stay. But I can do better than pretend. I’ll tell you a story. That will be all, Minnie. I can tuck him in.’

Still looking dubious and more than a little alarmed, the maid sketched her a curtsy. ‘As you please, ma’am. But I’ll be right near, if he—if either of you need anything. Goodnight, young master.’

‘G’night, Minnie,’ the boy called, then ran to hop in his bed. ‘See, I’m ready, Mama. Can you begin?’

At first, she’d had no idea what to say, but in a flash, it came to her. Now that it was safe, he should learn about his family—her family.

‘Shall I tell you about your grandfather? My father, whom you never met. He was a great scholar, and collected plants. One day, when I was about your age, he took me to the river to look for a very special plant...’

And so she related one of the escapades she’d shared with her father, hunting for marsh irises outside Oxford. She’d slipped and fallen into the stream, and while scolding her for carelessness, Papa had slipped and fallen in, too. He’d emerged laughing and dripping. Then he’d wrapped her up in his coat and carried her home for tea by a hot fire.

James was asleep by the time she finished the tale. Looking at his small, softly breathing form, she felt a stirring of...something. Tucking the covers more securely around his shoulders, she slipped from the room.

That had not been so very hard, as long as she avoided looking at the forehead and jaw so reminiscent of...him. She did not want to spoil the mild warmth she’d felt by even thinking the name. It had been almost like recapturing some of the sweetness of her own long-ago childhood, when she’d felt safe and cherished.

Regardless of whether or not she could revive her own emotions, she would do her best to give her son that security.

As she returned to the parlour, the clock struck half-past eight. Apprehension flared in her gut.

Walking to the mirror, she began breathing methodically, until she’d achieved a state of detachment.

She’d do better tonight, she reassured her image. Alastair Ransleigh had shown himself even more susceptible to her touch than she was to his. She had only to begin at once, to use his sighs and gasps to gauge what ministrations affected him the most, and continue them with all the vigour and imagination she could devise until he was so sated by pleasure, he had neither thought nor strength to attempt touching her. Then take her leave, before he recovered.

She would do that tonight, and for however many nights she must until, inevitably, he became bored with her and ready to move to the next conquest.

Her vow to him fulfilled, she could then concentrate fully on reaching out to James—and decide how best to protect him.

But now, there was Alastair. Giving her impassive image one last look, Diana rose to summon a sedan chair.

Chapter Six

Without her mirror friend to reassure her, Diana had lost a bit of her self-assurance by the time she reached the rendezvous. She arrived before the hour specified, hoping to go up to the bedchamber and ready herself, but the impassive servant who admitted her indicated that Mr Ransleigh was already in residence, and would join her in the parlour.

She damped down an initial flicker of alarm as she followed the man into that reception area. The bedchamber would have been easier, allowing her to implement her plan immediately.

Perhaps their sojourn in the parlour was meant to maintain some veneer of propriety for the servants’ sakes, though since there could be no doubt of the purpose for which she, and this house, had been procured, it seemed rather a superfluous effort. No lady worthy the name would ever meet a single gentleman at his abode, day or night.

Before she could consider the matter further, the door opened and Alastair walked in.

She sucked in a breath, struck by a wave of attraction and longing. He’d always had a commanding presence, his tall, broad-shouldered figure standing out from the others, even as a young collegian. Time had magnified the sense of assurance with which he carried himself, the air of command reinforcing it doubtless a result of his years with the army and his current role as manager of the large estate he’d inherited.

The dark hair was still swept back carelessly off his brow—she couldn’t imagine the impatient Alastair she’d known ever becoming a dandy, taking time over his appearance—and the skin of his face was a deep bronze, a result of much time in the saddle under the hot Peninsular sun, she assumed.

The most notable change between the young collegian she’d loved and the man standing before her was the network of tiny lines beside his eyes—and the coldness in their dark-blue depths that once had blazed with warmth, energy and optimism.

For that chill, she was undoubtedly much responsible.

Suddenly realising she’d been staring, she dropped her gaze. ‘Good evening, Alastair. Shall we proceed upstairs?’

‘No need to rush off,’ he returned. ‘Let me pour you some wine.’

She almost blurted that she’d just as soon get straight to it. Clamping her teeth on the words, she nodded before calmly saying, ‘As you wish.’

So they were to have civility tonight. She could manage that, and bide her time. Especially since, if he meant this to give the appearance of a cordial call, he was unlikely to try to seduce her in the downstairs parlour.

Slow, easy breaths, she told herself, accepting the glass of wine he offered, taking a tiny sip—and waiting. She might not force the issue, but she certainly didn’t mean to draw out this nerve-fraying delay by initiating a conversation.

‘I brought you something,’ he said, startling her as he broke the silence. He walked to the sideboard to collect a package and offered it to her. ‘I hope you’ll like it.’

