As one of the owners of London’s most infamous and scandalous gambling hall, The Underworld, Luke Reese looks like a man who has it all.

But underneath his swagger lies a pain which no amount of liquor, women or card games can ease. Because, nine months ago, Luke’s son was stolen by his half-brother, Lord Dursley.

Luke knows the agony of growing up without a family, and he will not allow his son to suffer the same fate. So when evidence leads him to Coventry and a mysterious governess named Georgina, Luke doesn’t hesitate in tracking her down.

But nothing is ever as simple as it seems in the London ton. And soon, Luke is facing his most dangerous gamble yet.

Dare he risk losing his heart to find his son?

The Last Gamble

Anabelle Bryant

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

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

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Excerpt

Endpages

Copyright

ANABELLE BRYANT is happy to grab her suitcase if it ensures a new adventure. Anabelle finds endless inspiration in travel, especially imaginary jaunts into romantic Regency England, a far cry from her home in New Jersey. Instead, her characters live out her daydreams, because really, who wouldn’t want to dance with a handsome duke or kiss a wicked earl? A firm believer in romance, Anabelle knows sometimes life doesn’t provide a happily ever after, but her novels always do. Visit her website at AnabelleBryant.com

[Acknowledgements]

Having a novel published is a dream come true. Having my tenth novel published is a milestone achievement. I have only gratitude for this generous opportunity. My sincere thanks to Clio Cornish, editor, for her smart direction and belief in my work, to the entire team at HQ Digital and HarperCollins, as well as the copy editors, cover artists, reviewers and most of all, readers.

I’ve always had an active imagination. Being able to take a daydream and offer it a life of its own, shared in the form of historical romance, is a precious gift. Thank you!

[Dedication]

This book is dedicated to dreamers.

We often are told to get our head out of the clouds.

If only they realized how lovely the view.

Chapter One

A moonlit sky is a thief’s worst enemy. Lucius Reese, proud proprietor of one third of The Underworld, glanced upward in appreciation of the boon found in the night heavens, not a star visible in its velvet span. Owning an exclusive gambling hell provided endless benefits, one being the ability to become equal with the darkness. Dressed completely in black, he melted into the evening hours. His low-brimmed hat and high-collared coat made him nothing more than a shadow, a whisper of suspicion were anyone to notice an anomalous movement in the alley adjacent to Welbeck Street.

Reese was a man of many titles, none of them revered by the peerage: rakehell, philanderer, and bastard most of all. Which prompted a multitude of secrets and composed a complex nature that disallowed emotion, unwilling to maintain an intimate relationship with a woman for longer than a few days. And though he valued his friendship with Maxwell Sinclair and Cole Hewitt, his partners at the hell, Reese rarely confided anything of a personal nature.

Therefore no one knew he skimmed the brick wall at the rear of the three-storey town house owned by Viscount Dursley, intent on gaining entry and perpetuating a theft that would leave the stuffy prig in an apoplectic fit. The mental image urged a grin, but Reese nudged the desire aside. How unfortunate he would not be present during the moment of realization as Dursley’s worst fear actualized. Reese would enjoy few things more than thwarting his half-brother in the twisted game played at his expense.

In silence, he smoothed a gloved hand down the mullioned paned glass of the garden terrace doors and settled on the brass and strike plate. His fingertip located the keyhole and, with his left hand, he twisted the knob to confirm the lock held. Utilizing the expertise learned through his years on the street, he produced a short metal pick, inserted it into the lock, and gained entry two breaths later.

Stepping into the ground-floor drawing room, he allowed his stifled smile freedom. The withering embers of the evening’s fire simmered in the hearth and his first inhale brought with it the cloying scent of floral perfume as it lingered in the otherwise breathless interior. Aah, Dursley must have his mistress abovestairs. An intriguing development. His shrew of a wife preferred the countryside and the purposeful separation allowed Dursley inordinate liberties. Although Reese wouldn’t put it past the viscount to make free with a servant girl.

But no, tonight the servants were safe as the presence of expensive fragrance confirmed his first assumption true. Reese needed to enter the viscount’s bedchamber to retrieve the particular item of interest and having a female abed raised the stakes. A spike of challenge quickened his pulse.

He waited no longer and crossed the thick Aubusson carpet, his boot heels muted as he aimed for the centre stairs. With little effort, he located the newel post in the blackness and accomplished the steps to view an elongated corridor lit by single candle lanterns, the house ensconced in the pale shimmer of quietude. No matter it was the home of his half-brother, Reese had never stepped inside until now.

To the right he overlooked the downstairs foyer, but on the wall to the left a series of portraits, each one with a surly churl, led him straight to the master suite like a trail of fabled breadcrumbs. Outside the main rooms the fusty painting of his father, his expression stern and smug, watched in silent surveillance. Reese smirked with glorious mockery and entered the sitting area, which led into the bedchamber.

No conversation could be heard. His soundless breathing and the confident thud of his heartbeat assured the house slept soundly. Apparently, Dursley suffered little from his malevolent deeds, able to slumber without a troubled conscience, so much so the viscount paid a whore to warm his bed.

Reese had it on good information the item he sought rested with equivalent reticence in a wall safe secured by a mechanical lock. The rotating disks would need to be aligned in the proper order for the mechanism to open. He’d practised for weeks at home in his apartments until confident in his ability, detecting clicks and the pressured resistance that preceded release. Now success lay within reach. It would require all his skill and perhaps a spot of luck to go with it.

A feminine murmur, discordant in the stillness, gave him pause. He waited. Nothing short of murder would stop him from accomplishing his goal. Pity if the ladybird proved a complication. Shoulders pinned to the wall, he entered the main chamber, his eyes already adjusted to the dim interior. At the centre of the room, two figures, nothing more than indecipherable shapeless mounds, lay motionless atop the mattress. He at once located Dursley’s dour portrait, behind which the safe was hidden, as if it called to him, dared him and waited for his attention. The painting hung on the wall to the right, parallel to the female’s silhouette beneath the sheets.

As seamlessly as smoke surrenders its existence, Reese advanced across the room and removed the artwork to set on an overstuffed chair beside the end table. Dursley deserved worse than he would receive. The peerage possessed an extraordinary talent for overlooking scandal when it bent to their purpose. Those entitled protected the vaunted reputations of their own and lived by a code only superseded in strength by the oath of criminals and side-slips or otherwise discarded members of society. Fortunately, Reese belonged to the latter group.

With a fleeting glance to the imposing four-poster bed at the centre of the room, he removed his left glove and placed his fingertips upon the dial. As practised for endless hours, he rotated the knob until a dissonant click sounded, the featherlight vibration unmistakable.

A rare set of circumstances had placed him in his half-brother’s bedchamber this evening. A deed that would go punished once Reese located his son, the five-year-old lad stolen by Dursley almost a year prior. Reese refused to contemplate what his half-brother might have told Nathaniel. He knew his son would question the why and where of his father’s absence, but his yearlong search had yielded little aside from dead-end leads and mistaken identity.

Max Sinclair owned The Underworld with Luke, and Sinclair’s wife had unknowingly met Nate at the Marine Society several months before, but by the time the information came to light the trail had gone dark. All confrontations with his half-brother had ended in violent threats, Reese all too aware of his vulnerability were the courts to deliberate the matter. Meanwhile, each passing day brought further heartache and hopelessness. Drastic times, drastic measures and all that. He would stop at nothing to locate his son, and tonight, after he stole Dursley’s journal, he would at last have the factual information needed to pursue Nathaniel’s recovery.

With a flick of his fingers he rotated the dial in the opposite direction. Once, twice, and then the slight pressure of resistance. Click.

Someday these newfangled locks would be perfected to a point where any common thief couldn’t help themselves to the contents of the safe the mechanism intended to protect.

Another rotation, another click, and Reese eased the metal door open, the greased hinges as noiseless as his satisfaction.

He didn’t waste a moment collecting stacks of bills or pouches of jewels. He possessed more wealth than he’d ever spend in a lifetime. Instead, he slid the pounds aside and wrapped his fingers around the leather journal buried at the rear of the compartment. There lay the treasure, only recently come to light. His heart pounded, rushing blood thick in his veins, as his pulse thrummed at his temple. The journal promised the information required to find his son. He swallowed emotion at the weight of that realization and slid the book into his breast pocket, before he carefully closed the door and secured the dial with a slant of his wrist.

Replacing the poorly done painting, Reese was poised to leave when the smaller lump beneath the sheets, the misguided mistress, sat up, swung her legs over the edge of the mattress and padded past him without a stitch, most likely in search of the bourdaloue and a bit of privacy. He needed to pass the same screen divider to gain access to the sitting room and hall, down the stairs and out the door. Perhaps she might not notice him. When she’d left the bed, he’d hugged the shadows only five paces away. Still, suspicion suggested she would be more fully awake after completing her personal ablution.

Taking a chance, how he loved to raise the stakes, he crossed the room with hope to avoid the confrontation if only by a narrow margin, but the drowsy miss re-entered the bedroom at the precise moment he intersected, her confused mien upon coming chest to chest with his person priceless. He allowed her one confused blink before he grasped her around the waist and stole a fast, hard kiss.

Then he went out like a snuffed candle.

Georgina Smith gathered Biscuit, her pug named for his similarity to the toasted treat, tight in her arms and settled in the pillow-stuffed window seat of her Coventry cottage. Posing as a governess had proved exhausting. If Lord Tucker hadn’t decided unexpectedly to shuttle his family off to London for a week of personal family business, she wondered when she’d have next experienced a bit of freedom. How foolish to assume all governess employment, and all charges for that matter, were similar. The last assignment had proved enjoyable compared to her current situation, but she was in no position to complain. Whether dowager companion or governess, there were few choices for earning wages as an unprotected female. She would survive until she sorted out her future. Too many questions needing answering and she was in no mood to address them this evening.

Stroking Biscuit’s velvety coat, she reclined against the nook with a long exhale, and snuggled the dog deeper into her lap. The wrinkly pug was more friend than pet and, as expected with his usual intuitive temperament, he licked the bottom of her chin in an affectionate gesture of empathy.

The night sky brought peaceful solace despite the absence of a glowing moon. Only nine months had passed since she’d escaped impending scandal in London, but living in Coventry had turned out better than she’d expected. Who would have guessed she would locate this lovely rental, find employment and settle into routine so quickly? Withdrawing from polite society brought with it the surprising ease of simple living that smoothed the distress of all she’d left behind.

She smiled against Biscuit’s warmth and dropped a distracted kiss to his fur. She was four and twenty, old enough to understand life didn’t always proceed as planned. Her mother and father meant well but remained locked in tradition, and while leaving behind her younger sister caused her heart to ache, it would all be for the best in the end. At least that was the lie she sustained each day with strength and determination.

She needn’t have worried over money. With the full purse she’d brought with her and immediate employment as a governess, she wanted for little, at least for the time being. Life in London was vastly different, her family active in a high-standing social sphere, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t find peace here. Hope stayed with her. She wasn’t one to bemoan her situation overlong.

No, things weren’t as dreary as she’d feared, and at least she’d escaped London undetected. London. Just thinking the word made her shudder. London was the very last place on earth she wanted to be.

Luke startled awake. He lifted his head from the desk where he’d fallen asleep after accomplishing the most important theft of his life. As promised, the journal held a bounty of information, most interesting, some amusing, one page vital. He’d come to The Underworld, the gaming hell which was more a home than his bachelor apartments at The Albany, and rifled through the pages with desperate acclivity. His half-brother’s handwriting left much to be desired, a scrawled mess similar to the manner in which the viscount led his life, but with perspicacious acuity, Luke deciphered a notation seemingly connected to where Nathaniel was possibly held. After collecting his thoughts and formulating a plan, he’d downed a brandy and slept through the earliest hours of morning.

