Join favourite author

Louise Allen

as she explores the tangled love-lives of

Those Scandalous Ravenhursts

First, you travelled across war-torn Europe

with

THE DANGEROUS MR RYDER

Then you accompanied Mr Ryder’s sister,

THE OUTRAGEOUS LADY FELSHAM, on her quest for a hero.

Now be scandalised by

THE SHOCKING LORD STANDON

Coming soon THE DISGRACEFUL MR RAVENHURST THE NOTORIOUS MR HURST THE PIRATICAL MISS RAVENHURST

Louise Allen has been immersing herself in history, real and fictional, for as long as she can remember, and finds landscapes and places evoke powerful images of the past. Louise lives in Bedfordshire, and works as a property manager, but spends as much time as possible with her husband at the cottage they are renovating on the north Norfolk coast, or travelling abroad. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favourite atmospheric destinations. Please visit Louise’s website—www.louiseallenregency.co.uk—for the latest news!

Recent novels by the same author:

A MODEL DEBUTANTE

THE MARRIAGE DEBT

MOONLIGHT AND MISTLETOE

(in Christmas Brides) THE VISCOUNT’S BETROTHAL THE BRIDE’S SEDUCTION NOT QUITE A LADY A MOST UNCONVENTIONAL COURTSHIP NO PLACE FOR A LADY DESERT RAKE (in Hot Desert Nights) VIRGIN SLAVE, BARBARIAN KING THE DANGEROUS MR RYDER* THE OUTRAGEOUS LADY FELSHAM*

*Those Scandalous Ravenhursts

Author Note

Gareth Morant, Earl of Standon, is upright, eligible—and a bachelor who views the chancy business of falling in love with alarm.

Marriage just isn’t for him, and certainly not to his wild childhood friend Maude. But Maude is going to be in deep trouble if she doesn’t marry the highly respectable Earl, so what is a gentleman to do but create a scandal?

It isn’t easy to become a rake overnight, as Gareth and I discovered, but finding a naked governess in a brothel certainly helped and, with the enthusiastic support of his cousins Eva and Sebastian Ravenhurst (THE DANGEROUS MR RYDER) and Bel and Ashe Reynard (THE OUTRAGEOUS LADY FELSHAM), Gareth succeeds in shocking Society.

But by then Gareth has dug himself into a moral, emotional and social hole, and he has to climb out of it, greatly hindered by his own treacherous heart, Maude’s appalling acting and the surprising allure of the chaste Miss Gifford, who just wants to get back to teaching the piano and the Italian tongue. Or so she says.

I do hope you enjoy the progress of this reluctant rake as he discovers that falling in love is perhaps the most shocking experience of all.

My exploration of the life and loves of Those Scandalous Ravenhursts takes me to France next, where bluestocking spinster Elinor is assisting her scholarly mama amidst ecclesiastical ruins, quite unprepared for the eruption into her orderly life of THE DISGRACEFUL MR RAVENHURST, her black sheep of a cousin Theo. He’s the last thing she needs—unfortunately she soon discovers he’s the one thing she wants.

THE SHOCKING LORD STANDON

Louise Allen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

RAVENHURST FAMILY TREE

Chapter One

London—late February 1816

‘My lords, your honours, gentlemen! Your attention, please! At midnight, upon the stroke of the hour, Madame Synthia’s School of Venus presents our famed Parade of Beauty. Ladies of rich and varied experience! Exotic creatures of every hue! Country-fresh innocents willing and eager to learn their business at the hands of dashing London beaux! Posture girls of amazing flexibility and ingenuity for your delectation! In half an hour, my lords and gentlemen—take your places early and do not be disappointed!’

The ex-town crier employed at considerable expense by Madame Synthia—formerly known as Cynthia Wilkins of Camden Town—shouted himself to a stop and left the platform at the end of the Grand Assembly Lounge. Footmen began to set chairs around the stage and keen patrons jostled to fill the front row, despite there being half an hour to go before the start of the performance.

‘Morant, come on.’ Gareth Morant, Earl of Standon, winced as Lord Fellingham nudged him sharply in the ribs. ‘Those posture girls are all the go, but you need to be close up to get a proper eyeful.’ Fellingham licked his rather full lips. ‘They hold up a mirror and there are candles…’

‘I doubt they have any feature that any other woman you have had congress with was lacking, Fell.’ Gareth set down his almost-full champagne flute and regarded the scrimmage around the stage with bored distaste. ‘This place is a vulgar dive, I cannot imagine what we are doing here.’

‘You’re off your oats, old fellow, in need of a tonic, in my opinion,’ Fellingham retorted. ‘You’re no fun these days, and that’s the truth of it. Look at you—you’ve sat by the fire, toying with one glass the entire time Rotherham’s been upstairs with those Chinese twins, and never a word out of you but grunts.’

‘Indian twins.’ Gareth got to his feet and stretched. ‘They are Indian. I’m off to White’s, see if I can drum up a decent hand of cards.’

‘We can’t go without Rotherham,’ his friend protested, one eye on the rapidly filling seats before the stage. ‘And besides, I want to see this show. I’ve heard all about it, that’s why I wanted to come—remember? Let’s go and get old Rothers and watch it and then we’ll all go to White’s. He must be finished by now, surely. What do you say? Don’t be a killjoy.’

‘Very well.’ Gareth picked up his glass with a suppressed sigh, tossed back the contents and stood up. ‘Do you know which room he’s in?’

‘The Mirrored Chamber. Damn good room that, mirrors all over it, even the ceiling.’ Fellingham made for the stairs, pushing his way against the tide of men intent on reaching the stage.

‘So I collect. The name gives a slight hint.’ Damn it, Fell was right, his temper was short, nothing appealed any more. He wanted—no, needed—something, but he had no idea what, although it most definitely was not to be found in this temple to commercial sexual gratification. And the respectable novelty being pressed upon him—marriage—held no charms whatsoever either.

His friend snorted, good humoured despite Gareth’s tone. ‘Jaded, that’s what you are, you sarcastic devil. What you need is a good woman. No, make that a thoroughly bad one!’ Roaring with laughter at his own feeble wit, Fellingham struck off down a dimly lit corridor. ‘Down here somewhere, if I recall.’

‘Give me my clothes back!’ Jessica Gifford made a wild grab at the bundle of drab garments before the maid tossed them out of the door and slammed it. Outside, the key turned.

‘Now then, don’t give me trouble or I’ll have to get Madame Synthia up here, and you won’t like that, believe me.’ The maid grinned and went over to the wardrobe with a sway of her hips that indicated that the skimpiness of her gown was more than just an accident in the wash.

‘This is all a terrible mistake.’ Jessica stood there shivering, stark naked and too bemused and angry to be properly afraid. But at the back of her mind there was a growing awareness that she should be. She should be very frightened indeed, she realised, for it seemed that all the far-fetched tales she had heard about innocent country girls being snatched off the street by evil procurers were nothing less than the truth. But she wasn’t some innocent young milkmaid, she was a grown-up, independent, educated woman—this should not be happening to her!

‘There has been some error.’ She tried a reasonable tone, keeping her breathing light in an attempt to control it. ‘I am a governess, here to take up a new position.’

‘You’ll take up one of those all right.’ The maid laughed. ‘Lots and lots of new positions. You are a virgin, aren’t you?’ The glance she sent Jessica’s shivering, goose-bump-covered body was scornful.

‘Of course I am! I said there was some mistake. I asked the woman who greeted me as I got off the coach if she was Lady Hartington’s housekeeper and she said yes and took me to a carriage and the next thing I know, I am here.’

‘Yes, well, Lady H. won’t be wanting your services for her precious brats after tonight, especially as Lord H. himself is here and is likely to bid high for you. He’ll be getting you to show him the use of the globes, I’ll be bound. Or perhaps he’ll be slow at his Latin and’ll need a good birching. Put these on.’ She tossed a handful of flimsy scraps of fabric on to the bed.

‘This is a brothel?’ As well to have it clear, the logical, sensible part of Jessica’s brain told her, while the rest of it screamed in silent panic.

‘Lord love you, of course it is. Best vaulting house in town. Wonder if we ought to do something about your hair.’ The maid peered at her. ‘Nah. I’ll just unpin it, give you that ready to be tumbled look. They like that.’

‘There has been a mistake,’ Jessica repeated, adopting the tone of clear reason she found effective with some of her more dense pupils. ‘I am a governess, I am in the wrong place. If I am kept captive here, that is kidnapping and when I complain to the magistrates someone is going to be in very serious trouble with the law.’

‘How’re you going to do that, then?’ The maid advanced on her with a hairbrush and began to pluck out hairpins. ‘You’ll stay here until you’re properly broken in, then there’s nowhere else for you to go because no one respectable will want you. If you want to chat to a magistrate or two, I’m sure there’s some here tonight. Very sympathetic they’ll be—want to make you feel right at home, I’ll be bound.’

Cold fingers of fear slithered down Jessica’s spine. She had been earning her own living for three years and she knew just how perilous was the position of an unprotected young woman with the slightest hint of scandal attaching to her name. She knew, all too well, the consequences of that one step off the slippery path of respectability.

If she got out of here and complained, most likely she would be ignored. If she were believed, then she was as good as ruined, whatever happened.

‘How can you help them do this to another woman?’ She put her hand on the other girl’s arm imploringly. In this situation she was not too proud to plead. She would be on her knees begging in a minute. Whatever it took to end this nightmare. ‘Don’t you want to be out of here yourself?’