‘Brought me something?’ she echoed, surprised and vaguely uncomfortable. ‘You don’t need to get me anything.’

‘Nevertheless, I did,’ he replied. ‘Go ahead, open it.’

She accepted the parcel, willing her heartbeat to slow.

‘I’ve brought you something...’ How many times during their courtship had he said that, his blue eyes fixed on her as he offered a bunch of flowers, a book he thought she’d enjoy, a new poem rolled up and secured by a pretty ribbon?

Breathe in, breathe out. Aware her hands were trembling, she fumbled to unwrap the parcel. And found within an elegant wooden box containing a sketchbook, a set of brushes and an assortment of watercolours.

‘I understand you came to Bath in a hurry, and might not have had time to pack any supplies,’ he offered by way of explanation. ‘I know how much you hate to be without your sketchbook and paints.’

So unaccustomed was she to having anyone give a thought to her desires, she found herself at a complete loss for words. While she tried to think of something appropriate to reply, Alastair said, ‘Perhaps you could paint me something.’

‘You are...very kind. But I’m sure I couldn’t produce anything worth looking at. I...I haven’t touched a brush in years.’

His eyes widened in surprise. ‘You don’t paint any more? Why did you stop? Not lack of time, surely! I should think, in a duke’s establishment, there would have been plenty of servants to see to the housekeeping and care for the child.’

Unprepared and not good at dissembling, she fumbled for a reply. ‘Paints were...not always available.’

‘What, was the Duke too miserly to provide them?’ he asked, a sarcastic edge to his voice.

Not wanting to explain, she said, ‘Something like that.’

Caught off balance, her guard down, the memory swooped out before she could prevent it.

One of the first afternoons at Graveston Court, despondent after having been summoned to the Duke’s bed the night before, she’d taken refuge in one of the north-facing rooms and set up her easel. Trying to shut out her misery, she focused her mind on capturing the delicate hues of the sunlit daisies in the garden outside.

She had no idea how long she worked, lighting candles when the natural light faded, but when a housemaid found her, the girl had been frantic, insisting she come at once and dress, as she was already late for dinner.

The Duke said nothing when she arrived, merely looking pointedly at the mantel clock. But when she returned to the room the next day to resume her work, easel, paints and all had disappeared.

She’d asked the housekeeper about them, and was referred to the Duke. Who told her that when she could appear at dinner on time and properly attired, he might consider restoring them to her.

She’d never painted again.

She looked up to see Alastair regarding her quizzically. Frustration and alarm tightened her chest.

She couldn’t allow him to start speculating about her! He could be as tenacious as a terrier with a rat, and she didn’t think she could fend off persistent enquiries without further arousing his curiosity.

She must regain control of this situation immediately.

‘I’ll just put them back in the box. I’m sure you can return them,’ she said, giving him a determined smile. ‘Shall we go upstairs now?’

To her further frustration, he shook his head. ‘There’s no need to hurry. We have all evening. I thought we’d chat first.’

She had to work hard to keep her expression impassive. ‘Chat’ was the last thing she wanted.

She should give him a flirtatious look, try to entice him, but she couldn’t remember how. ‘I thought you would be...impatient,’ she said, a little desperately, trying to bring his mind back to the physical.

‘Oh, I am. But delay just heightens anticipation, making the fulfilment all the more satisfying. Now, my sister said you’ve spent most of the last few years in the country. What did you do there, if you didn’t paint? Although in such a grand manor house, I expect there was an excellent library. Did you re-read the classics, or more modern works?’

Once again, she struggled to find an innocuous reply. ‘I...wasn’t much given to reading.’

And once again, his eyebrows winged upward. ‘But you always loved to read. Was the library inferior?’

Her chest was getting so tight, it was difficult to breathe. ‘N-no, the library was, ah, was quite good.’

‘Then why did you not avail yourself of it?’

Oh, why would he not just leave it be? ‘I didn’t always have access to it,’ she ground out.

‘Not have access? But you were mistress of the household. I can’t imagine you letting some old fright of a housekeeper deny you books!’

‘It wasn’t the housekeeper,’ she blurted.

He was silent so long, she thought perhaps he’d finally taken note of her obvious reluctance and dropped the matter. Until he said quietly, ‘Your husband denied you books?’

Oh, why had she never learned to tell a convincing lie? ‘Yes,’ she snapped, irritated with him for his persistence, with herself for not being able to come up with a plausible story to deflect him. ‘Whenever I displeased him. And I displeased him constantly.’

Setting down her wine glass with a clatter, she reached over to seize his hand. ‘Please, can we have no more of this? I’d like to go upstairs now.’

Though he continued to regard her with an expression entirely too penetrating for her comfort, he nodded and set down his own glass. ‘Far be it for me to deny an eager lady.’