Now he glanced at the wall clock and huffed a breath. Clubs, spades, diamonds and hearts. The hell would be vacant aside from the working girls who let apartments on the upper floor. He’d need to discuss his proposed trip with Max and Cole, but that conversation would keep, his friends aware he would travel at a moment’s notice if information surfaced concerning Nathaniel’s whereabouts.

Smoothing a palm down his face to rid the last vestiges of slumber, he shoved his chair backwards and unlocked the desk drawer spanned against his waist. He’d taken no chances with the journal’s safety, however paranoid that might have seemed, and secured it away before he slumped over the desk in protection. Now he flipped the book open to the desired page he’d marked with a worn playing card, the five of hearts, and examined the notes left by his half-brother.

Georgina Smith, governess.

Smith. It was likely a false name, the most popular in all London, and he knew that from a life spent on the streets. Every gel and bloke became a Smith when they wished to remain anonymous, lost, unfound or otherwise undetected. If it wasn’t for the address printed below the name, he’d have wasted his time sneaking into Dursley’s bedchamber, impossible to locate one chit named Smith in an infinite population.

Instead, and foolishly, his half-brother believed his methods infallible, and with ill-conceived confidence upheld that his title would protect him, never to be questioned, in turn committing to the journal all the information Reese needed.

Things were about to change.

He passed a fingertip over the looping script.

17 Hill Street, Coventry

It had to be true, this single piece of damning evidence he’d searched for for months, because he refused to believe any harm had come to Nate, effectively ignoring any unspeakable paths that suggested the child had come to danger or worse.

Coventry was less than two days’ travel if he rode alone on horseback in good weather. It proved no challenge. His Arabian, Snake Eyes, was the finest breed of expensive horseflesh, fourteen hands high and built for speed and endurance. Once Luke had seen the animal’s white coat mottled with a streak of black down his back, he knew the stallion was meant to be his, the name conjured by the dark markings which portrayed a snake slithering atop the horse’s spine.

As soon as Luke had collected his things, he planned to set out. Resolved in this, he rose from the chair, slid the journal into his pocket, and locked the hell behind him. He would have liked to travel this morning at first light, but despite his desperate yearning to reunite with his son, a few matters needed to be attended first. He wouldn’t jeopardize his son’s safety. Nathaniel remained the only thing left in his life of any worth.

Chapter Two

The first thing Luke noticed upon entering Coventry and locating a stable for his horse was the diminutive size of the main thoroughfare and adjoining roadways. He’d spent sufficient years in London that the city’s energy lived in his blood. One reason he preferred time whiled at The Underworld was the frenetic pace, the pulse of action and risk through the night hours while most of London slept, rather than the staid predictability of The Albany where he kept bachelor rooms.

Upon securing Snake Eyes in a stall, he spent no time on a brush-down and instead paid the stable hands generously to perform the task. He took a room at the only inn available and noted the second obtrusive difference in the modest town centre. Pedestrians were friendly. Strangers passed with a smile and the population appeared cheerful despite, as far as Luke could see, the town offered sparse entertainment or amusement. A different world, as it were, only two days’ travel away.

He crossed through the main square on foot, past a tall cathedral and closed mercantile, and followed the directions supplied by the vociferous innkeeper to arrive at the corner of Hill Street only twenty minutes later. Two jackdaws startled from the walkway as he approached, cawing in objection like lackadaisical guardsmen who’d drunk too much ale.

On his two days’ journey, he’d contemplated a variety of ways to approach Miss Smith in an attempt to locate Nathaniel and at the same time not alarm the woman. Any governess worth her salt wouldn’t allow a strange man to approach their charge, nor would a genteel woman speak to a man of his ilk. He’d changed his clothes at the inn and washed the dust from his face and hands, but even now he wavered in his tactic. He couldn’t mount the steps to house number seventeen and simply knock on the door. A governess wouldn’t have her charge with her. At least, that’s not how such arrangements worked in London. Who knew what his half-brother contrived here in this remote country town?

Still, alienating Miss Smith was out of the question. If the woman perceived him as a threat or danger to her person, she’d dismiss him without question, or worse, summon reinforcement to have him removed from her property. Unlocking the most beneficial approach to Miss Smith would take shrewdness and intelligence. Lucky for Reese, he could manage both.

He positioned himself in the shadowy copse of a few alder trees fifty paces from the location to watch and wait. Miss Smith’s address led to a charming cottage, almost storybook-drawn, with smoke coming from the chimney and a whitewashed picket fence that encircled the property. If only he knew Nate played within those walls or ran in the yard fancied with wildflowers and a small vegetable garden, he would storm the door and demand his son’s return, but the matter proved far more complicated. He had no desire to be carted away as a madman, or worse, shot by a pistol-wielding governess. One never knew. He’d risk his own safety in a heartbeat, but his son’s better welfare, absolutely not. Nate had experienced far too much danger in his short childhood already.

After forty-five minutes, he closed his eyes and envisioned Nathaniel as he’d last seen the lad, a chubby four-year-old with more energy than Luke had possessed in what seemed like forever. Alerted by a sound, he was pulled from his fond reverie. He opened his eyes to notice the cottage door ajar. He stepped closer and angled to remain hidden with his line of sight unobstructed.

Miss Smith was a tall woman, dressed in a fine lavender gown and surprisingly bonnet-less. She had a dog at her feet, a small animal the colour of freshly baked bread and as energetic as he’d recalled Nate in his memory. The governess appeared less playful, more prim, a reticule looped over one wrist as she left the stoop, latched the gate and headed towards town with leisurely strides. How opportune. He would follow, but only after he peered into a window or two. The young woman left her curtains open, seemingly without a care in the world. One objective completed. Click.

He made swift work of surveilling the property where he discovered little of interest and no signs of a child. Nathaniel wasn’t there but what did Miss Smith know of the lad’s whereabouts? With the lady in view, he quickened his pace, unwilling to lose sight of his imperative quarry.

Georgina hummed a lively song her mother favoured and drew a deep, cleansing breath, the morning air refreshing and crisp. How she enjoyed the absence of her corset, a luxury not afforded to ladies in London and a silly thing, really. Despite the wicked indulgence, she had no lady’s maid to lace the back so instead wore only short stays, and the personal freedom felt divine. Mother liked to tease that Georgina had received more than her fair share of bosom. Her younger sister, Joy, was slim and willowy, while Georgina was composed of curves, high, full breasts and shapely hips. Hips Mother assured would be valued when the time came for childbearing. Mother had distinct views on most everything, though Georgina remained unconvinced.

How inane the remark seemed now that she’d changed the course of her future. Then, Georgina met her mother’s comments with a fair degree of disdain. The modiste hired to sew their wardrobe preferred her sister’s figure and Georgina suspected most gentlemen did as well. At least her exit from London brought happiness to someone, albeit the dressmaker didn’t matter, did she?

Her rambling thoughts evoked a note of melancholy and obtrusive reminder of the loving affection of her family. How well she missed her parents and sister proved a tinge of regret that had stayed too much with her the past few days. As if Biscuit understood her sudden sadness, he barked, the dog more accustomed to snuggling on her lap or napping in her arms. She swept him up, tucking his petite bottom under her arm against her hip with a fair degree of irony at the convenient purposefulness of her figure.

On the fateful day in London when she’d boldly altered her future, she’d left behind a lengthy letter explaining her decisions and thus removing the responsibility and possibility of scandal from her precious parents. Surely, they were mortified by her sudden disappearance, but Georgina knew her course of action proved in everyone’s best interest despite her mother was fervently devoted to social standings and her father equally concerned with reputation. Why should they suffer the ill effects of her mistake?

After the devastating catastrophe, Georgina deliberated her withdrawal, fearful of ruin and the marring of her sister’s reputation that would ultimately crush suitable prospects for marriage. Her parents knew of her displeasure, though readily had no solution to the problem. No one predicted she’d take matters into her own hands, but it was better this way.

In that same letter, Georgina had promised her parents she would contact them once she settled, but she hadn’t kept her word as of yet. Something held her back, intangible and yet powerful all the same. Still, she wasn’t courageous enough at the moment to examine the cause for her delay.

Her thoughts continued to skip and prance from one conclusion to the next assumption as her boot heels marked steps towards the centre of town. Good heavens, perhaps Joy was engaged by now. What if someone had fallen ill? Circumstances could change greatly and she’d be woefully unaware. A wave of frustration and fear forced emotion to the forefront, but she suffocated her instant curiosity and forced her eyes ahead. Looking back was a path to heartache. She’d made a decision and would adhere to her plan. Determination showed courage rather than cowardice, didn’t it?

With serendipitous opportunity, the village market came into view. Wooden stalls mushroomed in clusters on both sides of the roadway, while wagons, pedestrians and shoppers had just begun to fill the street. She released her lingering regret to focus on the content existence she’d found in Coventry. In familiar routine, she would shop for produce and necessary groceries, greet the merchants she’d come to know, and then return to her cottage with Biscuit for a quiet evening spent reading. Grateful for the situation she’d found considering the dire circumstance she’d abandoned, she smiled and dropped a quick kiss atop the pug’s glossy head, yet the feeling of satisfaction was short-lived.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled to attention and Biscuit gave a frantic squirm in an effort to be let loose. She placed him on the ground and surveyed her surroundings, unnerved and riddled with a fickle twinge of ill ease. Too much thinking likely brought on the disquieting feeling. She best get on with her errands.

Luke trailed behind the proper Miss Smith at a reasonable distance. At first impression, she fit his preconceived notion of a governess. Her hair was pulled into a severe bun and her gown, while a lovely colour, seemed constructed for purpose rather than fashion. Her petite brown half-boots clipped the cobbles in forthright determination as she arrowed towards the centre of town with a squat pug at her feet, the dog’s curly tail bouncing with each step. She almost appeared too refined for the provincial area, but then again, what did he know about country living or prim governesses for that matter? He hadn’t a formal education of any kind and found, more often than not, he was the teacher when it came to lessons, wicked or otherwise.

Blending into the woodpile stacked beside the produce stalls, he watched as Miss Smith tested the ripeness of the apricots offered for sale. He stood not ten strides from her now, able to see her face at conveniently close proximity. His breath might have caught when she laughed at something kind the merchant said. Her eyes twinkled, sparks of blue in the dusky overhang of the stand. Here was no ordinary governess. This woman destroyed any inflexible image he’d reserved for the role; stern spinster, prude ape leader, timid wallflower or likewise.

No, Miss Smith, Georgina, fit none of these descriptions. Her hair, while gathered into a weighty bun, caught rays of sunshine to highlight strands of red mahogany threaded through chestnut tresses. How long could it be? He continued his assessment. No hardship there.

Her delicate features, elegant brows and finely formed nose offset sweet pink lips in the shape of a cupid’s bow. And her skin… Luke rubbed his fingers together in an attempt to cease the desire to smooth over her cheek, the skin looking as tender and delicious as the apricots she poked and prodded.

She leaned forward to catch a runaway fruit that tumbled towards the ground and he groaned. Her figure, composed of ample breasts and a curvaceous bottom, forced purpose from his mind for the briefest instant.

Shaking his head to clear his mind he angled closer as she paid the merchant and continued her sojourn through the stalls. He’d intended to confront her on the walk home, but now thought better of it, a more immediate action demanding attention. Would he frighten her? Desperate to obtain any information she could share about Nate, he would take the risk. He’d gamble any stakes to recover his son.

Perhaps if he approached before she left the safety of the centre surroundings, she’d feel unthreatened and more hospitable. At least that was the lie he told himself. In truth, he wanted to grab Miss Smith by the shoulders and, with a frantic shake, dislodge any clue she might hold, but he’d have no hope at all if he upset her. Unlocking this information would require nimble fingers and a delicate touch. Tricks of the trade he’d lived and breathed since childhood.