The maid stared at her as though she was mad. ‘Leave here? I’d be crazy to,’ she said shortly. ‘Warm room, good food, lots of company, gentlemen giving me good tips. All I have to do is lie on my back on a clean comfy bed and do what comes natural. Leave here and go back to what? A filthy slum in Wapping, that’s what. And there you do it up against the wall for a handful of coppers and a black eye.’ She peered in the mirror and pinched her own cheeks, bringing some colour into her pert, sharp-featured face.

‘Look, you silly cow,’ she said suddenly, with what Jessica realised was an attempt at kindness, ‘it ain’t so bad after the first time. Why make it difficult for yourself? If you make a scene, Madame will just send up some of the doormen to break you in, and you won’t like that, believe me.’

Jessica sank down on the end of the huge bed, oblivious to the cold slippery satin under her bare behind. The choices appeared to be to be deflowered by a group of bully boys, to be sold to some debauched gentleman or to throw herself out of the window. Only that was barred with iron.

Life had been hard, these past three years, but she had her modest savings, a respectable profession, her self-respect and she was dependent on no one. Under no circumstances was she going to give that up. Her mind seemed to move beyond terror into a desperate resolve.

The maid was gathering up her fallen hairpins. Jessica put her foot carefully on one of them. ‘All right,’ she said, having no trouble letting her voice shake. ‘What happens now?’

‘There, that’s better! See how much easier it is if you stop being so foolish about it? What’s your name?’

‘Jessica.’

‘Well, Jessy, I’m Moll. We get’s you into your costume—that won’t take long, there ain’t much of it—then at midnight the show starts. You’re the only virgin on the bill, so the bidding’ll be brisk. You’ll get a nice rich gentleman who’ll tip you well after, I’ll be bound, seeing you’re the real thing.’

‘What’s the time now?’ Jessica reached for the scraps of muslin the maid held out.

‘Twenty to the hour.’

‘Well, if there isn’t any other option… Isn’t there a costume that’s a nicer colour?’ she asked, feigning petulance. ‘I don’t like lilac. It looks so insipid with blonde hair.’

Moll did not appear to find the sudden change of tone suspicious. ‘I think there’s a green one, that’ll be pretty with your eyes.’ She opened the wardrobe doors again.

The maid’s shriek was cut off by Jessica bundling her bodily into the clothes press. One piece of muslin was around her wrists, the other gagging her mouth before she could recover her wits. Jessica pulled down more pieces from the hooks, tying the struggling girl’s ankles.

‘If you make a noise in the next half-hour, I’ll hit you on the head,’ she warned, hoping she sounded convincingly fierce. ‘If you are quiet, nothing will happen. Understand?’

Wide blue eyes stared at her over the gag, then Molly nodded energetically. Jessica shut the wardrobe door, wedged a chair under the handle, retrieved the hairpin and set about picking the door lock.

In sensation novels, the sort governesses are supposed never to read and in fact devour by the shelf full, the beleaguered yet valiant heroine can pick a dungeon lock in seconds as she escapes from the wicked duke’s evil clutches. Her hands shaking, cold sweat standing out all over her, Jessica could only conclude that either wicked dukes employed inferior locksmiths to brothel keepers or the authors of the Minerva Press were sadly misinformed.

After five minutes she stood up in an attempt to relieve her cramped knees. ‘Open, you beastly thing,’ she said, almost weeping with frustration, and fetched the lock a thump with her clenched fist. With a click it did just that.

Jessica was out into the corridor before she could think. Opposite her a shadowy figure moved. She gave a yelp of fear and realised that it was her own reflection in a full-length mirror. And she was stark naked.

Behind her the door swung to, the catch snicked closed. She could not go back, that was where they would come for her. Clothes. That was the priority. Like this she had no hope, and she was finding it very hard to think clearly. One of these rooms, surely, must contain something she could wear.

She opened the first door that she came to and peered round the edge. Inside was a big bed and on it a welter of naked flesh. Gasping, Jessica made out six legs, two pairs of buttocks, a glimpse of hairy chest… How many people? Doing what? She shut the door, flattening herself instinctively into the recess. The participants in the orgy had appeared totally preoccupied, but even so, she did not think she had the courage to sneak in and steal clothing while that was going on.

It was ridiculous to feel even more alarmed and fearful than she was already—how much worse could her predicament possibly get?—but that glimpse into carnal matters beyond her comprehension had shocked her out of any delusion that this was a nightmare. There, for real, was what she risked becoming if she could not escape.

Jessica drew in a deep breath and forced herself to plan. To assume the worst was a self-fulfilling prophecy. Her fate was sealed if she panicked. Steadier, she surveyed the corridor in which she found herself. Opposite was the door she had just escaped through, behind her the room with the orgy in progress. On either side were two more doors and then, in both directions, the passage turned. More cautious now, she applied an ear to each door in turn and from each came the sounds of gasps and sighs, and, from one, the crack of a whip.

Which way to go? Her sense of direction had quite deserted her in the hectic few minutes when she had been bundled out of the carriage and up the stairs. Then, as she hesitated, her arms wrapped around her chilly ribs, the decision was made for her by the sound of a door opening and loud voices from out of sight to her right. Without hesitation Jessica fled around the other corner.

It might have been better, she realised in the second she thudded into a solid wall of male muscle, if she had been looking where she was going and not wildly back over her shoulder.

Her nose was buried in a shirt front, the crisp upper edge of a tailored waistcoat stuck into her chin and her shivering body was pressed against warm superfine and knitted silk. The immovable object stood quite still as the voices behind her grew louder.

Jessica tilted back her head and found she was squinting up past a chin that was already shadowed by an evening beard into amused grey eyes. One dark eyebrow rose. ‘Help,’ she whispered, her voice fled along with her hope. ‘Please help me.’

‘This is the room,’ a slurred voice from behind the man announced. ‘Come on, Morant, in we go.’

‘By all means,’ a voice as amused as the eyes answered, turning Jessica around and putting one firm hand on her shoulder. ‘In we all go.’

Her quivering flesh seemed to steady at the warm touch and the thought came to her that at least, if she was about to be ravished, about to lose her virginity, at least he was not the slavering monster of her imagination; not the gross, sweating horror she had been trying not to think about.

The room was brightly lit, glittering with candles reflected over and over from mirrors all around. It was like being inside a chandelier. Jessica, her eyes hunting frantically around the chamber for some escape, saw three figures entwined on the bed, closed her eyes and stumbled.

The hand on her shoulder tightened, holding her up. ‘Come on,’ the deep voice said softly in her ear. ‘Pay attention, I can’t do this all by myself.’ He still blocked the door, she realised, as the two golden-skinned women on the bed sat up, a pair of pagan idols, and turned identical faces to watch them. Silken black hair flowed down their backs and, between them, his face mercifully hidden by the thighs of one girl and his loins by those of another, was the prone form of a naked man. A fallen Greek statue.

The man holding her reached out his other hand and lifted an exotic brocade robe off a chair beside the door. ‘Put this on.’

With a gasp of relief Jessica struggled into its heavy silken folds as a plaintive voice said, ‘Move, would you, Morant!’ She found herself gently turned to one side as the big man stepped into the room and his companion barged in behind him, closing the door.

Jessica pulled the deep collar up to hide the lower half of her face. With clothing came some semblance of inner calm; it was incredible how the very fact of being naked clouded the wits. She found she could look around her and see the whole room, not tiny details of it magnified as though in a nightmare. The two women on the bed became clearly twin mortals; the room was not a crystal palace of light, but simply a tawdry chamber lined with smoke-smudged mirrors; and the naked god sitting up on the rumpled sheets was just a blond young man with an incipient pot belly and a flushed face.

‘Hello, Fell, Morant,’ he managed before slumping back on to the pillows. ‘Brought your own, have you?’

‘What?’ The man at the back—Fell?—pushed past and stared. ‘Where did you get this little ladybird, Morant? We didn’t have her with us when we started out, did we?’ He reached towards Jessica.

‘Hands off,’ the big man said easily, pushing his friend towards the bed. ‘You go and help Rotherham get his money’s worth: he doesn’t seem to be up to it, all by himself.’

The two black-haired girls held out their arms in welcome and Fell stumbled forwards, collapsing on to the bed with a hoot of laughter amidst his friend’s vehement protests.

The big man reached out and scooped up a pile of clothing from the chair, then propelled Jessica out into the passageway again. ‘Get dressed.’ He dropped the things at her feet. A tall silk hat rolled away, teetered on its brim for a moment, then fell over.

‘These are men’s clothes.’ Jessica clutched the silk robe even tighter around her.

‘Exactly. Do you think you are going to walk out of here dressed like that?’ He gestured at the robe. Jessica had a vivid mental picture of her hair, her bare feet, the naked skin under the lush brocade.

‘You are taking me with you, then?’

‘Oh, yes.’ She could not see properly, but she knew he was smiling—it was in his voice. ‘I am certainly taking you.’ Something inside her, something very complicated indeed, was making it hard to think. He would take her out of here, yes, but his words meant more than that—or did they? She shook her head: deal with the immediate problem, Jessica.

‘You are right, this is a good idea.’ She picked up the pantaloons and hauled them on under cover of the robe, rummaged and found the neckcloth and used it to tie round the waist to hold them up. ‘Turn round.’ The passageway was barely lit, she could make out the shape of him, the flash of white teeth as he grinned, the shape of a closely barbered head.

‘I’ve seen all there is to see already, sweetheart.’

‘Well, I don’t want you seeing it again,’ she retorted and to her amazement he turned a shoulder with a grunt of amusement, leant against the panelling and began to whistle softly while she shucked off the robe, dragged the shirt over her head and pulled on the greatcoat. It came down to her feet. Her bare pink toes peeked out. ‘Shoes?’ she said.