He had no idea how eager, she thought, light-headed with relief as he followed her up the stairs. Eager not for caresses, but to pleasure him and be gone before he could tug out of her any more ugly secrets from her marriage.

At the chamber door, she took his hand and led him to the bed. ‘Let me make you more comfortable,’ she said, urging him to sit, then attacking his cravat. The sooner she got to bare skin, the closer she’d be to seducing—and escaping—him.

But though he let her unwind the cloth and toss it aside, when she started on the buttons of his coat, he stayed her hands and pulled her to sit beside him on the bed. Tilting her head up to face him, he asked, ‘Did he take away your paints, too, when you did not please him?’

Caught off guard again, she couldn’t seem to come up with anything but the truth. ‘Yes.’

‘How long have you been without books and paints?’

She pulled her chin from his fingers, not wanting to meet his gaze. ‘A long time.’

‘And piano?’

Ah, how she’d missed her music! She’d hung on the longest to that, sneaking out in the depths of the night, like a burglar who’s discovered where the valuable jewels are hidden. In the smaller music room, a location far removed from the servants’ quarters and the main rooms, she’d played softly, in darkness or in moonlight...until that last, terrible night.

She jerked her mind free of the memories. ‘I’m not the woman you once knew, Alastair.’

Gently he recaptured her chin and made her look up at him. ‘Aren’t you?’

He lowered his mouth to hers, barely brushing her lips, his touch butterfly-light. This time, it was she who levered his lips apart with her tongue, then stroked at the wet warmth within.

With a growl deep in his throat, he responded immediately, seizing her shoulders and deepening the kiss. She wriggled her trapped hands down his chest and stomach until she could reach the buttons of his trouser flap, then struggled to open them against the erection that stretched the cloth taut. Finally working two buttons free, she slipped a hand inside, caressing down his length to the silky tip and back.

When he gasped, she broke the kiss, pushed herself off the bed and knelt before him. Before he could countermand her, she quickly popped the other buttons, grasped his member in both hands and took him into her mouth.

With him now beyond words, she ran her lips and tongue over every surface, listening carefully for his responses, deepening her touch or increasing friction when he gasped or thrust against her. Having catalogued his most sensitive areas, she focused on them, sucking, nipping and laving gently, then harder, then gently again, trying to stave off and intensify his climax.

It seemed she had done well, for some moments later he cried out, his nails biting into her shoulders through the fabric of her gown as he reached his peak, shuddering.

Not until he sagged back on to the bed did she gently disengage. Noting that he seemed for the moment insensate, she walked over to the washbasin to refresh herself, planning how she would next attempt to satisfy him.

Undress him, stimulate him, straddle him, she thought, ticking off in her mind the techniques that might leave him most sated. She damped down the shivers of feeling sparking at her breasts and between her thighs as she envisaged pleasuring him.

Pleasuring him, she rebuked her stirring senses. This had nothing to do with her.

Hands at her shoulders startled her. ‘Come back to bed,’ he whispered, nuzzling her neck.

Obediently she turned and allowed him to guide her over. ‘Let me undress you first,’ she urged.

‘Only if I can then return the favour.’

Get him naked and she might avoid that. Murmuring a non-committal response, she turned to seat him at the bedside.

Swiftly, she removed his jacket and waistcoat, then pulled the shirt over his head. And caught her breath, as any woman would, for he was so beautifully made.

Strong arms and shoulders gleamed in the candlelight. The muscles of his chest tensed as she ran a finger over them, down the taut belly to the edge of his trousers, then back up and over the scar that circled one shoulder.

‘Sabre slash,’ he answered her unspoken question. ‘Doesn’t hurt any more.’

‘Where?’ she asked, curious in spite of herself.

‘Badajoz.’

She’d read accounts in the newspapers about the battle. Not yet retired from Society, she’d also heard he’d entered the fortress city first, leading the van of the ‘forlorn hope’ through the breach the engineers had blasted into the walls. Her heart, not yet armoured against him, had swelled with fear at his recklessness, with joy that he’d been spared.

Denying the heat building within her, she ran her tongue along the scarred ridge of flesh, feeling him gasp and flinch under her touch. Encouraged by his response, she kissed lower while her hands caressed the lines of muscle and sinew.

Concentrate on him, she urged herself as her fingers tingled and the tension within her coiled tighter.

She suspended her kisses to strip off his boots, socks and trousers, then urged him down on the bed, pressing him back against the pillows. But when she lifted her skirts to follow him, intending to straddle the erection that sprang up boldly before her, he stopped her.

‘My turn.’

She made a murmur of inarticulate protest, but, ignoring it, he stood and turned her so he might access the fastenings of her gown. Not wanting to provoke a dispute by refusing, she allowed him to proceed.

She’d just have to resist as best she could—and resist she would, she promised herself.