Yet he’d be smart to proceed with care. Usually things weren’t as simple as they seemed and he still didn’t know of Miss Smith’s connection to Viscount Dursley. Mayhap she’d already committed to keep the man’s malevolent secret quiet or planned to work with him in a future nefarious plot. There was no way to know and a more cautious tactic proved necessary no matter his impatience.

Georgina finished her purchases and set a quick pace towards home with Biscuit at her feet. Something had disturbed her as she shopped at the market today, though, from appearances, everything remained as always. Still, there were distinct moments when she’d paused to dash a look to her surroundings, the weight of someone’s eyes setting her pulse into a fast rhythm. Could her parents have hired a runner to find her? It seemed the only logical explanation for the unexpected anxiety she experienced. Lord Tucker had left for London days earlier and the respected gentleman wouldn’t skulk about town but address her directly had he a reason to seek her out. He practised decorum, the epitome of respectability. Furthermore, no one else knew she lived in Coventry, the admission sad by its necessity.

Dismissing her ill ease, she quickened her pace and was almost returned to her cottage when she noticed a lone man on the opposite side of the roadway, his attention trained on her every movement. Biscuit growled, his ears perked, and she bustled him into her arms as she accomplished the front steps and retrieved her key with practised alacrity. Her heart beat hard and at the same time she chided her foolish reaction to what likely was nothing more than an unfamiliar neighbour out for a stroll. It was possible his horse had lost a shoe or he visited a friend, for she’d never seen the likes of him in Coventry before. Unlike London, with its overwhelming population and vigorous social schedule, Coventry was an uneventful, mundane neighbourhood where most everyday proved predictable. There could be plentiful reasons to explain this man’s presence.

Shutting the door firmly, she slid the lock and fell against the panel to heave a sigh of relief. She’d never felt unsafe before and would not begin now. Dismissing her mother’s voice in her head, which warned of a bounty of perils aimed at the gentler sex, Georgina reserved no room in her life for foolish assumptions. She placed Biscuit before his water bowl and moved towards the kitchen to deposit her purchases in the pantry at the same time a sturdy knock sounded on the door. The stranger from across the street? Whatsoever could he want? Was he sent by her parents to find her? And what if he was? Or worse, what if he wasn’t?

With her mind a riot and an alerted pug at her heels, she cracked the front door open no more than the width of two fingers.

‘Miss Smith?’

The stranger looked normal enough, though she honestly had no way to judge. London and high society hadn’t prepared her for situations like this. With a sad note of realization, her mother’s copy of Debrett’s social registry and its formal listing of introductions for fancy ballrooms seemed to exist a lifetime ago.

‘Yes?’ Should she not have confirmed he addressed her by the correct name? How did he come to know her name? Botheration, she wasn’t very good at subterfuge. Honesty was her code and thereby left her with few decisions when faced with fleeing London and perpetrating an invented existence.

‘May I speak to you a moment?’

He sounded kind from what she could discern with her one eye, for that was all the space allowed, and he appeared harmless, though Biscuit growled. How unlike her dog.

‘You may.’ She didn’t open the door wider, not even a hair’s breadth, and the momentary pause offered the opportunity to further evaluate the stranger and put an end to her irrational concerns. He was tall, neatly dressed in a linen shirt and jacket over riding breeches. His boots were dust-covered, though he was otherwise clean. Dark hair and a strong jaw mimicked the demanding tone in his voice, for when he asked the question it sounded as if he expected her to answer in the positive.

‘Like this?’ His query expressed limited patience. ‘I will remain two strides away on the slate path if you’ll open the door to allow a discussion and hear me out.’

‘You are an unknown visitor and I am a single woman alone in this house.’ Perhaps again, she’d provided too much information. ‘I’m sorry but I have no time for conversation.’ She shut the door tightly. How poorly she’d handled the confrontation. Leaning towards the front window, she peered through a slit in the curtains to see if the stranger had left, but he now stood near the gate, seemingly fraught with indecision as he glanced to the front of her home and then towards the street twice in quick succession.

Why was he here? As if he understood her hesitation or somehow heard her question, he again advanced up the walkway. His deep voice echoed through the door with another attempt to gain her attention. Still she couldn’t understand a word he said as Biscuit let loose a series of objectionable barks, sharp and angry. Her heart raced no matter her brain insisted she calm. Was she acting with prudence or in the manner of a spineless ninny?

‘Hush, Biscuit.’ She picked up the dog and brought him to her chest. ‘Let me listen a moment.’ The pug quieted to a low growl.

‘I only need to ask you a few questions. I’m trying to locate someone. Will you allow me to explain?’

Her brows drew together in question. Locate someone? How could she possibly help? She was fairly new to the area and most definitely content with the anonymity she’d found in Coventry. Was he sent to locate her? Something in his voice expressed earnest, desperate concern. Would she be the biggest fool to open the door to this stranger?

She glanced through the curtains again and watched as the stranger raked his fingers through his hair in a gesture of frustration, his expression of equalled disgruntlement. Sunlight glinted off his thumb. Did he wear a ring there? How unusual. She continued her perusal of his every detail noting his shoulders were as tense as the sharp set of his jaw. A runner wouldn’t act in such a manner as if he had emotion invested in the outcome. Still, she was alone, a female in a cottage with no means of protection. There was nothing of value to steal within these walls. Unless… her heart leapt in her chest. Were she to open the door he might take complete advantage. Good heavens, he could ravish her. Every horrifying warning her mother had drilled into her head since childhood rallied to support the illogical suggestion.

Good heavens, she calmed herself. Surely men who intended to force themselves on unsuspecting women didn’t knock on the front door to do so. Dark alleyways and dangerous alcoves seemed more the thing. Her thoughts became a jumble of emotion and shredded logic.

His thunderous knock interrupted her befuddlement and she jumped away from the door as Biscuit produced another string of barks in tune to the staccato of her pulse.

‘Please.’

The word penetrated her fear and everything fell into stillness. The desperation in that one syllable spoke to her heart. Surely an investigator or Bow Street runner would not employ heartfelt sentiment or agonizing plea to beg her attention. Her resolve cracked, whether for the worse or better she could not know, compelled to answer the man.

She leaned against the door and spoke loud and clear. ‘Meet me in the town square tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. There’s a small corner establishment named Ellen’s Tearoom. I’ll speak to you when I’m safely amidst others.’

Tea? He would drink poison if it returned Nathaniel to him. Aware Miss Smith watched from the front window, he nodded and left her property straight after. He’d unsettled her enough for one day, so tomorrow would have to suffice. Locked up tight behind her cottage door, he’d failed to gain more than an arranged meeting in town, but wasn’t willing to take the chance he’d spur the young lady into fleeing or sending a message to his half-brother. He had no way to understand her involvement until he pressed her for answers in the morning.

And that was why, after he’d checked on Snake Eyes and finished a simple meal, he returned to watch the cottage through the evening hours. Miss Smith was the only lifeline he had to Nathaniel at the moment. He had little idea what his half-brother wanted, Dursley’s denial of the abduction a repetitive argument that led to no end. And with no ransom note, extortion attempt or other motivation for Nate’s disappearance, he could only pursue the governess and hope, mayhap pray, a habit he’d never practised, that she knew something to assist his search.

Chapter Three

Having a nocturnal lifestyle proved its advantages. The ability to prowl about as if invisible was a skill learned as a child on the streets of Charing Cross where Luke would steal fruit and other bits of food without detection. Later, as a grown man, he’d honed the practice to perfection whenever a fast departure proved necessary, out a window or down a trellis to escape an angered husband, often leaving behind a satisfied lady who welcomed his affection but not his reputation.

He’d watched the cottage until midnight, although a light hadn’t shown in the window since ten in the evening, and then he’d muttered a Good night, Miss Smith and returned to the inn. She was a creature of the daylight and his opposite, no doubt, though he would take no chances.

Now, as he waited from afar, the governess approached the teashop without the company of her dog, her ungloved hands poised against the simple lines of her day gown. He couldn’t help but notice the soft sashay of her hips, though her face expressed a businesslike demeanour and he wondered again if she worked in collusion with Dursley or was an innocent victim, the same as he.

‘Miss Smith, thank you for agreeing to this meeting.’ He pushed from the corner of the teashop and forced a smile, impatience prodding he get their conversation underway.

‘How do you know my name?’ She reared back, another layer of defence added to the tightly secured countenance she’d brought to the teashop instead of her pug.

‘I’m Mr Reese. Luke, if you’d like. Now that we know each other’s name there’s no room for enmity. I assure you I mean no harm. Let’s find a table and order refreshment while I explain.’ He didn’t leave her time to object and opened the shop door to motion her inside where he obtained a table and requested a pot of tea. How he would have preferred a brandy despite it was barely ten in the morning. When she’d brushed past him at the entrance he’d thought he detected the scent of apricots, but dismissed this as foolishness, most especially when the vibrant interior of the cheerful shop smelled of steeped black tea leaves.

‘Very well then. How may I help you, Mr Reese?’ She placed her reticule on the damask tablecloth and he noticed her long, delicate fingers trembled for a reason he could not imagine.

‘I’m looking for someone and hope you’ll assist in my search.’

She waited, not a question on her lips, though he noticed she nibbled the lower one in hesitation or unfounded trepidation.

‘My son was taken from me and I need to locate his whereabouts.’ There was no easy way to phrase it and the automatic assumption that he’d done something wrong or perpetuated an offence which had led to the removal of his son was something he was fully prepared to defend. ‘His name is Nathaniel and I believe you may know him.’

‘Nate?’ Miss Smith’s eyes lit with instant recognition and his heart nearly leapt from his chest. ‘But that can’t be true.’ She shook away her immediate response. ‘Nathaniel’s father is deceased. His uncle cares for him now.’

Bloody hell, he would kill his half-brother for that lie.

‘That’s not the truth. I am his father.’ He hastily accepted the teapot and service from the shop’s girl, anxious for her to rid the table so he could continue. ‘And I’m desperate to find him. Do you know where he is?’

‘I see it now.’ She smiled, seemingly more at ease. ‘The dark hair and light eyes, although yours are almost silver, aren’t they?’ She leaned forward slowly, her eyes matched with his. ‘Nate’s possessed a bluer hue.’

Engrossed in her description, she appeared unaware how he hung on each word, though his heart overflowed with relief. She knew Nate and possibly his current whereabouts.

‘With regret, I haven’t seen Nathaniel in almost a year or else I might be of better assistance.’ She looked down at her cup and took a polite sip of tea.

Wrong – she didn’t know where Nate was at the moment. His chest grew tight as disappointment and anger were fast to smother hope. Yet all wasn’t lost. ‘Can you tell me everything you know of your interaction and the situation that brought you together?’ He tasted the pungent brew in his cup and again wished for brandy, although Miss Smith seemed pleased enough and daintily wiped her mouth after another sip.

‘You must be out of your mind with worry.’ Her features softened and her eyes found his, searching over his face and back again with sincere sympathy.

She too had lovely blue eyes, almost the same shade as Nate, and long, graceful lashes. Now he viewed her closely, the governess proved quite pretty, some might even suggest fetching, in a fresh, uncontrived manner. He saw compassion in her eyes, and a new understanding of his predicament. Truly the qualities spoke of a genuine soul. ‘Yes. Perhaps with this new knowledge, you’ll excuse my poor manners at your doorstep yesterday.’

‘Of course. I had no idea and with worries of my own…’ Her voice trailed off, a signal she did not wish to elaborate. ‘I’m glad to tell you everything I know if it helps you locate your son. Your wife, how is she? She must be inconsolable. By heavens, I would be. The circumstances are terrible.’