‘And hair.’ He turned back and looked at her. ‘Heaven help us. Here.’ His hands on her hair were ruthless. With one hand he gathered up the whole unruly mass, twisted it into a knot and then into the tall hat, which he jammed on her head. It came down to her nose.

He was heeling off his own evening slippers. Balancing on one foot, he dragged off the black silk socks, then repeated the gesture with the other foot before putting the shoes back on. ‘Try these. At least your feet won’t seem to be bare. If they notice my bare calves, they’ll think I was too fuddled to get dressed properly.’

This was insanity, yet now, with this man she could not even see properly, she felt safe. She had no idea how he could rescue her, but somehow she knew that he would. She was going to survive this. But the illusion of safety was just that, an illusion, and she must not forget it.

Feeling like an exceptionally well-dressed scarecrow Jessica stood in front of the looming dark bulk of her rescuer. ‘We will never get out of here with all these people still awake.’

He pulled a watch out of his waistcoat pocket and held it up close to his eyes in the gloom. ‘Oh, yes, we will, it is two minutes to midnight. Come on.’

What midnight had to do with it Jessica could not imagine, although images of coaches and pumpkins floated into her mind. She obediently padded along in his wake, one hand holding the hat so she could squint under the brim, the other clutching the coat around her.

They reached the head of a broad staircase, not the narrow one she had been so unceremoniously bundled up, struggling and scratching, only an hour before. The heat and the noise rising from the room below were overwhelming. Jessica took a firm hold of the man’s coat tails.

‘Don’t do that,’ he said mildly, ‘My valet will complain. Here, beside me.’ She forced her clenched fist to relax and, stumbling in her trailing greatcoat, went to stand on his left side. She tried to look up, see him now the light was better, but the hat brim defeated her.

‘You are drunk,’ her rescuer ordered, his deep voice calm and definite. ‘You can do that?’

‘Yes.’ Actually she wanted to scream, have the vapours and faint dead away. Do all the things, in fact, that the well-bred women lucky enough to be in a position to think themselves her superiors would do if they found themselves captives in a brothel. But she owed it to herself, and to this calm capable man, to have courage, even if she was going to have to pay for her rescue by losing her virtue in his bed. She could not imagine any man would remove a naked woman from a brothel and not expect the logical reciprocal gesture. After all, why else would he be here, if not for a woman? That was what he had meant when he had said he would take her.

‘Slump against me, then, and, whatever happens, don’t panic.’ One arm came round her shoulders and clamped her to his side. He smells nice, Jessica thought irrelevantly. Spicy citrus and clean linen and leather. ‘And whatever happens, hang on to that hat.’

They began to stagger down the stairs, the man keeping up a slurred, grumbling commentary that taught Jessica, in two terrifying minutes, more cant and bad language than she had ever heard in her life.

The noise swelled, overwhelming her; the stink of hot oil, candle wax, alcohol, sweat and excited masculinity enveloped her, driving away the comforting smell of the man beside her. Then their feet hit the level floor of the entranceway and she drew in a deep, sobbing breath. They were down. The door was right in front of them.

‘Off already, gentlemen?’ It was the false-genteel accents of the woman who had picked her up at the inn, the woman whose face she had glimpsed, hard and merciless, as the bullies had swept her up the stairs into the nightmare of captivity. Madame Synthia.

‘Unfort…unfortunately, Madame, Lord Rotherham ish…is overcome. We will have to return another night—see your famed midnight ex’bition.’

Jessica pressed herself against the tall, gently swaying figure as the madam took her rescuer’s other arm and tried to urge him into the room. ‘He’ll be all right, my lord, one of the girls will look after him. Or I’ll get the lads to keep an eye on him. Here, Geordie…’

‘Hat,’ he hissed, sweeping her up and over his shoulder. Jessica made a grab and held it on. ‘Too late, Madame, you don’t want him throwing up on your nice marble floor.’ Then the doors were open and with an exaggerated stagger they were out. Out into the blissful cold of the night, out into the quiet of a side street with only a hackney cab driving past.

‘Cab!’ The carriage reined in. Jessica tried to catch a glimpse of the man’s face in the light from the windows of the brothel, but he bundled her into the musty interior before she could focus.

‘Well.’ The door slammed shut and he settled down opposite her in the darkness. ‘Here we are, then.’

Chapter Two

The dark shape opposite her did not become any clearer, however hard she stared. Dots began to swim in front of her eyes and Jessica gave up. Seeing him clearly was not going to make any difference—she was in those large, capable hands whether she liked it or not.

Count your blessings, she always said to pupils who whined or complained, knowing as she did it just how infuriatingly smug it sounded. But it was the sort of thing expected from teachers. Now she tried to apply her own good advice.

Blessing One: I am not naked, I have clothes on—but they belong to some man who is currently disporting himself in a house of ill repute. Blessing Two: I am not in a brothel about to be ravished by goodness knows who—but I am in the power of a complete stranger who probably has my ravishment high on his agenda. Blessing Three… She appeared to have run out of blessings.

Know your enemy. Another useful dictum. Especially when you did not know how much of an enemy he was.

‘My name is Jessica Gifford.’ She ignored the impulse to give a false name. Life was complicated enough without that. ‘Miss,’ she added with scrupulous care.

‘And mine is Gareth Morant.’ The deep voice was curiously calming. She had noticed that in the corridor in the brothel, but then, at that point, anyone who had not drooled or sworn at her would have been comforting. Now that her panic had subsided into cold fear she expected to be rather more discriminating—but he still made her feel safe. Safe-ish, she corrected scrupulously.

‘Mister?’

‘Lord.’ She could hear he was smiling. ‘Earl of Standon.’

‘Thank you for rescuing me, my lord.’ There was no call to be impolite, even if you were quaking in your silk-stockinged feet. His silk stockings. That felt almost more indecent than wearing that other man’s pantaloons.

An earl. An aristocrat. Oh Lord, she really had jumped from the frying pan into the fire. A nice, respectable baronet might be concerned with rectitude and reputation. A plain gentleman might be law abiding and bound by the conventions of church and received morality.

But everyone knew about the aristocracy. They did what they liked and to hell with anyone else’s opinions or values. So long as they paid their gambling debts they disregarded with impunity every standard held dear by lesser mortals. They gambled, they spent with wild extravagance, their sexual morals were a scandal, they duelled and they did not give a fig for the opinion of anyone else outside their own charmed and privileged circle. Look at Papa, she thought with an inward sigh. And look at Mama—which is rather more to the point under the circumstances.

‘So, what am I going to do with you, Miss Gifford?’ Lord Standon enquired. The thread of amusement was still there in the deep voice—he knew exactly what he was going to do with her, she supposed.

‘Take me to a respectable inn?’ she suggested hopefully.

‘You have your luggage safely somewhere, then?’

‘No. They took it all.’

‘But you have some money?’

‘No.’ Obviously she did not have any money, he must know that perfectly well.

‘Some respectable acquaintance in London to whom I could deliver you?’

‘No,’ she repeated through gritted teeth. He was finding this amusing, the beast.

‘Then I think you are coming home with me.’

Where you will expect me to show my suitable gratitude for this rescue, she thought with a sinking heart. The trouble was, it was not sinking quite as much as it ought, given that she was a respectable virgin completely in the power of a rakish aristocrat. There was something about his size that made it very hard not to feel safe with him, and something about the amused kindness in his voice that made her want to talk to him. And something about the sheer masculine splendour of him that makes me want to put my hands on him. All over him…

‘Are you frightened?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Yes.’ It was the honest truth. Frightened of him, frightened for the future, terrified of her own, purely female, responses to him.

‘Sensible of you.’ He did not appear insulted by her response. She supposed she should have tried a little feminine fluttering: I feel so safe with you, my lord…’ In fact you are an admirably sensible female, are you not, Miss Gifford? Strange how one can tell that in a mere twenty minutes’ acquaintance.’

‘Not sensible enough to avoid being tricked by a brothel keeper,’ Jessica said bitterly. She was not flattered to be told she was sensible. She knew she was, it was her chief virtue and stock in trade and, try as she might, she could not sound anything else.

‘Well, you will not be caught a second time. If my solution is not to your liking, what would you like me to do with you?’

Have your wicked way with me? she thought wildly, then caught herself up with a effort. She was exhausted, frightened and completely out of her depth, but that was no excuse for hysteria.

‘Would you lend me some money, my lord? Then I can go to a respectable inn tonight and seek employment from an agency in the morning. I am a governess.’

‘Go to an inn dressed like that? I am afraid all the shops are shut and I do not carry ladies’ clothing on my person.’

‘Oh. No, of course you do not.’ He must think her completely buffle-headed.

‘However, I do have some available.’ He let the sentence hang. ‘At my house.’

‘You mean your wife will lend me something?’ she enquired sweetly. How she knew it Jessica could not say, but this man was quite definitely not married. The clothing in question was doubtless the silks and laces of some past or present mistress.

‘I am not married.’ She had the impression that she had slightly unsettled him. ‘If I were married, I would not be patronising establishments such as the one we have just left.’

‘You have no need to explain yourself to me, my lord.’ And having a wife at home made no difference to whether a lord kept a mistress or frequented the muslin company.

‘No,’ he agreed with the calm that appeared to be natural to him. ‘I was explaining it to myself. A tawdry place—there is little excuse for its existence.’

‘Other than that gentlemen patronise it.’ She thought sadly of Moll, grateful to be employed in a brothel because there she had regular food and nobody blacked her eyes. She hoped someone had found her by now and released her from the clothes press.