Stiffening, she suffered him to unfasten her bodice and skirt, tightening her jaw as he began to caress her breasts through the linen of her chemise. He cupped them in his big hands, dragged his thumbs over the nipples until they peaked, each swipe sparking a flash of sensation that shot right to her core.

Her control already unravelling, she jumped when he hooked a finger at the hem of the chemise and dragged it up, letting cool air flow over the hot, damp place between her legs. Gently he pushed her to the bed, kissing her with insistent, drugging kisses that stole her breath.

Her pulse grew unsteadier still as she struggled to resist the tide of sensation hammering at her. She bit down on her lip to keep herself from rubbing against him when his finger insinuated itself between her thighs, bit down even harder when he slid that finger up to caress the nub at her centre. Her arms ached from holding herself rigid.

Then he slipped that finger inside her, evoking a sensation so intense, she had to hold her breath until she almost lost consciousness to battle down a response.

He bent to kiss her again, suckling her tongue in rhythm to the stroking finger. Everything within her seemed to be melting, building towards some precipice she was desperate to reach.

If she couldn’t stop him before she got there, she’d come apart.

Frantic, she broke the kiss, rolled on to the bed and pulled at his hips, urging him over her. ‘Now!’ she gasped.

Mercifully, he must have thought she was ready to finish. At once, he plunged within, filling her, which was better—or maybe worse. Rocking urgently against him—this time, she simply couldn’t remain motionless—she sought to bring him to fulfilment, before the sensations he was unleashing drove her mad.

In deep, penetrating thrusts he drove to the core of her, possessing her through every inch of her body. So the two become one flesh, flashed through her disjointed mind.

Never. Never one. Not now. Chance. Once. Lost.

Thoughts disintegrating to chaotic bits, she despaired of holding out any longer, when, buried deep within her, Alastair went rigid and cried out. A few moments later, he collapsed on her, then rolled with her to his side.

Heart hammering a crazy rhythm in her chest, she tried to steady her breathing. Please, let him fall asleep now, as he had the night before. Any illusions of courage abandoned, she would steal out as soon as his relaxed body and steady breathing told her he was beyond consciousness.

She couldn’t withstand a repetition of that assault on her senses.

With him limp beside her, she wriggled free of his entrapping arm. Silently, she threw on her skirt and fixed the pins of her bodice as best she could—thank heavens for the all-concealing cloak! She was groping for her shoes, ready to tiptoe out, when a hand reached out and grabbed her wrist.

She jumped, startled by his touch. Desperate to escape, she attempted a smile. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m afraid I must...must get home. Right now. My son. I’ll...I’ll meet you again. T-tomorrow?’

Sweet heavens, she was stuttering, her control a shambles. She had to get away.

‘He denied you passion, too, didn’t he?’

Unable, unwilling to answer, she stared at him, her eyes begging him for the mercy of release.

‘Why won’t you let me give you pleasure?’

‘Why would you want to?’ she shot back, anguish loosening the hold over her tongue.

His lazy eyes widened. ‘You can’t believe I’d try to hurt you?’

‘You have no reason to be kind. Please, Alastair, I’ll come tomorrow, I promise, but no more tonight.’

She was trembling now, light-headed with sensations denied, torn between her body’s eagerness for what he offered and her need to resist. If she didn’t get out soon, the battle might rip her in two, right here in bedchamber.

She nearly let out a sob when he let go of her wrist. ‘Very well. I would never keep you against your will. But...tomorrow?’

She nodded, her head bobbing back and forth like a child’s toy. This had been bad, much worse than she’d anticipated. But with twenty-four hours of calm reflection, away from his disturbing presence, she could figure out anything. ‘Yes, tomorrow.’

‘Goodnight, then, Diana.’

Whirling around, she headed towards the door. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her back as she scurried, like a mouse racing from the cat, out of the room and down the stairs.

* * *

After Diana’s abrupt departure, Alastair stared at the open doorway. Her effect on him had not been lessened after the first possession yesterday. In fact, with the enthusiasm of her ministrations, his climax tonight had been even more intense. So intense, his mind was still not functioning properly, or else he’d not have let her go so easily.

Instead, disturbed and disbelieving, he would have coaxed her to stay and questioned her further.

It was hard to credit that she’d truly been deprived of books and supplies. But years of gauging the veracity of men’s accounts from their tone and manner as they related them, a skill essential to an officer in an army at war, argued that what she’d revealed was the truth.

What kind of man would take away what most delighted his wife, only because she’d displeased him?

The same kind who would force her into marriage by threatening her father with debtors’ prison and her fiancé with ruin?

When she’d first related to him the reasons behind her marriage, he’d rejected the story with contemptuous disbelief. But from the bits he’d just pried from her, it was just possible that her tall tale might be true.

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