Her honest empathy soothed the unrelenting ache that lived inside him always, the desperate pain of hopelessness that increased each day he was unable to care for Nate, tuck him in at bedtime, hear his laughter or ensure he was safe. His brother had stolen parental privilege and paternal responsibility for no reason Luke could fathom. ‘Nate’s mother died three years ago. I doubt he has any clear memories of her although they share the same smile. At least she’s not here to see how I’ve failed in taking care of our son.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ She fiddled with her teacup at his bold confession. ‘It’s easy to see you are father and son. The man who placed Nate in my care for three weeks also possessed similar colouring.’

‘My half-brother, Viscount Dursley.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And before you suggest I seek legal recourse, you should know I was born on the wrong side of the blanket that deems my word worthless when spoken in challenge of a peer. I’m also a proprietor of The Underworld gaming hell.’

She didn’t answer immediately despite her eyes flared with his last sentence. ‘Yes, Dursley, that’s how the viscount introduced himself, and for Nate he neglected use of the surname Reese.’

‘His lie concerning Nate’s parentage is just one in a long string of mistruths. He most likely changed my son’s name to fit his purpose.’

‘Sometimes people have no other choice.’ She seemed reluctant to continue for a beat and her delicate brows trestled with worry. ‘The viscount hired me as governess and paid me beforehand. When the three-week period concluded, he collected your son with no further word.’ A look of anguish flittered across her face as if disappointed with her involvement. ‘I never thought to ask more questions. Nate looked neither neglected nor unhappy. I didn’t believe it my place to pry and all appeared in order.’

‘As would be expected.’ He swallowed the bitter tea in his cup to wash away the taste of failure. There had to be more to the story. This couldn’t be all he’d gain from the only clue he possessed. He rejected that reality. ‘I’ve gathered bits of information here and there to indicate my half-brother is shuttling Nate to different locations in an attempt to keep his presence untraceable. I’ve had his townhouse watched for periods of time, his country estate, as well as any other place I could imagine he’d bring my son, but the search has yielded nothing.’

‘I see.’ She toyed with the handle of her teacup as if hesitant to continue. ‘You would be proud, if I may be so bold. Nathaniel is a fine young lad, bright as a new star and handsome to boot.’ She smiled and it eased the tightness in his chest another degree.

‘Thank you for that.’ The governess was kind as well as beautiful. Despite he lived daily with serious considerations on his mind, his body worked on another more elemental level, and he couldn’t help but notice the brilliance of Miss Smith’s smile and lovely appeal. ‘I find strength in the knowledge that Nathaniel is safe despite his whereabouts remain unknown. I don’t believe my half-brother will harm my son, but one can never be sure. People show different faces to the world depending on their necessity. Dursley perpetuates a veneer of honesty but he is no more than a manipulative cur.’ Her teacup rattled on the saucer as she replaced it. Perhaps he’d spoken too vehemently. ‘My apologies.’ He regretted upsetting her.

‘Think nothing of it.’

Georgina watched Mr Reese and admired his courageous determination. His half-brother had stolen his only child, his wife had died… how much was one individual expected to endure? She tried to imagine the pain he held in check and failed. If she ever fell in love she wanted it to be for ever, a long, happy life with several children as delightful as Nate.

What would Mr Reese think if he discovered the lie she lived each day? Governess? Smith? Neither were true. Perhaps he would never need to know, their association short-lived. She hoped so because somehow the unforgivable notion of disappointing Mr Reese, Luke, threatened to stay with her indefinitely. She could not be the cause of further betrayal, another thorn in his heart. His final words struck a personal chord.

With her guilt overflowing, she vowed to pen a letter to her parents that evening, assure them of her safety and wellbeing and bring it to post tomorrow first thing. It was the least she could do to ease their concern. How selfishly she’d behaved. Perhaps they worried in the same tormenting manner Mr Reese agonized over Nate’s whereabouts and security.

Now to assuage Mr Reese’s concern. When she looked into his lovely grey eyes, her heart raced with anxious ambition to soothe his suffering. ‘Nathaniel was very happy in my care. He took to Biscuit right away and the two would play for hours in the garden when he finished his letters and numbers.’

Mr Reese’s brows rose as if surprised.

‘Does he not ordinarily enjoy dogs?’

‘No, not that. Your pug.’ He laughed a low chuckle that skittered through her. ‘The name suits.’ Then he flashed a grin and she couldn’t help notice the dimple in his right cheek. Nate had a smaller mark, a precursor of the lethal weapon his appeal would wield one day. In kind, it seemed Mr Reese had no idea of the power in that charming dimple. His smile proved an armament of great impact. Were he to turn that flirtatious grin on any available female, all defences would crumble in less than an instant. Hers certainly did.

She stared at his face a moment longer, her intent focus on his mouth, her throat gone dry. This was no child in front of her, this was a man. A very handsome man with silver-grey eyes, obsidian hair, and a fading smile which reminded by way of dimple he had one purpose in life: to find his son. Botheration, she needed to get her imagination under control before she fantasized all sorts of inappropriate suggestions that had nothing to do with the singular reason Mr Reese had sought her out in the first place.

‘Viscount Dursley paid me in cash and left no address. Unfortunately, that’s all I know.’ Wishing she could supply more and ease his worry, she touched her hand to his sleeve, surprised at the strength beneath the cloth, all strong, hard muscle, and forced herself to draw back, though an equalled desire insisted she pull forward instead. ‘I’m happy to have reassured you although I feel at a loss in furthering your pursuit of Nathaniel. Is there another way I can help?’ There must be something she could do. She’d truly enjoyed the short time she’d cared for Nate. How wretched the circumstance now she’d learned the truth. She’d only just met Mr Reese but his predicament warranted she assist in his search in any manner possible.

He remained quiet a beat too long. Did he consider her offer with great intent or become lost in a remembrance of his precious son? Where had his mind darted? Another beat and his eyes caught hers with a keen interest she found mesmerizing, as if he worked to decipher her, unlock her resistance and steal the contents of her thoughts. When at last he spoke, his words shocked her to the core.

‘Yes, thank you, I accept your gracious offer. We’ll leave for London first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘London.’ She gasped, the two syllables strangling her throat. ‘I can’t go to London.’ Outrage, surprise, panic; all three rose in protestation to jade her objection in high pitch as she jumped from her chair, nearly upsetting the tea service in the process.

‘Wait, please, Miss Smith.’ His voice sounded a distant call amidst the ambient conversations at the other tables.

He rose as well but it was too late. Her heart hammered faster than her heels tapped retreat on the wooden floor, a hollow, jarring sound that echoed in her pulse and labelled her a coward. She couldn’t go to London. She’d run from London. Fled the horrid circumstances created by her foolish choices and naïve stupidity. No, London was out of the question and she was out the door.

She knew he would follow her, his cause more precious than hers, more desperate too. Mr Reese sought to find his child and, as it should be, would not take her refusal without a fight. Still, a shade of sadness accompanied the acknowledgement because she would not return to London. She couldn’t. Not ever.

Chapter Four

‘Wait.’ Luke managed to catch Miss Smith with little effort, his stride eating up the pavement and falling into pace beside her before he lost breath. ‘Please allow me to explain.’

‘There’s no need.’ She didn’t look at him. Gone was the congenial kindness and soft-spoken sincerity witnessed at the teahouse. Miss Smith appeared as scared as a hunted rabbit, dashing glances to the roadway and beyond to the horizon, her blue eyes alight with a wild gleam. From what did she run? Her hurried escape provided all the evidence needed to realize she feared something, some scandal or danger. Frightened to a degree that she would change her name and avoid a city of thousands.

He continued his pursuit though the puzzling reaction wouldn’t release his curiosity. He hardly knew the woman, yet some part of him worried for her predicament. She’d cared for Nate and shown kindness to his son. From what she’d mentioned, Nate enjoyed the time spent in her charge. At the least he owed her a little latitude in her unexpected reaction.

She scurried up the slates in front of her cottage, her hand at work inside her reticule for the key. He couldn’t allow her to enter without hearing him out. He needed to change her mind. He had to. It was his only hope. A lump formed in his throat and he swallowed hard, forcing it away. ‘Miss Smith, if you’ll listen a moment about London.’

Two paces from the front door she whirled in his direction, an immediate objection on her lips, but the motion, combined with her harried steps, caused the key to fall straight into the flowerbed beside the path. He leapt to recover it first, only meaning to hold it hostage long enough to gain her attention, but the lady bent twice as quickly and snatched the key along with a wayward flower stem. She inserted the key into the lock before he could stop her, because, aside from words, what other means did he have? He wouldn’t lay a hand on her person and dare frightening her further.

‘Miss Smith.’ He watched in dejected frustration as the door opened. ‘Georgina, please!’

‘No. I said no.’ She fairly shouted her refusal and pushed the door open, but in a blur of beige Biscuit shot across the threshold, the pug’s pernicious snarls startling Miss Smith as much as he. Who would expect such vigilant protection from the pint-sized pup?

‘Oh.’ She gasped. With less than a heartbeat’s length to react, she missed the opportunity to capture her pet and Biscuit bulleted forward at her valiant defence. Rocketing past her skirts, the dog emitted a ferocious growl and latched onto Reese’s trousers.

The scene might have appeared comical if so much weren’t at stake. Miss Smith struggled to free Biscuit from his offensive attack, her skirts an encumbrance as she crouched to reclaim the dog, but too soon she lost footing, her boot heel caught on the uneven edge of a broken slate. Already in an awkward position, she pitched towards the daisies, losing hold of the dog in the process. Luke shot out a hand to steady her, latching on to her arm to prevent the fall, but it proved no use. Caught in the vertiginous melee, Miss Smith teetered wildly, grasping his extended arm with her ungloved hands to hold tight.

With lightning reactions, Luke shook off Biscuit and twisted his body to absorb the impact as they fell to the ground into the flowerbed like two newly planted bulbs, him on his back and Miss Smith, Georgina, warm, wonderful Georgina, sprawled atop his chest.

Her exclamation of surprise mingled with his groan upon impact. Biscuit merely continued his incessant barking.

Clubs, spades, diamonds and hearts.

Georgina’s luscious curves blanketed his increasing hardness in a landing so pleasurable he might have found heaven. Her enticing breasts, lush and wonderful, pressed against his chest in curvy warmth and delicious invitation. The sensual conclusion, that she eschewed a corset, lit a hot flame of lust he could not deny. He knew firsthand every intimate item in a woman’s wardrobe and never had heat permeated through his shirt like in this moment, the lovely Miss Smith intimately atop him. Perhaps the proper governess was not so proper after all.

Their legs tangled in fabric and daisies, urging him to pay attention to sensation. How long had he gone without a woman? Life had taken a different path but he never denied himself company. His blood stirred. He hadn’t experienced any emotion beyond loss in so long he almost didn’t recognize it, but there it was, desire. With that identification, the sudden suggestion of a kiss rose to the forefront, demanding attention no matter how inappropriate. He eased his head from the flowers, daring a better view.

She still hadn’t raised her eyes and, as he glanced at the top of her head, her lopsided bun escaped its pins and a kaleidoscope of tresses begged for his fingers. He again caught the fragrance of apricots despite flowers surrounded him. The startling realization, that he would happily stay there indefinitely, awakened all sorts of marvellous ambiences and naughty thoughts. She sighed then, her generous bosom cosseted closer as if to nudge his attention and say who cares about hair, don’t forget about me. His hands curled around her shoulders, anxious to skim down her back or, more so, take down her dishevelled bun, unravel the lengths and wrap the silky strands tight in his fists. Need and want tore him down the middle. Hell, what was he thinking?

The blasted dog continued his harangue and, with a little oomph, Miss Smith attempted to rise and correct the embarrassing situation. She lifted her head and matched his gaze directly. Her eyes, brilliant blue, searched his face as a soft breeze caught a wayward strand of hair and raised it in a dance to float between them like so many intimate suggestions. He inhaled sharply and cleared his throat, hoping to vanquish the fast and furious sinful images fighting for attention inside his brain.