The hackney cab drew up with a lurch. ‘My town house,’ Lord Standon said, getting up and opening the door. He held out his hands to help her down and Jessica paused in the doorway, seeing him for the first time in the light of the torchères either side of the wide black front door.

He was big. She already knew that. His hair was dark and she could not make out the exact colour, but what held her was the power of his face. No one would ever call Gareth Morant handsome, but no one would ever be able to call him less than impressive. Someone—she could not imagine who, unless it was a blacksmith with a hammer—had managed to break a large nose that had not been particularly distinguished to start with. His jaw was strong and determined, in contrast to the peaceable tone he seemed to habitually employ. His eyes, which she already knew were grey, were shadowed below dark brows and his mouth, which she could see all too clearly, was wide, sensual with a lurking smile.

He was waiting with patience for her to move and to alight from the hackney. Jessica thought frantically. Had she any option other than to enter this man’s house? No, she had not. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said as placidly as she knew how, and allowed him to take her hand as she jumped down to the pavement.

Doubtless she should embrace death rather than dis-honour, but that seemed both unpleasant and disproportionate under the circumstances. Like mother, like daughter. The thought flickered through her brain and was instantly banished. Mama…Mama had been different. And beside any other considerations, Miss Jessica Gifford believed strongly that one honoured one’s obligations. Up to now that had sometimes been onerous, but never quite so frightening to contemplate.

She stood and waited while he paid the driver, her stockinged feet cold and damp on the flags, her ridiculous hat pulled down over her face, then allowed him to take her arm and guide her towards the shallow steps. Despite the hour a butler materialised as Lord Standon closed the door behind him.

‘Ah, Jordan. Is Mrs Childe still up?’

‘No, my lord, she retired an hour ago, as have all the maids. Would you wish me to rouse one of them?’ His very lack of interest in the bizarrely clad figure shivering beside his master revealed the superiority of an upper servant, but Jessica would have been grateful for a look of surprise—she was beginning to feel invisible.

‘No, there is no need to disturb them. This young lady has had an unpleasant experience and requires a bedchamber, some supper and some suitable clothing. A fire in the room, please, Jordan.’

‘Yes, my lord. Would the young lady care to come into the library to eat while her room is prepared? There is a fire there as usual.’

‘Yes, that would be best.’ The earl turned and regarded Jessica, who stared back from under the brim of her hat. Her feet were beginning to grow numb on the cold marble. ‘Clothes first, though. Come along, Miss Gifford, we should find something in the Chinese bedchamber.’

He led the way to the sweep of stone stairs rising from the chequerboard marble. Jessica grabbed her trailing coat and struggled up after him, clutching the elegant wrought-iron handrail with her free hand. The position gave her an unrivalled opportunity to study long well-shaped legs, narrow hips and broad athletic shoulders. Having run into him at speed, she did not make the mistake of imagining that Lord Standon’s figure owed anything to his tailor, who must give thanks daily for a customer who did so much credit to his creations.

On the other hand, she thought critically as she reached the landing and he turned to make sure she was following, he definitely was not a handsome man. The good light showed that her impression outside on the pavement had been correct. At least, she corrected herself, as she plodded along in his wake, trying to lift her tired feet up out of the thick carpet, he was not a classically handsome man. Neither Lord Byron’s romantically tumbled locks, nor Mr Brummell’s much-vaunted beauty need fear competition from the Earl of Standon. On the other hand, he was unmistakably a very virile, masculine creature and she knew perfectly well that his size was provoking a thoroughly unwise desire to cast herself upon his broad chest and beg to be looked after.

Jessica reminded herself that she was not a woman who could afford to succumb to romantic notions, but one who lived by her intelligence and common sense, and that what she was striving for in life was respectable, dull, safe security. Men played no part in that ambition and aristocrats who frequented brothels, however kind they seemed, and however much one wanted to wrap one’s arms around as much of them as possible, were the shortest way to the primrose path that led inexorably downwards to shame and degradation. Look at Mama.

Well, possibly shame and degradation were rather strong words for it in Mama’s case, but it had certainly led to her being cut off without a penny, shunned by her family and living the sort of life that Jessica had sworn, at the age of fourteen, that she would never, ever, risk. Mama had thought the world well lost for love; then, when that love itself had gone, she had lived on her wits, her beauty and her charm.

As far as Jessica was concerned, falling in love ranked somewhat below wagering one’s entire substance on a lottery ticket as a sensible way of carrying on for a woman.

Sensation novels promised true love would find you if you only waited long enough and the Old Testament was littered with prophets being sustained entirely by faith and passing ravens, but a good education and hard work seemed more positive routes to security, food on the table and a roof over her head to Jessica than prayer and patience.

Lord Standon stopped and Jessica walked into the back of him. ‘Sorry. It is this hat.’

‘I believe you might safely remove it now, Miss Gifford.’ He opened the door and she stepped inside, pulling off the tall-crowned hat as she did so. There was no point in being a ninny about this. She must do what she had to do to get her life back on course. This was an interlude, then she could get back to being Miss Gifford, superior governess—pianoforte, harp, water-colours and the Italian tongue included.

They had entered what was presumably the Chinese bedchamber. Jessica stood inside the door while his lordship touched a taper to the candelabra standing around the room, trying not to be overawed by the fine painted wallpaper, the golden silk hangings or the rich carpet. It was, when all was said and done, merely a room for sleeping in. She swallowed, hoping that whatever happened before the sleep was not going to occur here under the jewelled eyes of dragons. Common sense and resignation were not proving as fortifying to the spirits as she might have hoped.

‘There should be night things at least.’ He pulled out drawers and turned over fabrics. ‘Yes. Help yourself.’ A carved panel opened at a touch and revealed hanging rails. ‘And there are robes in there as well, and slippers. Will you be able to find your way down again? Jordan will show you where the library is.’

So, it was not going to happen here and now in this room. Jessica placed the tall hat on a chest and nodded, managing her breathing somehow. ‘Thank you, my lord. I will not be long.’ He smiled and went out, closing the door behind him. Jessica went to look down into the open drawer at the fine lawn and rich Brussels lace, the satin ribbons and the shimmer of silk. It seemed she was going to lose her virtue whilst lavishly dressed—if that were any consolation.

Gareth stood frowning down at the meal his butler was setting out on the side table in the library. ‘Jordan, Miss Gifford was kidnapped by bullies from a brothel as she arrived on the stage this evening.’

‘Tsk. Shocking. One hears about such things, of course. How fortunate you were able to assist her.’ The man shook his head at the wickedness of the world and adjusted the position of the cruet slightly. ‘Miss Gifford will doubtless be hungry, my lord. Snatched meals at post inns are not sustaining fare and I presume she has had nothing since. I will bring a slice of fruit pie in addition to the sweetmeats.’ He regarded the table, apparently satisfied with its arrangement. ‘Will Miss Gifford be staying with us long, my lord?’

‘Until I have settled her future, Jordan.’ There was a tap and the door opened. ‘Ah, that is better.’ Gareth regarded the slim figure in the open doorway and found himself fighting back a grin. Top to toe in Julia’s luxurious lingerie, Miss Gifford still managed to look like a governess. Her hair was braided down her back, her feet were neatly together and her hands clasped at her waist. She had managed to find the plainest of the robes and, from the lack of frills showing under it, one of the simplest of the nightgowns.

The memory of her naked, her hair in glorious disarray around white shoulders, those small, high, rounded breasts pressed against his shirt front, filled him with a pleasurable glow that none of the exotic pleasures promised at Madame Synthia’s had evoked. Something must have shown in his eyes, for her chin came up a fraction and those wide green eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. However naïve Miss Jessica Gifford had been in stepping into a brothel-keeper’s carriage, she was not lacking in either courage or perception.

‘Come and sit down by the fire and eat, you must be hungry.’ He pulled out a chair for her and waited while she came and seated herself, managing it neatly and without glancing down at the chair as he pushed it in. Used to dinner parties. Gareth added the fact to his slim mental dossier on Miss Gifford. Obviously a superior governess, and one with much to lose from this night’s events.

‘Thank you, my lord.’ She waited, hands folded in her lap while Jordan pulled out a chair for him. ‘I confess I am a trifle peckish.’

‘Tea, Miss Gifford? Or lemonade, perhaps?’ Gareth saw her glance from the waiting butler to the opened bottle of white Chablis standing in an ice bucket by his side.

‘Wine, if you please.’ There was a touch of defiance about the choice. Dutch courage, he thought, wondering just why she was still so tense. There would be a period of uncertainty while she recovered from the shock, no doubt, but she would feel better in the morning. Mrs Childe would find her ready-made clothes and she could visit some agencies. He had no doubt she would soon find a suitable appointment; in the meantime he would have to find her somewhere to stay. Maude would help.

She was eating elegantly, he noticed, yet with a single-minded approach that was making inroads into the cold meats before her. Her lack of the vapours appealed to him and he plied her with food until she sat back with a sigh of repletion. ‘Thank you, my lord. I cannot remember when I last ate anything beside the merest snack.’

‘You have travelled far to London?’ Gareth picked up his wine and stood to pull back her chair. ‘Shall we sit by the fire?’

She gave him a long, searching look from under lashes that seemed ridiculously lavish for such a neat, self-contained creature. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said at last, picking up her own half-empty glass and moving to the chair he indicated.

‘I have come down from Leicestershire,’ she explained. In the big, masculine, winged chair she looked more fragile than he had thought before. Despite her poise, she also seemed vulnerable in a way that was different from her panic in the brothel. Her eyes were wide and watchful on him and she seemed braced for something. ‘My last position ended when my pupil went to stay with her grandmother in Bath. I have…had…a position with Lady Hartington to teach languages to her two older daughters. I understand that Lord Hartington was at that place tonight.’