Mortification. Mor-ti-fi-ca-tion. Georgina was horrified. Inhaling a deep breath, she angled her head to find Mr Reese, Luke, staring at her with a question in his eyes.

‘Oh dear.’ Her voice sounded breathy. Perhaps she’d knocked the wind from her lungs. She attempted to wriggle free of his hold, for his arm encircled her back, lashing them together in an embrace both protective and warm. She heard him groan with her movement. Was she too heavy? The hard, masculine body beneath her suggested he could support her cottage without effort. Perhaps he’d become injured in the fall. She doubted it. His rugged virility insisted his hurts were inside, unsusceptible to common injury.

She watched as his eyes moved over her face and settled on her mouth where his attention hovered for what seemed like forever. What to say? She poked her tongue out to wet her lips. ‘I should get up.’

He released a low, impatient growl that reminded her of Biscuit. The short-muzzled pug seemingly sensed the same as he continued a harsh diatribe in objection to their position. Botheration, how long had she laid atop Mr Reese? She would need a minute to reason that answer out. Sadly, Biscuit proved not nearly as patient and, before Georgina could gather her wits and regain her footing, the pug barked one last protestation and sank his sharp white teeth into Mr Reese’s forearm.

‘Bloody mongrel.’

‘Oh dear.’ Georgina scooted off Mr Reese as he raised his arm with alarming speed. She stood and, after a hard shake of her skirts to regain mobility, nabbed Biscuit, deposited him in the gated yard and returned to the front of the cottage to find Mr Reese with his palm pressed over his left forearm, his expression thunderous.

‘Come inside at once.’ She pushed the door open and moved to the side, anxious to get to the kitchen where she could collect water and bandages, everything needed to clean and dress his wound. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve never seen Biscuit behave so aggressively. I don’t understand. He’s such a friendly little dog.’

‘His mouth’s not so little.’

After that mutter, Mr Reese followed quietly, though his face screamed a variety of responses. They entered the kitchen and it was he who examined her from top to bottom. She couldn’t make heads or tails of what he might consider at the moment. His wound could only hurt like the devil.

‘Please sit down.’ She indicated a chair at the kitchen table and stepped to the sink to gather clean cloths, a bowl of water and small jar of honey. ‘When Biscuit was a puppy he sank his teeth into me a few times and I quickly learned the best dressing.’ He still hadn’t spoken and she wondered if his silence was due to the pain of the bite or an increase in anger.

She breathed a bit easier when at last he pulled out a chair and rested his left arm on the tablecloth. He set to work rolling his shirtsleeve, the exposed skin below red and angry, though she couldn’t help admire the hard muscle flexed in wait of her attention nor the sheen of raven-black hair dusted over smooth, sun-bronzed skin. As she’d suspected earlier, he wore a silver ring on his thumb, though no other rings adorned his fingers. It was a strange accessory, though she could not deny it intrigued her. Suddenly aware of the silence, she rushed out a few words.

‘Biscuit is a healthy dog. I doubt there will be any adverse complications. I’m truly sorry this happened.’ At a loss to say more she advanced to the table and leaned forward to examine his arm more closely. ‘May I clean and bandage the wound, Mr Reese?’

‘At this point I must insist you call me Luke.’ He exhaled, from frustration or another reason she could not know.

‘Well then, Luke. Let’s begin.’ She dipped the cloth into the bowl of water and washed over the swollen area. It no longer bled and, once cleaned, proved smaller and not as deep as she’d originally suspected. Perhaps because his arm was all carved muscle and virile strength. Biscuit might have chipped a tooth. Good heavens, was he this hard all over his body? The mental question shocked and her eyes flared at the meanderings of her thoughts. Colour heated her cheeks and she dropped her attention, her gaze lingering on his silver thumb ring before she forced herself to focus. ‘This shouldn’t hurt overmuch.’

‘Flesh wounds rarely do.’

Well, that was telling. The man carried a broken heart over the loss of his child. She swallowed emotion for his pain, but really, what could she ever say in reply? Realizing he perceived her reaction as concern, she attempted to ease his discomfort and set to cleaning out the puncture marks.

‘So, how long have you lived in Coventry?’

The innocuous question put her on immediate alert. ‘Not long.’ She wet another cloth and wiped away the faint smears of blood on his skin. She rather liked smoothing the cloth across his muscle. For some irrational reason, she experienced a captivating sensation inside instead of the other way around. Most likely she hadn’t calmed yet from the ridiculous series of events at the front door. Otherwise there was no way to explain how her composure seemed to quiver, for lack of a better word. ‘It’s a pleasant community.’ She glanced to where he watched her, his silver-eyed scrutiny breathtaking in the slanted light from the kitchen window. She leaned a little closer to examine her work. He leaned a little closer too. Did he not trust her to tend his wound?

The air prickled around them as if it asked for something, but she knew not what that could be.

‘You must find life here very different than London.’

The man was single-minded, but how could she blame him? He sought his stolen son. She dropped the cloth to the table and lifted the lid on the honey jar, only to pause in hesitation. How ironic that here, in Coventry, she, a single woman, sat with a bachelor man in her kitchen, a bastard as he’d proclaimed at the tearoom, with his shirtsleeve rolled as she prepared to coat his bare skin with honey, a forbidden thrill shimmying through her. While in London under the scrutiny of the ton, she would have been the biggest scandal of the season, ruined, and victim of the cut direct for merely speaking to a gentleman without a proper introduction. Never mind the honey.

‘I don’t miss London.’ She dipped her fingertip into the jar, inexplicably excited and at the same time distracted in her reply.

‘So, you’ve visited.’

She met his eyes and he looked intense, the dove-grey depth of his irises darker than before. ‘I prefer Coventry. That’s all I meant to imply.’ She needed to collect her thoughts before she lost control of her tongue. Thank heavens he’d never noticed she wore only a chemise and short stays. What kind of woman would he think her to be? A proper governess would keep her chastity secure.

‘London is only two days’ ride. You could accompany me there and be returned within a week. Of course, I would pay all expenses. I could rent a carriage for you and then, after you speak to Viscount Dursley on my behalf, you’d be free to visit with anyone you know in the city before returning to Coventry. All without cost to you. Just an investment of time. Why, I’ll even take you to The Underworld if you prefer an adventure.’ He paused before further presenting his plea. ‘I realize you have responsibilities here and earn your living in Coventry. I would generously reimburse you for any wages lost due to my imposition.’ He paused, his eyes narrowed as if unsure to continue or perhaps deliberating his next words with care. ‘I need your help.’

His admission tempted for all the right reasons and set her heartbeat into an anxious gallop for all the wrong ones. She’d like to assist him. She cared about Nate and his welfare, but she could not return to London. How could she help him understand without appearing selfish, or worse, hardhearted? Luke had known so much sorrow in his life. Her stomach twisted with the struggle of her decision. Why was it her life became increasingly more complicated at every turn? Any logical governess would not turn down the promise of wages. She had no need for the money, but the person she presented to the world would eagerly wish for the funds.

She dabbed a bit of honey across the wound, her cheeks hot with the intimate gesture, quick to cover the wound with clean bandages and secure the gauzy cotton bandage. She watched as he unfolded his shirtsleeve, covering all that hard, smooth flesh, much to her regret.

‘Thank you.’ He inhaled deeply as he fastened his cuff. ‘I smell apricots.’ His eyes scanned the baskets on the kitchen counter. ‘You smell like apricots.’

Her face warmed further as she confessed. ‘It’s my soap, French-milled. An indulgent luxury here in the country.’ Despite her best efforts, conversation with Luke prompted her to reveal more than she would ordinarily. Just like Biscuit’s insult, she had the unnerving feeling her words would come back to bite her.

‘An indulgence indeed.’ His tease fed on her hidden fear, that he’d fast realize a provincial governess would not have the funds or the means to special order French-milled soap. She needed to change the subject. ‘You might appeal to the law. Will a court not listen to your complaint against Viscount Dursley? Perhaps an investigator or hired man could assist in the search.’

Chapter Five

Again, Luke was filled with the desire to grasp Georgina’s shoulders and shake her into compliance. He needed her to travel to London. He needed to touch her. Perhaps grabbing her shoulders would lead to no good, a kiss more than coercion. Or a kiss as a form of coercion.

Sitting at her kitchen table while she ministered to his wound, her nimble fingers gentle with each purposeful caress, caused an empty well to fill within his soul. There was no other way to explain it. And, too, he still hadn’t forgotten the press of her lush breasts against his body, the sweet fragrance of apricots. A modest governess who indulged in imported soap? Did she favour silk underthings too?

Her neckline revealed a tempting half circle of creamy flesh flushed to a rosy glow by the unlikely events leading to his place in her kitchen, but he had no trouble envisioning what lay beneath. Full, luscious breasts, their silky tips dusky and hard as he teased the tender peaks and nipped her delicious skin. The promise of one taste of her breasts would cause a man to sell his soul to the Devil. He adjusted his position on the chair just as she turned to put away the honey… oh, and the honey. Damn if he couldn’t think of a hundred uses for that. Damn if Georgina wasn’t the most beddable governess he’d ever imagined. If he needed to resort to seduction…

He banished his lustful fantasies, pushing them aside for what remained most important. He needed to find Nathaniel. Still, after decades on the street and involvement at the hell, caution never proved his strong suit. ‘Your suggestions are well meant but will prove of no use. I’ve exhausted every resource at my disposal. The most powerful weapon is a credible and impartial stranger to support my claim. That’s why you need to come to London.’

‘I don’t even know you.’ Her words were cautious at best.

‘But you know my problem.’ Nathaniel. I’m so sorry, Nate. ‘I must find my son and you’re the only person who can help.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

She came to sit at the table, a personal portrait of simple country living. Two adults discussing their plans for the immediate future. How different life proceeded away from the city. It reminded of a time long ago when he first learned he would be a father, the grave parallel of the two scenes uncanny.

‘I hope so. I need your help.’ He winced as he moved his arm on the table. He wasn’t above evoking a bit of guilt if it accomplished his goal, though the words didn’t come easily. ‘With your testimony, it would be difficult for a magistrate to ignore my claim.’ In truth, he wondered if that hypothesis held true, but faced with no other leads, it offered a promising path to pursue. Mayhap he could confront Dursley with Georgina at his side, although he would never wish to do anything to upset her or place the governess in harm’s way. She deserved better. Scandal wouldn’t reach her out here hidden in the countryside, but that didn’t mean he would exploit her generosity were she to decide to help. And he would convince her.

He would make true his invitation to show her The Underworld. Introduce her to Cole and Sinclair. A stroke of pride squared his shoulders as he viewed her now. She remained quiet so he turned the conversation in an attempt to learn more about her. ‘Do you enjoy working as a governess? I’ll confess I was never one for schooling.’ At least not the kind involving books.

‘I do.’ Her mouth lifted in a pleasant smile. ‘What is it you do at this gaming hell?’

‘Whatever needs to be done. Numbers, business, money, it all runs together. I manage operations within the establishment with two partners. It’s a popular distraction for the ton.’ His voice rang with confidence and rightly so.

‘That sounds dangerous, although I admit I’m intrigued.’ Her eyes were bright, as clear and blue as a summer sky. ‘Where is it located?’

‘Eleven Bond Street, West End.’

‘Near St James Square then?’

Click.

The conversation had become casual and surely Georgina didn’t realize her mistake. No country governess would know the landmark locations of London streets without an intimate knowledge of the city. The lovely lady hid something, most definitely.

‘Yes.’ He wouldn’t elaborate or point out her error, not wishing to destroy the fragile trust. ‘I would be happy to escort you there were you to come to London. It’s not a place women are allowed to frequent and would present a rare opportunity for someone interested in learning new things.’

She hemmed her bottom lip and he couldn’t help but focus on the erotic habit. He’d never kissed a governess. Better sense intruded to poke holes in his logic and remind the latter part of that sentence could be completed a plethora of ways. He’d never kissed a fishmonger, never kissed a debutante or duchess or dowager, but he wouldn’t waste time with the mental game. A more enticing proposition took root. Would a kiss convince her to make the two-day journey? Hell and the devil, he’d known his kisses to convince women to do a lot more than that.

He inhaled again, savouring her light, fresh fragrance, and leaned entirely too close to her person. So close, their breath mingled. He noticed her eyes darted to his mouth and then up again. For a tiny, breathless moment, he thought she might say something, but she remained silent like he, almost as if they waited each other out, a draw of equalled bluff he’d witnessed dozens of times on the gaming-hell floor. Who would fold first? Who would raise the stakes and what did it mean?

Georgina paused, her breath tight in her lungs. Luke had leaned across the narrow table, his eyes on her lips and her most copious wish in that moment was that he’d kiss her. Repercussions or ramifications beyond that singular idea escaped better sense. How would his mouth feel against hers? She still burned with memory of her body atop his. How would intentional touching feel? The only kiss she’d received made her want to scrub her mouth afterward, but she slammed the door on that unwanted memory faster than it could materialize, disallowing it to intrude and ruin the moment.

Luke’s kiss promised unfathomable pleasure. Of that she was certain.

Now, his eyes glinted silver, daring her in a dozen wicked ways, suggesting things and evoking desire with nothing more than a glance. His lashes, long and dark, lowered as if he considered the exact same idea.

Absorbed in the frisson of energy that ricocheted between them, she didn’t notice Biscuit’s howling protest and the scratch of his frantic bid to enter until Luke pulled back and cleared his throat.

‘Oh, Biscuit.’ She gave a vigorous shake of the head as if that alone would dispatch the romantic haze from her brain as she hurried to the back door. By the time she’d filled the pug’s water bowl and he lapped at his refreshment, Luke appeared ready to take his leave.

‘Thank you, Georgina.’

She startled the smallest degree, hearing her name in his voice. ‘My apologies again on behalf of my dog.’ She eyed the pug, who now reclined in a sated, furry heap on the kitchen floor. ‘I can only surmise he feared for my safety.’

‘Foolish, that. Let’s not dwell on it.’ He smiled, that dimple at work to weaken her knees. ‘Before I leave, perhaps you can recommend a restaurant for my dinner this evening. The inn doesn’t have a formal dining room and I do my best healing on a full stomach.’ His eyes twinkled with the reference to the bite wound.

‘There’s only one pub aside from the teahouse. Sadly, the food there is not very good. I’ve taken to teaching myself to cook. The market has an excellent assortment of meat and produce and the butcher has a mind to save the finer cuts for me. Tonight, I’m preparing partridge with blackberry sauce and fresh artichokes.’ She hiked her chin higher, proud of her accomplishment in conquering the detailed recipes in the culinary volume she’d purchased at the bookstore. Life in Coventry had necessitated she develop a more domestic side to her repertoire of skills.

‘Thank you, I accept.’ He smiled, wider this time and she couldn’t help but feel she may have been bamboozled, made victim by a sharper and his shrewd swindle. ‘What time shall I return?’

She couldn’t in good conscience refuse him. Her dog had bitten his arm, and too, Coventry’s sole restaurant was dreadful. And while she guarded her privacy, one dinner could not hurt, could it? A ridiculous swirl of anticipation tingled down her spine and she moved to open the door and expend the invigorating energy. ‘Six o’clock will do nicely.’

Luke walked towards town with an amused smile despite his arm throbbed from Biscuit’s attack. He refused to feel one iota of guilt at having duped the beguiling governess into preparing his dinner. It offered yet another opportunity to convince her she needed to accompany him to London and at the same time lead him to discover if she smelled like apricots everywhere.

He’d spend the time in between writing a message to Cole in which he explained beyond the curt sentences he’d offered his partners before leaving for Coventry, to warn against a chance of repercussions. An appraisal of Dursley’s reaction to the theft was in order if word circulated, for the man dared frequent The Underworld. In all circumstances, information was scarce.

Luke had hired investigators in the past but mayhap Georgina’s idea held worth. It couldn’t hurt to approach a private runner to poke around in things now he possessed Dursley’s journal. If only he’d known about the book months ago. He would stop at nothing until he recovered Nathaniel. For the life of him he couldn’t imagine what Dursley meant to gain.

Thinking back at the confrontation immediately after the day Nate was taken, his half-brother’s behaviour proved disdainful, argumentative and imperious. Had Luke not been beside himself with broken emotion, he might have beaten Dursley to a pulp for no other reason than to expend his enraged helplessness. Dursley denied any involvement, quick to suggest Luke had become negligent or worse, had tired of fatherhood and, anxious to rid himself of the burden, engaged in suspicious methods.

The young girl Luke had paid to watch over Nate identified Dursley without a doubt, but when Luke visited her home the following afternoon, the maid had vanished, disappeared into London’s population, another frightened runaway. Another Smith. Whether she fled of her own volition or was encouraged, threatened by Dursley, Luke would never know and it no longer mattered. Recovering his son consumed his purpose.

Since that time he’d worked at the hell, continued on with life, even entertained a lady or two, but his heart and soul remained in a vault, devoted to his son until the day he brought Nate home again. Everything else served as perfunctory repetition and mere distraction.

This afternoon he would take Snake Eyes for a run and expend their redundant restlessness before he bathed and dressed for dinner. Should he bring a gift to the lovely governess? Flowers or sweets? Something clever to curry her compliance. He had no idea what she favoured but he’d soon find out.

Dinner smelled divine. The table was set with neatly pressed linen, the curtains drawn and Biscuit well fed, shut away in another room to guarantee he would not cause another troubling episode. Earlier, when Georgina had examined her wardrobe and chosen the amber gown, the best she owned here in Coventry, she’d almost decided to leave her hair down, her tresses often regarded by her friends as her loveliest feature. But in a belated judgement, she’d arranged the thick lengths into an attractive twist and pinned it up in keeping with her portrayal of a prim governess. This wasn’t a romantic liaison by any means, not a suitor come to call. It was an act of hospitality and gesture of kindness, and she’d be smart to remember Mr Reese, Luke, had one goal in mind.

Chastising herself for the romantic inclination, she recalled the contents of the letter to her parents she’d written earlier, the note long overdue. In two paragraphs, she assured them of her safety while concealing her location. She’d held back from writing sooner, afraid she’d weaken and return home, but now, distanced from the devastating emotions of that fateful day, she believed her decision for the best.

Coventry offered privacy and the quietude needed to sort out her future. She couldn’t go to London. London would be the cause of heartache and shame. Someday she’d return. She loved her family too much not to see them again, but at the present, someday offered the ideal amount of vagueness her spirit required.

Recalling London brought with it the stricture of society so unlike Coventry. Her parents held tight to public opinion and tradition. She’d be ruined were it discovered she’d cooked a meal and entertained a bachelor unchaperoned in her home. A clever bachelor gaming-hell proprietor, no less.

Still, a now-familiar pattern of guilt and remorse demanded she acknowledge the lifestyle she’d abandoned, her mind all too quick to flutter through a series of memories, whether elegant evening dinner parties or afternoon social calls. Her parents relished their social status afforded by relation to a peer of the realm. This truth in large part had fomented her decision to flee London and preserve their pristine reputation.

As if in challenge to her woolgathering, a sturdy knock sounded at the door. She glanced at the wood box clock on the sideboard table. Luke was punctual if nothing else. Coasting her palms over her gown, she touched a hand to her hair to summon composure and opened the door to greet him.

‘Hello.’ A bubble of anticipation danced in her chest. Forget punctual, Luke was devastatingly handsome. Framed within the threshold, the sun fading at his back, he depicted a sinful rogue, his face shadowed into sharp angles and lean lines. Black hair, glossed by reflected light, was combed away from his face to fall in a too-long lock on one side. His grey eyes sparkled with the electric glint of late-night stars, fleeting, white-hot, and dangerous, yet enthralling all the same. He smiled then, and her breath caught. That dimple would be the death of her.

‘For you.’

He handed a bouquet forward, every colour of peony tied together with a white satin ribbon and she couldn’t resist a tease. ‘You didn’t steal these from someone’s garden, did you?’

‘And run the risk of further canine catastrophe? Never.’ He stepped into her cottage and the evening suddenly became so much more than a gesture of hospitality. A giddy palpitation slinked through her ribcage, tickling her bones one at a time until it came to rest like a warm hug around her heart.

‘Something smells delicious.’ One dark brow slashed upward and he eyed the room with speculative interest before he continued. ‘You’ve caged the beast?’

‘Yes.’ She laughed, all at once aware of how secluded she’d kept herself. Oh, it was heavenly to have company. His company. Best she enjoy it this evening and not delude her heart it was an event to be repeated. ‘Dinner should be ready in a minute.’ She bustled about the kitchen placing the flowers on the table in a vase filled with water. Perfect. ‘You can pour the wine if you’d like.’

She glanced over her shoulder and then turned towards the wood-burning stove to conceal her delight. It seemed natural, right, or maybe she was so accustomed to spending time alone, anyone’s company brought with it appreciation. She didn’t trouble herself with the riddle. Opening the stove, heat struck her face and forced her focus. She removed the pan and placed it on the cast-iron trivet to cool.

‘I can help.’ He appeared behind her, so close his breath against her cheek caused a startle. She swallowed and twisted to face him, half expecting him to step away and simultaneously hoping he wouldn’t. She’d shut the stove but the kitchen blazed like an inferno. Her body heated from the inside out.

His gaze roved over her face slowly, studying her with intensity. ‘Do you always keep your hair tucked away and hidden like that?’

She licked her lips to get her mouth working again. ‘The length is too long to leave down. It would forever be in my way.’ She darted a glance beyond his shoulder to the table, unsure and at the same time drawn towards his heat. ‘We should begin before something gets cold.’ No chance of that.

‘Yes. Another good idea.’

Luke stepped to the side and allowed Georgina to lead. What was he thinking? He could only blame a sudden irrational addiction to the scent of apricots, otherwise the manner in which he sidled up to her near the kitchen counter was worthy of a slap or, at the least, another bite from Biscuit. Still, even now, as they chatted amiably through dinner, the governess was hard to resist. His fingers itched to pull the pins from her hair and discover how far the length fell down her back, her admittance a teasing dare that would not relent. And no matter the meal was delicious, he wondered at the taste of her kiss, and the ever-present question, if she smelled like sweetness all over, pestered his body into a state of randy desire.

He watched as she caught a drop of blackberry on her bottom lip, her tongue coasting over the sauce in a becoming curl that seemed to signal and invite him to lean across the table and taste the fruit right along with her. He’d need to rein himself in or he’d never be able to rise from the table without displaying the rise in his trousers.

‘So, do you have a large family?’ Mayhap a bit of jejune conversation would obliterate his overactive imagination. It couldn’t hurt to force a mundane topic.

She placed her fork on the plate rim and took a swallow of wine while the question hovered between them. ‘I have one sister and two loving parents.’

The answer was hard-earned and again he suspected she meant to hide things others would discuss without thought, her tight-lipped demeanour not at all as she appeared only moments before.

‘And you?’ she asked, though he could tell her mood had altered. Why would that be?

‘I’m afraid we don’t share that in common. I’m bastard born, no true family to speak of, no older brother or vexing younger sister, at least none I know of or who have come calling. Dursley may share a modicum of blood, but I could never consider him a relation. Our father died decades ago leaving nothing but bitterness behind.’ He inhaled, setting his silverware down on the table with deliberate care. ‘Nate is all I have. My son is everything. That’s one reason I need to find him, but if we had endless time I would tell you hundreds more.’

A solemn silence enveloped the room and he regretted the loss of their amiable discussion.