‘Yes. In any case, you are better off not employed in that household, Miss Gifford. Lady Hartington is a bitter woman and her husband has a poor reputation.’

Jessica shrugged, a slight, unconsciously graceful gesture. ‘It is my job to fit in and make the best of what I find. Few households can be said to be ideal.’

‘No doubt you are right. Finish your wine now, it is time for us to retire.’ He got to his feet and reached for a candle to give her.

There was no mistaking the tension that shot through her at his innocuous words. She stood up, lifted her chin and said with just the merest tremor in her voice, ‘Of course my lord. I am quite…ready.’

Ready for what? Then he realised what the tightly clasped hands and the pulse beating visibly at her throat meant. She thought he had brought her home to—Damn it, does she take me for some libertine? Gareth leashed his temper with an effort. ‘So, you think you have jumped out of the frying pan into the fire, do you, Jessica?’

Her eyes widened at his use of her name, the pupils expanded so their green light became almost black. ‘You had gone to that place for a purpose and thanks to me you were not able to accomplish it.’ She stood quite still, although he could see the edge of the nightgown moving. She was trembling and suddenly that made him furious.

‘Are you a virgin?’ he asked, his voice harsh.

She went white. ‘Yes. I am.’

‘And you think I am in the habit of ravishing virginal young ladies?’

‘I am not a lady, I am a governess.’ Her lips tightened for a moment. ‘From my observations, the aristocracy regards governesses in much the same light as chambermaids.’

‘As fair game?’ Obviously being an aristocrat weighed heavily against him.

‘Yes.’ She gave a little huffing breath as though to recover herself after running. ‘And I owe you for rescuing me—I pay my debts.’

‘Indeed?’ Gareth set the candlestick down with a snap, suddenly too angry to analyse why. ‘Would it be worth my while, I wonder? Virgins are no doubt interesting, but then there is the lack of experience…’

‘I learn quickly my lord.’

‘Do you, Jessica?’ He closed the distance between them and cupped his hands around her shoulders. Under his big palms her bones felt fragile. ‘Let us see just how quickly’, and he bent his head and kissed her full on the mouth.

Chapter Three

Jessica had just enough warning to drag a breath down into her lungs and then her world changed. One moment she had no idea what a man’s mouth felt like, what a male body crushed against hers would feel like or how her own body would react to such contact—and the next everything became a sensual blur filled with this man’s heat and scent and taste and the pressure of his lips devouring hers.

She was up on tiptoe, held hard to him, his big body forcing hers to curve and mould into his. His mouth moved on hers with purpose that confused her until she realised that he wanted her to open to him. With a little gasp she did so and his tongue filled her, hot and moist and indecently exciting. She could taste the wine they had been drinking and something else that must be simply him. He was possessing her mouth with what she hazily realised was an echo of a far more complete possession and she melted, boneless, shameless, against him.

When Gareth Morant lifted his mouth from hers and set her square on her feet again she had lost the power of speech, of movement and, utterly, the will to resist him. Jessica gripped the powerful forearms as his hands steadied her. She tried not to pant.

‘Miss Gifford.’ Unfortunately he did not appear to have been reduced to the same state. His breathing was perfectly even, his face calm, his colour normal. ‘Miss Gifford, you are a delightful young lady and a pleasure to kiss, but I hope you will believe me when I tell you that I have not the slightest intention of taking you to my bed. I went to that place this evening at the behest of my friends, not to seek a woman, and you may rest assured that even if I had that intention, I am capable of suppressing my animal instincts for one night.’

‘Oh.’

‘And I am not in the habit of ravishing virgins, nor of extracting a price from someone whose plight should have prompted any gentleman to rescue her.’ He paused and the corner of his mouth twitched. ‘Or even any aristocrat.’

‘Oh.’ Jessica struggled to get her brain out of the morass of warm porridge into which it appeared to have fallen and to say something coherent. ‘Then I must say that was the most embarrassing mistake I have ever made,’ she admitted with painful honesty.

‘Kissing me?’ His eyebrows shot up. Obviously his lordship was not used to having his caresses dismissed as embarrassing. He was probably offended that, having reduced her to a quivering puddle, she was not begging for more.

‘No. I had no choice about that, had I?’ Jessica glared at him. ‘I mean, assuming that you would expect—you know.’

‘Well, I do not.’ He picked up the candlestick again and handed it to her. ‘I will ring for Jordan to show you to your room.’

‘Why did you kiss me, my lord?’ She had not meant to say it, she had meant to say Thank you in a calm and dignified manner, but the question just escaped.

‘Because you made me cross.’ He stood watching her and she made herself stand up to the scrutiny without fidgeting until the corner of his mouth quirked into a ghost of a smile. ‘And because I wanted to.’ He reached for the bell pull. ‘You may sleep in peace, Miss Gifford, my curiosity has been satisfied.’

Well, that was a flattening piece of reassurance to be sure! Jessica produced a perfectly correct curtsy and stalked out in the butler’s wake. So his lordship’s curiosity had been satisfied, had it? And what if it had not been? Would he have persisted? Obviously he was used to far more sophisticated kissing than she could provide.

‘Your room, Miss Gifford.’

Her agitation melted away on a sigh. Warm firelight flickered on rose-coloured walls. A bed heaped with white linens sat comfortably in the far corner. Steam curled upwards from the ewer standing on the washstand and the curtains were closed tight against the damp London night and all the dangers it held. This was not some rake’s love nest. Lord Standon was treating her as a guest and she had cast aspersions on his motives.

‘Oh dear.’

She had realised she had spoken aloud. Jordan turned. ‘Miss Gifford? Is something wrong?’

‘I have just realised that perhaps I expressed my gratitude to Lord Standon insufficiently just now.’

What might have been a fleeting smile passed over the impassive countenance. ‘It is easy, if I might make an observation, miss, to misinterpret things, especially when one is tired and in some distress.’

‘Yes. Thank you, Jordan.’ The man bowed and left her. Jessica took off the heavy apricot satin robe, pulled the cream silk nightgown over her head and went to pour water into the basin. Her feet were filthy, but her whole being felt contaminated from those desperate hours in the brothel and she stood for long minutes lathering the sweet-scented soap over every inch of her body before she began to feel clean again.

Fresh and dry at last Jessica slipped back into the nightgown, luxuriating in its soft fabric and luxurious detail. Sinful behaviour obviously had its rewards, she decided, climbing between the warm sheets and snuggling down, wishing now that she had chosen one of the more elaborately trimmed garments—she would never have the opportunity to indulge in such opulence again.

It had been an eventful day. She had been inside a brothel, she was sleeping in silk—and she had been kissed by a man. Jessica blew out the remaining candle and lay watching the pattern of firelight on the walls. She should be making plans, but…. As her agitation slowly ebbed away and she relaxed into the warmth and safety of the bedchamber, the sensual memory of that kiss flooded back. She had resigned herself to never being kissed—the path she had set herself precluded any relationship with men beyond that of employee and employer.

Now she knew what it felt like to be held so tightly, and yet want to be held tighter yet. She knew what a man tasted like, how his skin smelt, how her own body yearned to betray every standard and scruple just to experience that glory again. And that was just a kiss. What would it be like to be made love to by Lord Standon? Perhaps, if she willed herself to sleep, she would dream about him.

The rattle of curtain rings woke Jessica from a deep sleep undisturbed by the nightmares of Madam Synthia’s or the bliss of Lord Standon’s arms.

‘Good morning, Miss Gifford.’ Jessica sat up and found a neatly clad maid setting a tray down beside her bed. ‘I am Mary, miss, and I’m to look after you while you are here. Mr Jordan told us about what had happened—what a dreadful thing, miss!—and Mrs Childe will be going out in a minute to buy you some day clothes. Here’s your chocolate, miss, and his lordship says, would you care to join him for breakfast? In your dressing gown’s quite all right, miss.’ She ran out of breath at last and stood beaming.

‘Thank you, Mary.’ Jessica took a reviving mouthful of chocolate. Oh, the luxury! It seemed to stroke down inside her like warm velvet, soothing and invigorating, both at the same time. ‘How will Mrs Childe know what size clothes to get for me?’

‘His lordship lined us all up and said Polly was just the right size, miss.’ Mary bustled about. ‘I’ll fetch your hot water, shall I?’

Oh Lord! So he had told them Polly was the right size, had he? Just in case the rest of the household had no idea that their master had had the opportunity to scrutinise her in intimate detail. Jessica had become very familiar with the inner world of households, their miniature social hierarchies, their taboos and their rules. The servants would not be kind about a governess gone astray; she and her kind were usually regarded as being neither gentry nor servants and as a result were an outcast class between the two. Not that Mary appeared hostile.

The maid bustled back with the water and drew the screen round the washstand. ‘Here you are, miss, I’ve brought a fresh nightgown as well.’

Gareth pushed back his chair as the door opened on to the breakfast parlour and Jessica walked in. He saw with relief that she did not appear much affected by her adventures the night before—neither the kidnap nor his insane kiss. He was still kicking himself about that, and he had suffered long sleepless hours reviewing just how unwise it had been to yield to temptation. He was not sure whether it was the ache in his groin or in his conscience that had most disturbed his slumber, but they had both proved damnably uncomfortable.

‘Miss Gifford. I trust you slept well?’

‘Very well, thank you, my lord. That was a most comfortable room, I could not have been better cared for.’ She hesitated, one hand lying with unconscious elegance on the back of a dining chair. ‘I leapt to an unforgivable conclusion last night, my lord, and I apologise for it.’