‘I understand.’ She placed her hand atop his in what might be a gesture of comfort and, even though Biscuit remained behind closed doors, a bark sounded in objection. And then a question slipped from her lips. ‘What happened?’

He stared down to where she rested her hand atop his before he continued, expressionless and matter-of-factly. ‘I’ll make short work of the story since you have no idea of the history, but it should suffice to know my half-brother had me watched, calculated my profits from the hell and decided that, when he fell into debt, he should help himself to my money. I refused. I mean, this was the same man who shunned Nathaniel and I when we arrived in London. He had no use for a bastard half-brother, at least not until he measured my worth in coin.

‘Anyway, I returned home one day to find Nate’s governess in tears. The silly cow had stayed in one spot and cried for hours, too scared to notify me at the hell and reveal Nate was stolen. All that precious time wasted. She described a man who resembled my half-brother as the person who came and took Nate away, but she vanished right after, leaving me with nothing but regret. Every avenue of pursuit has been exhausted twice over. My half-brother carries on his life like nothing ever happened. It makes little sense.’

‘You shouldn’t blame yourself.’ She spoke softly. Akin to most people, she likely wondered if anything she said could ease his suffering or if his show of strength would obliterate true emotion.

‘I promised him a puppy, one that doesn’t bite.’ He flashed a half-smile in her direction. ‘Just two days before he was taken I relented to his constant request for a scallywag friend.’ Hopefully the anecdote would relieve the earnest mood.

‘You’ll find him. I’m quite sure.’

‘And you’ll help, won’t you?’ He’d spoken about Nathaniel with sincerity, but now she’d supplied the fortuity to enlist her assistance, he wouldn’t waste the chance. He turned his palm over so he could loosely lace their fingers. Her skin was soft and warm. He stroked his thumb across the back of her hand. If he lifted it to his lips, would he smell apricots or blackberry?

‘Please know I’ve given it serious thought, but it’s not the right decision for me at this time. Who would take care of Biscuit? I couldn’t bring him along on the two days’ ride. Everyone would be miserable. I suspect you most of all.’ She tried a tentative smile and he lost his ready reply, though she didn’t pull her hand away.

‘I assumed the pug was self-reliant. Certainly, there’s someone in this frowsy nowhere town who would watch the darling while you take a short trip.’ He stood, reluctant to release her hand and at the same time intent on persuasion. He carried his plate to the sink, more out of habit than conscious thought. ‘A recent charge might enjoy the task or a kind neighbour? The vicar? There must be someone with thick skin in Coventry who would grant you the favour.’

She tried not to acknowledge his teasing and he could tell when she lost that battle.

‘I have other considerations. Your suggestion I leave unexpectedly reminds me of Lord Tucker and my responsibility to him.’ She stood now too.

He waited, eyebrows raised in question. She answered in less time than he expected.

‘Lord Tucker returns later this week and will require my services.’

The vague explanation had only one brow dropping.

‘His son is my charge.’ The words brought with them an awkward stretch. ‘I’m so sorry. I know it must be difficult to hear me speak of a similar situation.’

The last thing he desired was for Georgina to feel responsible. Pity was the most reprehensible sentiment, one for which he’d never had use.

‘How is your arm?’ Her eyes flared wide. ‘I should have asked you sooner.’ She shook her head in disapproval and admonishment before she stepped closer.

‘Sore.’ Much like the situation in my pants. He adjusted his stance, unwilling to allow the night to take a wrong turn and at the same time pressing his cause despite she attempted to change the subject. ‘Come with me to London. I need your help and won’t keep you there a day longer than necessary. You’ll be returned to Coventry before this Lord Tucker is any smarter. You have my word.’

Chapter Six

His word? Georgina stared into Luke’s intense gaze. She would have promised him anything in that moment, but not this. Not London. She couldn’t expound or supply the reason. Still, he must believe her a despicable wretch to refuse. He sought to find his son and she declined to assist. She despised herself. ‘It’s complicated.’

She dropped her eyes, unwilling to create the everlasting memory of his angered disapproval. But instead of railing at her or pleading his case further, he closed the distance between them and stroked his fingertip across her cheek.

She stared at him intently, noticing too closely the dark smudges beneath his eyes and strained creases that bracketed his strong jaw. It seemed that, just below the appearance he showed to the world, a tense tremor of emotion existed, and she wasn’t sure of what nature to label it. Still, in the glorious grey depths of his irises there was an acute tenderness, whether he meant to expose the quality or not.

‘What keeps you here, Georgina?’ His voice was a husky rasp that slid across the back of her neck like a velvet caress. ‘Surely even a prim governess, one as beautiful and desirable as you, thirsts for a bit of adventure now and again.’

The rich timbre of his question caused gooseflesh to dot her skin and it all at once became too much, the masculine scent of his nearness, the heat of his skin and undeniable plea in the depth of his eyes. He leaned a hair’s-breadth closer, his exhale sweeping across her temple and, for the tiniest breathless moment, she thought he might kiss her.

How she wanted that kiss. To exchange one memory for another more pleasurable one.

‘What is it that holds you back from taking a little time to help find a child?’

Tears stung her lids. His whispered query, frayed by emotion, touched her soul and yet she clung to fear. What if she returned to London and everything went wrong? She hated herself for making a selfish choice. The air between them vibrated with tension and anticipation. He waited on her answer and she quaked, anguished by the words on her tongue.

‘No more questions.’ As she whispered her response, she saw him swallow, her eyes following the movement of his Adam’s apple. They stood together, the coiled heat of desire pulling them closer while the answer to one singular question forced them apart. But she couldn’t acquiesce and destroy her family’s future in the process, simply because she yearned to experience his tempting kiss.

‘Just one more.’ He angled his chin, lowered his mouth and time slowed as if she watched from the soffit, a voyeur of her own forbidden desires, his lips upon hers, his plea, her promise, his luscious, beautiful mouth fitted over hers…

‘I can’t go with you.’ The words slipped out, barely able to fill the space between them before he pulled away and separated them with a black curse.

‘Not can’t. Won’t. You won’t.’ He thrust his fingers through his hair, spoiling his neat appearance with perfunctory efficiency, his tone now sharp as a razor’s edge. ‘There’s a world of difference between the two.’ His words sliced the air with undisguised anger and his eyes flashed dangerously.

‘You were going to kiss me to convince me.’ Her voice trembled though there was no mistaking the incredulous shock in her accusation. ‘That is the work of a scoundrel, a scapegrace.’ She was hot now too, but it had nothing to do with her anticipation of his kiss or the heated temperature in the kitchen, absolutely nothing to do with his devastatingly handsome disarray. No, insult fuelled her temper instead. Indignation reared up to trample disappointment and the foolish incrimination she’d practically disregarded her principles. ‘Did you think me a lonely spinster, desperate for attention and willing to compromise my decision with the first touch of your mouth on mine?’ Her face warmed with the picture drawn by the words but she continued, her emotions dismantled, a runaway carriage wheel, wobbly, off course, and out of control. ‘How dare you? I demand you go.’

‘Don’t bother throwing me out.’ He strode towards the front door. ‘I’m already leaving.’

‘Good. Leave.’ She sounded a petulant child, or worse, a peevish shrew. ‘And don’t come back.’

She doubted he heard her last declaration, the slam of the door punctuating their argument effectively. Locked in another room, Biscuit barked his approval.

‘Where is he?’ Jonathan Wraxall, Viscount Dursley, stormed across the hell floor to the corner where Cole Hewitt and Maxwell Sinclair, proprietors of the exclusive gambling establishment, loitered in conversation and assessment of the night’s activities. ‘Where’s my bastard brother? I need to see him now.’

‘Not here, Dursley.’ Cole hardly spared him a glance before he flicked his dismissive attention from the mottled-faced aristocrat to the piquet table.

‘Something wrong?’ Max offered the man a bemused smile. ‘Out of funds? I can arrange for an extension of credit.’

‘You know what I’m talking about. I’m here to see Reese.’ Dursley, a prig of a corpulent peer who’d allowed himself to go soft through the middle, huffed a breath, impatient in the assumption his bluster would gain him the result desired.

‘Can’t help you then.’ Cole took a step forward, bored with the conversation and anxious to be done with Dursley the same way one swatted a pestering gnat. ‘I’ll let Luke know you stopped by once he returns.’

‘He stole something of mine.’

A bit of spittle accompanied the angered statement and Cole slanted left to avoid the spray.

‘Then that settles the score, doesn’t it?’ Cole continued his journey across the floor, greeting the regulars in disregard of the viscount, who padded after him in full-blown fury, anxious to cause a scene that might better his advantage.

Cole ignored him. The card tables were busy. Good. Liquor was flowing. Excellent.

‘What does that mean? What has Reese told you?’ Dursley raised his voice and garnered further attention. ‘I’m talking to you, Hewitt. Look here.’

Cole had heard enough. He whirled on the viscount, collecting the man’s lapels in both fists and gingerly moving him backwards towards the door. Dursley’s feet failed to find purchase on the carpet. ‘No, you look. You’re not welcome here. We strive to keep the worst element outside these walls. You’re not fit for The Underworld.’ Releasing the man’s coat, he shoved Dursley at the exit and, with a sharp hitch of his chin, signalled two men waiting for the anxious opportunity to flex muscle and exert their strength.

Cole brushed his palms together, the symbolic motion figurative and literal. He would have liked nothing more than to wash his hands of Dursley, but until Luke returned his son home safely, he’d tolerate the man as best he could.

Life in Coventry proved lovely. An early-morning shower had laced Georgina’s cottage with an iridescent sheen and kissed the flowers along the slated walkway with a glimmer of dewdrop. There was no reason to leave the idyllic setting for the horrid reality in London. Coventry was very fine indeed.

Even now, as she walked towards the town centre, past sprawling fields of clover and alfalfa-blanketed countryside, the crisp, blue sky above and Biscuit at her heels, she couldn’t imagine a more peaceful respite. Homes, farms and fields spanned in pockets as far as the eye could see. If she forced her eyes to the horizon and stuffed unfinished emotion and contradiction farther down into her soul, she could live some resemblance of a pleasant life here.

With her reticule looped on her arm and the letter to her parents clutched in her hand, she strode towards town intent on posting her message and forgetting her abominable behaviour from the night before. With a Herculean effort to absorb the tranquil landscape, Luke almost escaped her notice, but there he was, keeping pace with her on the opposite side of the roadway almost as if he’d watched her house in wait of her departure and now stalked from fifty yards. Which, most likely, was exactly what he’d done.

He needed to find his son. She would have taken the same course of action.

She glanced in his direction a second time and could only have unwittingly encouraged his interaction because the detestable man crossed the roadway before she could object.

‘Off to send a letter?’ He didn’t bother with the good morning that would have composed a civil, obligatory greeting.

She noticed a similar missive in his hand. Could they both intend to visit the post this morning? It seemed an odd coincidence.

‘Leave me alone.’ A strict catalogue of indoctrinated manners forced her to gentle the request. ‘Please.’

‘Now why would I do that?’ He fell in stride as if she’d invited him to stroll.

‘I shall scream if you insist on badgering me this morning.’ The threat hardly sounded propitious.

‘No, you won’t.’ Sarcasm, mockery, or some equally rude emotion danced in his eyes. ‘You don’t wish to be noticed any more than I do.’

She scoffed, unable to argue with his logic. ‘Are you writing to Viscount Dursley?’ There was no need to mince words. Biscuit already objected to Luke’s company. Best to carry on in a pleasant fashion in hope the pug would cease his complaints.

‘Are you?’ His steely grey eyes, the same ones which had heated her to the core last evening, glinted with cold regard in the slanted sunlight.

‘Of course not.’ Did he think her in collusion with his half-brother, the same man who’d abducted Nate? Botheration, that insult trumped any offence which came before. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’

Her remark may have touched a nerve. His expression softened a notch.

‘You’re right, it was.’ He swallowed audibly, the taste of contrite remorse apparently a new flavour on his tongue. ‘Accept my apology.’

‘For your rude insinuation?’ She wouldn’t let him off the hook so easily.

‘For a number of things. Thank you for a delicious dinner and kind conversation.’ He paused. ‘It was wrong of me to try to kiss you…’

Pity you have regret when nothing has ever felt so right.

‘…And pressure you to come to London. You should know the two were unrelated, isolated actions.’

She purposely viewed him with an expression that questioned whether or not he was stupid? Biscuit growled as if on cue.

‘Why doesn’t your dog…?’ He shot a suspicious glance downwards.

‘Like you?’ She readily supplied the words.

‘I suppose. He’s already had the last word and I’ve the puncture wounds to prove it.’

She quirked the smallest smile. ‘Biscuit is normally a cheerful pup and has never shown poor behaviour before.’ She eyed the dog where he wandered a few paces before them. ‘I can only surmise he reacts to my caution. He is protective and loyal above all else.’

Loyal? Infinitely so. The pudgy pug possessed the tenacity of a lion. Luke had told himself to surveil the cottage from afar and merely observe what the good governess was up to this morning, but for some reason he could not yet identify, he’d moved across the street and fallen into stride as if a glutton for further punishment. And too, he’d noticed she’d left her hair unbound, the glorious sheen of mahogany tresses well past her waist. He’d clenched his fists with the desire to thread his fingers through it, measure its weight, hold the silky strands against his mouth for a kiss. Would her hair smell like apricots this morning?

Damn, if the governess didn’t cause him to feel things, inconvenient emotions when he most needed to be clearheaded. He had one purpose for pursuing Miss Smith and he didn’t need to muddle the issue with sexual impulse.

And while he’d convinced himself the paper in her hand was likely a shopping list for ingredients to another scrumptious meal, the illogical suggestion it could be a warning sent to Dursley would not abate. Therefore, he rationalized a conversation was in order.

She did not appear to appreciate his company this morning and he couldn’t blame her. Last night hadn’t proceeded as planned. Her words this morning might be tart, but whenever his gaze settled on her pink, cupid’s-bow mouth, which was fairly often, he regretted leaving last night without a taste. Damn, if he didn’t detect the lovely fragrance of her fancy soap or notice the soft blush of colour tinting her cheeks as she spurned his attention.

Clubs, spades, diamonds, hearts.

He needed to pull his thoughts together. He’d striven to feel nothing for so long, but now, with the anticipation of recovering Nate and the misplaced interest he found in Miss Smith, his composure was at odds.

‘I’m for the post.’ He waved the paper in his hand to illustrate his explanation, not at all like a white flag of surrender.

‘Yes, we’ve discussed that.’

Oh, she was in full governess form this morning, speaking to him like he was a child and piercing him with an intense blue gaze that evoked the kind of feelings that reminded he was anything but.

They’d reached the centre of town and he followed her lead across the main thoroughfare and beyond to the postmaster where they conducted their business in silence. And though he strove to hear the soft-spoken conversation she shared at the window, he failed, posting his letter quickly after so he wouldn’t lose her in the morning bustle.

He managed to join her at the corner adjacent to the fruit and vegetable market where he’d noticed her just two days earlier. Peculiar, how it seemed he’d somehow known her longer than that. Two days seemed more two weeks where Georgina was concerned, and not due to tedium or boredom. Quite the opposite, actually. He found the more he scratched at the surface of the proper young governess, the more he wished to peer in further and investigate.

He opened his mouth to speak but she interrupted before he could begin.

‘No, I haven’t changed my mind, so you needn’t enlist your practised argument.’ She flicked him a flash of crystalline eyes and then returned her attention to the bins of ripe fruit.

The saucy minx.

‘I intended no such thing.’ Even to his own ears, the objection sounded weak. He followed her, two strides behind, as she moved away from the produce stand and advanced to the corner.

While they waited to cross, a milk cart stalled directly in front of them, the merchant aimed at the cow-keeper shop across the way once the avenue cleared. Biscuit yipped a complaint, though the pug quieted soon after, all at once entranced by the rivulet of cream that dripped from the back of the cart to form a puddle on the cobbles below. The dog skirted underneath and Georgina tsked her annoyance, waving with insistence at the pug in hope he would return to her side. Luke watched with amusement, cataloguing the memory of the provocative and disapproving noises coming from the governess’s mouth. Biscuit promptly ignored her request.

Luke could amuse himself all day with such nonsense, but a razor-sharp crack of a leather whip pulled their attention to a large dray blocking the intersection where the animal caused a fuss among the travelling animals and shoppers. The rangy mule attached to the brewer’s wagon refused to budge. The driver cursed a long string of words that provoked Luke to cover Georgina’s ears; and then, too, he’d have the opportunity to feel her hair, but he didn’t dare.

At the same moment, on the opposite corner of the square, a sleek gig entered the roadway. The team of four black horses galloped into the fray, forcing the pedestrians to pay heed and the traffic to capitulate, though the mule continued in deference to his master’s rebuke. All the while, in front of Luke and Georgina, the milk cart rolled forward and Biscuit trailed after the dripping cream, his tongue lolling in pleasure, his tail wagging in euphoric approval.

Everything from that point occurred with lightning speed. The oncoming team of horses thundered forward and the milk-cart driver, anxious to reach the cow keeper, darted with his conveyance towards the centre of the square, avoiding the belligerent mule and aligning with the large dray in protection. Unfortunately, Biscuit proved neither as agile nor as clever. The pug stood frozen in the roadway as the approaching team stormed forward. The last thought Luke processed was the high-pitched yelp of the dog combined with Georgina’s frantic shriek.

In a heroic act he would later use to question his sanity, Luke lunged into the thoroughfare beyond the milk cart and braying jackass to scoop Biscuit from beneath the oncoming hooves of the team, tucking the dog into his arms as he moved aside. His back hit the cobbles with enough brunt to force the air from his lungs and eject the pug from his hold, but despite the animal struggled for freedom, Luke clung to Biscuit’s body and rolled out of harm’s way. All he could think was that he’d saved the damned dog and hopefully curried enough favour with Georgina so she’d assist in locating Nate, except it was the part where his temple struck the curb and knocked him unconscious he hadn’t planned upon. He might have laughed at his foolishness if everything hadn’t suddenly gone black.

Chapter Seven

Georgina ran across the roadway, bustled Biscuit into her arms and knelt beside Luke, her eyes wide and breath short. Depositing the trembling dog beside her, she leaned over Luke’s prone form, her hair falling across his chest, her nose nearly touching his as she listened for breathing. He groaned and she released a racked shudder of relief.

‘As many have predicted, I’ve landed in the gutter.’ He lifted his head and then, thinking the better of the movement, returned it to the cobbles with care. ‘Another moment should do it.’

‘Mr Reese, are you well?’ Her voice had escalated to a squeak, but she had no way to stop her reaction. Fear pulsed a violent rhythm in her heart. ‘I’m so sorry. You saved Biscuit.’

‘I’m sorry too.’

He groaned the complaint and slit his eyes open. She moved back the slightest degree to facilitate his focus, though she hovered fairly close to his handsome face. Why hadn’t she noticed the myriad flecks of colour in his eyes, the length of his dark lashes, the strong set of his chin? She’d memorized the location of that dimple, but it was nowhere to be seen at the moment. At their nearness, she could smell his shaving soap, something rich and spicy. She inhaled again, wanting to remember the scent.

‘I never expected you to be sorry.’

His unexpected tease eased her worry. Surely if he contrived a jest, he couldn’t be all that addled by the knock to his head. ‘No. I’m grateful and upset you’ve taken a fall on my behalf.’

She touched her fingers to his cheek and his eyes shot open, his gaze soft as cashmere. She rather wished they didn’t have to break the moment, but traffic continued its daily flow on all parallels and he could hardly be comfortable scuttled against the cobblestone curbing.

‘May I help you up?’ She didn’t wait for an answer and clasped his hand in hers, Biscuit wisely silent as the dog backed away to allow them ample maneuverability.

Without grace, he rose from the street and brushed his trousers clean, a few brisk strokes and he finished. When he lifted his eyes and matched her apprehensive gaze, she finally found a trace of reassurance he remained fit.

In a habitual motion, she swept her hair over her shoulders and noticed his gaze followed the motion. ‘First your arm, now this. Biscuit is proving—’

‘The bane of my existence.’ He rubbed the back of his skull and examined his fingers. Satisfied when they came away clean, he heaved an exhale and returned her regard, though his trousers weren’t as fortunate. Roadway grime streaked down his right thigh and a wet stain that could be nothing good marred one knee. ‘Hard to believe such a compact creature can produce so much trouble. I’ll be sure to purchase Nate a different breed.’

The reference to his son did not escape her notice. How appalling she hadn’t changed her mind sooner. No doubt existed now. It was the least she could do in return of the repeated menacing Biscuit provoked. ‘I will be happy to assist you when the time comes for selection, but first let’s get to London where we can initiate Nate’s return.’

It may have taken him an extra moment to comprehend her amenability because he continued to straighten his shirtsleeves and roll his neck until at last he dashed his eyes to hers, both black brows slanted upward.

And then that dimple appeared, and her heart skipped a beat. Botheration, she should have agreed sooner if it warranted the boon. Of course, they would need to discuss every detail. She had no desire for anyone to discover she ventured into London in the first place and she’d make clear she planned to leave with expedience. But if by doing so she could help in even the tiniest manner to reclaim Nate, then they would set out at first light tomorrow.

Every ounce of tension fled his body in a rush, faster than he’d darted out to save her pugnacious pug, more intuitively than he’d noted the delicate weight of Georgina’s hair draped across his chest or the subtle tease of apricot soap as she’d leaned over him to enquire of his wellbeing. She would travel to London. She would help. Thank God.

‘Thank you, Georgina.’ She smiled and he realized they’d advanced to an ataraxic level of companionship. Relief, strong and vibrant, fortified his appreciation and caused a tremor of laughter in his voice. He swept his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face as he released another cleansing breath. ‘I’ll arrange for the carriage and driver. It will take a solid two days’ travel if the roads remain passable. Do find a suitable caregiver for Biscuit so you’ll have no worry. I give you my word, I’ll return you to Coventry as soon as possible.’

‘I’d appreciate it. Lord Tucker depends on me.’ Her face revealed calm certainty while her consistent declaration that Tucker required her return was beginning to grate on him.

‘And now I do as well.’ He wanted to embrace her. Pick her up and twirl her in a circle of celebration or thread his fingers through the ribbons of her sable-soft hair. Dammit to hell, he wanted to capture her plush mouth in a kiss, taste and lick her creamy skin with the same dedicated enthusiasm Biscuit had shown the milk cart, but he couldn’t. No matter the joy that surged through his veins with her consent, he would do nothing to upset, anger or deter Georgina now she’d agreed to come to London. Too bad his imagination refused to release the images.

Plans came together with alacrity. Securing a rented carriage and hiring a driver proved easy enough and, true to his word, he knocked on Georgina’s door the next morning. He planned to ride Snake Eyes behind the carriage, their passage interrupted only by necessity. He recalled an acceptable inn along the coaching route halfway to London. They could stay overnight while on the road and arrive in the city as promised.

‘Lovely morning.’ She locked the cottage behind her and stepped aside so he could manage her bags to the waiting coach. The driver hopped down from the boot and fastened her cases alongside Luke’s valise.

‘As are you.’ She indeed looked fashionable in a cobalt-blue travelling habit, the tailoring and fabric very fine, as well as the intricate embroidery on the collar and cuffs. One wouldn’t expect a governess to possess such a sophisticated ensemble, but he’d learned all too quickly this governess possessed discerning, expensive

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