Coals of fire heaped on his tender scruples. ‘And I apologise for what followed. I suggest we both forget about it, Miss Gifford. Now, would you like to take a seat and I will fetch you some breakfast from the buffet?’

She inclined her head and Gareth felt a flicker of admiration for her poise. ‘Very well, thank you. But I will not forget your kindness. And please, do not let your own meal get cold, I will help myself.’

He sat, watching with a carefully suppressed smile of appreciation as she walked past him to the back of the room where the chafing dishes had been laid out on the sideboard under their silver domes. This morning rich silk ruffles flounced from under the heavy hem of the apricot robe and her hair had been brushed until it shone and then caught up with skilful simplicity. There was far less of the prim governess on show this morning. Julia always said Mary was the most accomplished of the maids.

‘Mrs Childe has gone shopping on your behalf,’ he began, reaching for the mustard pot.

‘So I understand.’ There was a muted clang as she turned back a lid and began to fill her plate. ‘I understand you could accurately identify Polly as being just my size.’ Ah. Mary might be skilful as a lady’s maid, but she was obviously somewhat lacking in tact. ‘Goodness, black pudding, what a treat.’ There was another clang. Gareth began to amuse himself following Jessica’s progress along the buffet by sound alone. ‘Who else is coming to breakfast, my lord?’

‘Just us.’ He bit into the rare sirloin.

‘Indeed? How lavish it is.’

He suspected he was on the receiving end of a very governessy look, to do with extravagance and possibly gluttony. Gareth grinned at his rapidly diminishing steak and contemplated what response would be most calculated to tease her.

‘I do not believe in stinting—’ He broke off at the sound of raised voices in the hall. Or at least, of one, very familiar, female voice raised in argument and Jordan’s even tones attempting to head her off. Impossible, the man should know that by now.

‘—his lordship is up!’ The door swung open. ‘You see, he was in here all the time. Good morning, Gareth darling.’

‘Maude.’ Gareth got to his feet and submitted to being pecked on the cheek by the black-haired whirlwind who swept in, thrusting her vast muff into Jordan’s hands. ‘What on earth do you keep in a muff that size? A small pony? And what are you doing here at this hour of the day and without a chaperon?’

‘They are all the crack this size. And as for chaperons—piffle.’ She sat down next to him, tugged off her bonnet and reached for a cup. ‘Is that coffee?’

‘Yes.’ Resigned to the invasion, he sat down again and passed the pot. ‘And it is not piffle. Do you want to end up marrying me?’

‘Lord, no!’ She laughed at him, glossy black curls bouncing, the morning chill colouring her cheeks and lending sparkle to her blue eyes. She really was the most lovely creature and he was strongly tempted to box her ears. ‘That’s why I am here, this marriage thing is getting serious. Papa has Pronounced. Say what I will, he is fixed upon our union. You are the only man for me, in his opinion—as well as being well bred, healthy, in your right mind and rich, you are also, he tells me, a pillar of rectitude and just what a flibbertigibbet like me requires in a husband.’

‘I don’t want to marry you,’ Gareth said flatly. ‘None of this is news, Maude. You don’t want to marry me either. Our parents came up with this idiot agreement, it isn’t legally binding.’

‘I know that! But most of society believes we are betrothed. Gareth, how am I ever going to find a man to marry if they are all afraid of you?’

‘What do you want me to do about it?’ Gareth poured them both more coffee. ‘I have never confirmed the rumours, I have never given your father any indication that I might do as he wishes.’

‘He will not listen. And neither do all the gorgeous men out there who are avoiding me like the plague!’ Maude set her elbow on the table, put her pointed chin on the palm of her hand and gazed at him earnestly. ‘There is only one thing to do Gareth, you are going to have to embark on a life of sin and debauchery.’

The gasp behind him had Maude swinging round on her seat, her eyes searching the less well-lit end of the room. ‘Gareth! You fraud—you’ve already started.’

The eruption into the room of one of the loveliest young women she had ever seen froze Jessica in front of the buffet. Even in the flat light of a winter morning the intruder seemed to gleam like a highly finished piece of jewellery. Her hair was a glossy mass of black ringlets, her clothes had the dull sheen of silk and merino, her eyes glinted like Ceylon sapphires and her teeth as she laughed at Lord Standon were white and perfect.

Jessica stood quite still, her plate clasped in both hands while this lovely creature, quivering with barely suppressed energy, swept on. Despite her lack of a chaperon, she did not need Lord Standon’s words to realise that this was a lady and not, despite her scandalous presence in an unmarried man’s breakfast parlour, one of the muslin company. Maude, whoever she was, was quite obviously well bred, wealthy and supremely self-confident.

‘…you are going to have to embark on a life of sin and debauchery.’

Jessica gasped, all too aware of the picture she must present. There was no way out of the room unseen.

Maude swung round, her face lighting up into a picture of delighted mischief at the sight of Jessica. ‘Gareth! You fraud—you’ve already started.’

‘I—’ Jessica put down her plate and walked towards the door. ‘Excuse me, you will wish to be alone, Lord Standon.’

‘Miss Gifford.’ He stood up. ‘Please, sit down and have your breakfast. Lady Maude is just going.’ He held out a chair for her on the opposite side of the table and waited. Jessica sat while he retrieved her plate, placed it in front of her and poured her coffee. There did not appear to be any choice.

‘Thank you, my lord. But—’

‘My pleasure. Maude, go home.’

‘Certainly not, this is far too interesting.’ Lady Maude settled herself squarely to the table and reached for the bread and butter. ‘Introduce us properly, Gareth.’ She beamed at Jessica. ‘That’s Julia’s robe, I was with her when she bought it. Are you a friend of hers? I was rather hoping that you were an exotic bird of paradise and that Gareth was about to launch himself into a life of scandalous dissipation and save us both. But I can see you are a lady. Which is a disappointment, I must admit.’

Jessica blinked in the face of this torrent and plucked out one name. ‘Who is Julia?’

‘Lady Blundell, Gareth’s sister. Would you pass the honey? Thank you so much.’

So she had completely misjudged him. He had lent her his sister’s clothes, not his mistress’s, he had no intention of ravishing her—and now she was embarrassing him by being here when this extraordinary young woman descended upon him.

Jessica shot Lord Standon a cautious sideways glance. He had pushed his plate to one side and had buried his face in his hands, which she supposed was a reasonable reaction from anyone attempting to deal with Lady Maude. She looked back at the other woman. Maude gazed back, her lovely face a picture of cheerful curiosity. Jessica succumbed to it, unable to think of a single fabrication that might cover her presence there.

‘My name is Jessica Gifford. I am a governess and yesterday I was abducted off the stage by a brothel keeper. Lord Standon rescued me and his housekeeper is buying me clothes so I can go to an employment agency today and secure another position.’

‘Goodness. How beautifully concise and organised you are. I shall see if I can match you. I am Maude Templeton, my papa is the Earl of Pangbourne and my entire ambition at the moment is not to end up married to Gareth.’

‘Why?’ Jessica enquired bluntly. ‘His lordship appears eminently eligible to me.’ This was greeted by a faint moan from the head of the table. Lady Maude rolled her eyes.

‘Gareth, stop it. Miss Gifford is obviously a woman of sense and her breakfast is getting cold. We can all agree that you are completely eligible, utterly gorgeous and I am demented not to want to marry you. Likewise I am lovely, desirable, incredibly well bred and amazingly well dowered. You must be all about in the head not to want me. Let us all finish our breakfast and then we can decide what to do about it.’

‘I know exactly what I am going to do.’ Lord Standon lowered his hands and regarded both of them with dis-favour. ‘I am going to ring for Jordan, who will put you in your carriage and send you home, Maude. Miss Gifford is going to finish her breakfast and then, when Mrs Childe returns with her new clothes, I will send her in the barouche to interview as many employment agencies as she sees fit to visit. You, meanwhile, will stand ready to provide whatever references Miss Gifford requires to cover the period of unemployment she is currently experiencing. In fact, come to think of it, she can stay with you until she finds a new position.’

‘Lord Standon, I could not possibly impose upon La—’

‘Of course you can. What fun. Do call me Maude, we are going to be great friends, I can see.’ Maude smiled at her, then turned a gimlet stare back on Lord Standon. ‘Gareth, what about me? I am truly desperate and if you don’t—’

The door opened, Jordan positively slid through the gap and closed it behind him, his back to the panels. ‘My lord,’ he murmured, his voice hushed, ‘Lord Pangbourne is here, demanding an interview.’

‘Papa?’ Maude stood up with a faint shriek.

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Shh!’ Lord Standon set down his coffee cup. ‘Tell him I am not at home Jordan.’

‘I attempted so to do, my lord. The earl says he will wait in the hall. He has resisted all my efforts to establish him comfortably in your study—he appears suspicious that you will attempt to evade him.’

‘Damn right,’ his lordship said grimly.

‘Jordan!’ The masculine voice from the hall had all three of them at the table regarding the door warily. The handle rattled. ‘Is Standon in there?’

‘Just coming, my lord,’ the butler called back, then lurched forward as the door partly opened behind him.

‘Maude,’ Lord Standon hissed, ‘get under the table and take your bonnet with you.’ As she slid out of view he was on his feet, pulling Jessica to hers.

‘What—?’

‘I’ll make this up to you. Promise.’ His fingers were in her hair, dragging out pins, sending her curls tumbling around her shoulders, then he yanked open the satin sash, pushed the robe back off her shoulders and fell back in his chair, Jessica tumbling into his lap. ‘Kiss me.’

The door burst open. Her mouth captured by Gareth Morant’s, her body held hard against his, all Jessica could do was to fight to keep her senses. The pressure on her mouth eased a little. ‘Help me, I can’t do this all by myself,’ he whispered. The echo of his words to her in the brothel. Jessica stopped struggling. This was how she could repay him.

She snaked her arms around his neck, opened her mouth under his and arched her back. The robe slithered free and the warm air caressed the swell of her breasts revealed by the silken gown. Deep in his throat he made a soft sound, a growl. Something inside Jessica turned to liquid fire. Was this only playacting?

An infuriated voice thundered, ‘Damn it, Jordan, get out of my way.’ There was silence, broken only by the thunder of her heartbeat. Then, ‘Morant, you libertine! What the devil do you think you are doing?’

Chapter Four

Lord Standon shifted Jessica in his arms so that her face was hidden in his shoulder. She clung, quivering with mingled excitement and embarrassment.

‘I am attempting to eat my breakfast in my own dining room,’ he replied coldly. ‘You will forgive me if I do not get up. I believe Jordan did attempt to intimate that I was not receiving.’

‘You’ve been avoiding me, Sir! And neglecting poor Maude—and now I see why.’

‘Maude is hardly moping without my presence, Templeton.’Jessica gave a little wriggle as she felt the satin of her nightgown sliding over his knees. Lord Standon closed his hand more firmly over her hip and pressed her to him.

‘You are betrothed to Maude, damn it,’ the older man snapped. Jessica could imagine him, red faced with bristling eyebrows.

‘Forgive me, but we are not betrothed, whatever you and my honoured father cooked up between you. And neither of us wish to be. With respect, sir, you cannot force me to make a declaration to Maude.’

‘I can stop her marrying anyone else. What do you say to that, eh?’ Jessica, her senses filled with the smell and feel of the man who held her, struggled to focus on what was happening on the far side of the table. Lord Pangbourne appeared to be pacing.

‘I would say that I find it hard to believe that you would be such an unfeeling father.’

‘Bah! I’ll talk to you again, Morant, when you haven’t got most of your mind on your doxy. I give you good day!’

The door slammed. Lord Standon exhaled, his breath feathering hot all down her neck. ‘You can come out now, Maude.’ Jessica wriggled, sitting upright, but he still held her on his lap, apparently forgetting that they were merely playacting. The sensation of a man’s legs pressed so close to her derrière was breathtaking. Jessica felt the shift of thigh muscles and sat very still.

Maude popped out from under the table, pushing back her tumbled curls. ‘You see? He is quite impossible.’ She brushed down her skirt and stood regarding them. ‘Gareth, are you still supposed to be cuddling Jessica?’

‘What? Lord, I beg your pardon, Jessica, you felt so right there I quite—’ He broke off, shaking his head as though surprised at his own words and opened his arms. Jessica slid off his lap and returned to her own place, her cheeks glowing.

‘My lord…’ She pulled her robe into some sort of order and pushed her hair back over her shoulders. This was a madhouse and she needed to extricate herself from it and go and interview employment agencies before she became any more embroiled.

‘Gareth. I think we have gone beyond the use of titles, do you not?’

Gareth. It suited him, a solid, warm name. But she could hardly imagine herself using it, except in her head.

‘You see, don’t you, Gareth?’ Maude continued. ‘Papa finds you in the torrid embraces of a scarlet woman, and still persists in saying we should marry. What on earth do you have to do to make him realise we are not suited?’

‘Perhaps Lord Standon could marry someone else?’ Jessica suggested. She suppressed the turmoil the last few minutes had thrown her into and tried to apply some logic to the situation. Someone had to. ‘It seems the commonsense solution.’

‘So it is, if there was anyone I wished to marry.’ Gareth grimaced, pouring more coffee. ‘I’d sooner marry Maude than some female I don’t like.’

‘Then why?’ Jessica persisted, determined to make sense of it all. Her food was lukewarm. She pushed the plate to one side and started on the bread and butter and honey. ‘Why is Lord Pangbourne so insistent and why, when you obviously both like each other very much, don’t you do what he wants?’

Maude and Gareth exchanged looks, then he shrugged and gestured for her to start. ‘Once upon a time,’ she began, her voice taking on the singsong tone of the storyteller with a much-told tale, ‘Gareth’s uncle fell in love with my aunt. Our families’ lands march together and it was true love and a marvellous romance. He was the son of the duke, she was a great beauty. Everyone was thrilled, but on the eve of the wedding they were killed in a carriage accident. Both families were plunged into deepest mourning and our fathers vowed that when we grew up—I had just been born—we would marry and recreate the legendary love match.’

Jessica’s thoughts—that this was a piece of sentimental nonsense—must have shown, despite her careful lack of comment, for Gareth grinned. ‘It was not such a foolish piece of romance as you might assume. As we grew up it became obvious that because of her poor mother’s continuous ill health Maude was going to remain an only child—and there we were, presenting the perfect alliance to unite two great estates.’

‘Our fathers exchanged letters formally agreeing to the betrothal,’ Maude picked up the story. ‘And here we are.’

‘But you are not legally bound?’

‘No, this is not the Middle Ages, thank goodness, but Papa controls my money until I am thirty or I marry with his consent. And he has made sure everyone believes us to be betrothed.’

‘Then why don’t you do as he asks?’ Jessica persisted. ‘You can hardly object to Lord Standon, surely?’

‘Thank you Jessica,’ he said gravely.

‘I meant,’ she said repressively, kicking herself under the table for thinking aloud, ‘you are apparently highly eligible and you like each other.’

‘They made the mistake of bringing us up like brother and sister—we simply can’t think of each other except as that. And I know perfectly well that somewhere, out there, is the man I am going to fall in love with,’ Maude said flatly. ‘And I do not want to be married to someone else when we meet. Doomed love and broken hearts may be all very well in novels, but I have no intention of subjecting myself to such discomfort.’ She attacked an apple with a pearl-handled knife and a fierce expression. ‘But I will never get to know any men to fall in love with because no one will do more than make polite conversation because they are all scared of Gareth.’

‘He is rather formidable,’ Jessica agreed, eyeing his lordship’s brooding figure at the head of the table.

‘Thank you,’ he said again, politely. ‘We are agreed that I am eligible and formidable and that Maude cannot be sacrificed upon the altar of matrimony other than to a man she truly loves. You will also have observed that her father is a thick-skinned old termagant who won’t take no for an answer. You are a young lady whose common sense is her stock in trade—what do you suggest?’

Jessica pondered the problem, her abstracted gaze fixed on the rather attractive whorl of Gareth’s left ear where the crisp brown curl of his hair set the defined shape into sharp relief. She knew exactly what the skin there smelled like.

‘Um… You could pretend to become betrothed to someone else. Lord Pangbourne would admit defeat then, surely? But that means you need to find a complacent lady who would not mind such a charade, and you risk finding yourself permanently attached if she proves unscrupulous. Or you could do what Lady Maude suggested and embark upon a course of debauchery so public that even Lord Pangbourne will be forced to admit that he cannot marry his daughter to you. After all, he has just surprised you apparently making love amidst the marmalade.’

Maude suppressed an unladylike snort. Jessica contemplated another slice of bread and honey, decided that she was eating merely to keep her mind distracted from Gareth’s proximity and sucked the tips of her sticky fingers. Then she realised his gaze was resting on her lips and promptly snatched up her napkin. ‘The latter course would be safer—the debauchery, I mean, not the marmalade.’ Maude gave way to giggles. ‘I imagine that you could hire a professional without risk of finding yourself sued for breach of promise.’

She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining Gareth back in that brothel interviewing candidates for a charade of debauchery. Only, once having paid for them, she assumed it would require a saint not to avail himself of the services thus acquired, so playacting would not be required. He is a man, she reminded herself briskly. That is what men do. And in any case, what is it to me?

‘Excellent. We have a plan.’ Maude tossed her napkin on to the table and stood up, ignoring Lord Standon’s grimace and shaken head. ‘You see, Gareth, Jessica agrees with me.’ She smiled across the table. ‘Now, I will drive home and then send my carriage back to collect you and take you round the agencies. As soon as that is done you can come and stay with me until you are settled.’

‘But Lord Pangbourne has seen me.’

‘He saw a wanton female with her hair down, half-dressed in a improper nightgown and from the back. He will not recognise you, Jessica, take my word for it.’ Gareth walked across and opened the door. ‘Maude’s offer of the carriage is a sensible one.’

Gareth strolled through the doors of White’s, nodded absently at the porter who relieved him of his outer garments, and climbed the stairs to the library. He needed some peace and quiet to think about Maude’s predicament. For himself, although it was tiresome, Lord Pangbourne’s ambitions were merely a nuisance. He could, and would, marry where he chose. One of these days. When he got round to it.

But Maude was a considerable heiress and, if her father truly intended to, he could keep her financially dependent on him until she was thirty. She could choose herself a husband, he supposed, always provided she could find someone prepared to ignore the persistent rumour that she was already betrothed to him, or who was prepared to take a dowerless wife, but that was assuming a case of love at first sight and a determined lover at that.

He could put an advertisement in the paper, denying the rumours, but that would create a scandal—the presumption would be that there was some reason discreditable to her, which was why he did not want to marry Maude. He could carry on denying it whenever it was mentioned—but no one believed him when he did. By common consent, he would be insane to refuse to marry a lovely, high-born, wealthy young woman who would bring the Pangbourne acres to join his own. And everyone knew that Gareth Morant was no fool. He was simply, the gossips concluded, in no hurry to assume the ties of matrimony.

Meanwhile poor Maude was effectively out of bounds to any gentleman who might otherwise court her, unless he took the first step and married.

Gareth picked up a copy of The Times and found a secluded corner to read it in. Ten minutes later it was still folded on his knee and he was passing in review each of the young ladies currently on the Marriage Mart and dismissing all of them. There was a new Season about to start in a week or two; that would bring the new crop fluttering on to the scene.

Gareth steepled his fingers and contemplated marriage to a seventeen-or eighteen-year-old. It was not appealing. He liked intelligence, maturity, wit, sophistication…

‘Morant, thought I might find you here.’

Hell and damnation and… ‘Templeton.’ Gareth tossed his newspaper on to a side table and got to his feet. He might feel like strangling Maude’s father, but good manners forced him to show respect for the older man.

‘Gave me a shock this morning! Ha!’ Lord Pangbourne cast himself into the wing chair opposite Gareth and glared around to make sure they were alone. ‘Young devil.’

‘If I had expected you, my lord—’ Gareth began.

‘You’d have kept your new doxy upstairs, I’ll be bound.’

‘And what makes you think she’s a new one?’ Despite his irritation, Gareth was intrigued.

‘No sign of her before. Discreet, that’s good. I was a bit out of sorts.’

It was, Gareth realised, an apology of a kind. The best he was likely to receive. He snatched at the sign of reasonableness. ‘You know, my lord, that neither Maude nor I wish to marry each other; we have told you time and again.’

‘You’ll grow out of that nonsense.’

‘Sir, I am seven and twenty. Maude is only four years younger. She’ll be on the shelf if she has to wait much longer.’

‘She’s on your shelf, that’s the thing.’ The older man looked smug. ‘Snuff?’

‘No, thank you.’ Gareth scarcely glanced at the proffered box. ‘And if I do not marry her?’

‘You will, I have every confidence in your good sense. You are perfect for her and she’ll bring the Pangbourne estates with her when I go. Mind you, I’m not going to put up with these vapours of hers much longer. One more Season I’ll stand for and then she can go back to the country and wait for you there.’

Frustrated, Gareth tipped back his head and stared up at the chaste plasterwork of the ceiling. Maude would go mad in the country, and no suitor was going to find her stuck in rural solitude. If that was what the old devil intended then he, Gareth, was probably going to have to make the sacrifice and marry someone else.

‘Is there anything,’ he said between gritted teeth, ‘that would convince you that I am not suited for your daughter?’

‘Nothing.’ Lord Pangbourne beamed at him, his hands folded neatly over his considerable stomach. ‘I watched you with some anxiety in your salad years, I have to admit. Never can tell which way you young bucks will go—and I wouldn’t have given her to you if you’d been some rakehell, not fair on the girl to have to live with scandal and dissipation.’ He grimaced. ‘Diseases and all that. But look at you now. Perfect.’

Gareth felt far from flattered. ‘This morning you called me a libertine,’ he pointed out. ‘I was exhibiting behaviour that might well be characterised as both scandalous and dissipated,’ he added hopefully.

‘Mere irritation of nerves on my part—that daughter of mine is enough to try the patience of saint. Keeps telling me that her own true love is out there somewhere and she can’t find him with you in the way. True love, my eye! Balderdash! As for your little ladybird—don’t expect you to be a monk, my boy, just be a bit discriminating and don’t upset Maude while you’re about it.’

Lord Pangbourne hauled himself to his feet and nodded abruptly. ‘I’ll be off. See to it now, Morant—make her a declaration and all will be right and tight.’

Gareth watched the broad shoulders vanishing behind the book stacks with a sense of being caught in a trap. His thoughts churned. Damn the old… Scandal and dissipation…Coherent phrases spoken in a clear, dispassionate voice penetrated his anger. Embark upon a course of debauchery so public that even Lord Pang¬ bourne will be forced to admit that he cannot marry his daughter to you. That was what the eminently sensible Miss Gifford had counselled.

It had been Maude’s idea first, but, fond of her though he was, Gareth was used to Maude’s schemes—most of them hare-brained, to put it mildly. Miss Jessica Gifford with her wide green eyes, her clear gaze, her common sense, her sweet, high breasts and innocently generous mouth—Stop that, damn it!—her calm governess manner, now she would not suggest something hare-brained.

A business arrangement, that was what was needed. He needed to create a scandal with no repercussions once it was all over, so that Templeton accepted he was too unreliable for his Maude.

Gareth steepled his fingers and tapped the tips absently against his lips. London was filled with highly skilled courtesans with a flair for the dramatic and a love of money. Finding one to misbehave with would be simple. And distasteful. He tried to sort out why. He had taken mistresses in the past, but that had been a straightforward relationship. Something made him recoil from involving a stranger in his business and Maude’s feelings.

His errant memory conjured up a cool voice observing that a lady could hardly object to Lord Standon, a pair of warm, innocent lips against his and a slight figure shivering at his side in Rotherham’s clothes, terrified yet gamely playing her role. Playing a role…

‘Morant, there you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere—what have you done with my clothes, you—’

Gareth got to his feet as his friend marched into his sanctuary, his chubby face set in a scowl. ‘Rotherham, if you want to pluck a crow with me, you’ll have to do it some other time. I’ll get my man to pack them up and send them round this afternoon. I’m busy now.’ He added something under his breath as he passed Lord Rotherham, giving him an absentminded slap on the shoulder as he went.

The younger man stood staring after him. ‘I say, Morant, did you just say you were off to create a scandal?’ He received no response. ‘Damn funny way to carry on,’ he grumbled, picking up Gareth’s discarded newspaper and dropping into his chair. ‘Damn funny.’

An hour after breakfast, her hair braided into severity, and clad in one of the sombre and respectable gowns and pelisses Mrs Childe had purchased, Jessica began her round of the agencies. She knew them all by experience or reputation, although her previous employment had been as much as a result of answering personal advertisements as through their efforts. She did not expect much trouble in finding something suitable. Her accomplishments were superior, her references excellent and Lady Maude Templeton’s address could only, she was certain, add a certain cachet.

By four in the afternoon Jessica was hungry, thirsty and dispirited. No one, it seemed, was seeking superior governesses just now. The Climpson Agency could offer her a family of lively small boys—Jessica knew enough to interpret that as thoroughly out of control. Another bureau suggested a family in Northumberland who were seeking an adaptable governess for a daughter who, as the owner Mrs Lambert explained, was ‘Just a little, er…eccentric.’ Yes, she confirmed, there was rather a high turnover of governesses for that post.

And, as always, there were any number of middle-class families who were looking for governesses who would also act as general companions. Jessica had heard about those sort of positions; they translated as general dogsbody to the lady of the house.

‘It will be the start of the Season soon,’ Mr Climpson explained, running an inky finger down his ledgers and shaking his head. ‘People have made arrangements already so they can concentrate upon social matters. There are sure to be more opportunities once the summer is upon us; many people make changes then for some reason.’

‘I had hoped to find something suitable more quickly than that.’ Jessica looked down at the dark blue wool of her skirts. Every stitch she wore was borrowed, she had not a penny piece of her own until she could write to her bank in Leicester. And then she would have to dig into her precious savings, her only and last resource. How on earth was she going to cope otherwise—unless she took one of those posts that no one else wanted?

‘Your references and experience are excellent,’ Mr Climpson added, obviously intending to be encouraging. She knew they were, and knew without arrogance that they were the result of her own hard work and careful selection of posts. To take anything less would diminish her status, but it did not appear she had much choice.

How long could she possibly impose upon Lady Maude? A week perhaps? ‘I will call back in a few days.’ She stood up with a bright smile—it would not do to appear desperate. And there were always the newspapers to scan. Lord Pangbourne’s household would be sure to be well supplied with those.

The coachman was waiting patiently outside the agency. ‘That will be all for today, thank you.’ Jessica smiled as the footman flipped down the steps for her and held the door. ‘Please can you take me to Lady Maude’s house now.’ The carriage was such a luxury with its lap rug and heated bricks—it would not do to become used to such things. Jessica sat up straight and gave herself a mental talking to. She was lucky to be here, she knew it. If it had not been for Gareth, she would be living a nightmare of degradation and shame. She had begun from very little when Mama had died—now she had experience and references. Soon she would find employment and, in the meantime, at least she had a safe and comfortable refuge for a few days.

The carriage drew up and she peered out of the window on to the gloomy early evening scene. This must be the Pangbourne’s residence. A door opened and a tall liveried footman ran down the steps and opened the carriage door. She half-rose, expecting him to offer her his hand to descend.

‘Miss Gifford? I have a note from Lady Maude.’

Jessica unfolded it, confused, tipping the note to read it in the light from the open door. Maude’s handwriting was as bold as her personality, the words slashing across the expensive cream paper.

Dear Jessica, Things have got Much Worse—but Gareth has a plan, if only you will help us. Please will you go back to his house? Papa must not see you. Imploring your understanding, your good friend, Maude.

She looked up at the impassive footman. ‘Please tell Lady Maude I will do what she requests. Will you ask the driver to return to Lord Standon’s residence, please?’

He closed the door and the carriage rumbled off into the light drizzle. Jessica felt her shoulders sagging again, and this time found it an effort to straighten them. Now what was going to become of her?

Chapter Five

‘When did you last eat?’ Gareth demanded, his hands fisted on his hips as he looked at her.

It was not what Jessica was expecting and she stared blankly at him while she made herself think. Jordan removed her bonnet and pelisse from her unresisting hands. ‘Breakfast?’ she hazarded.

‘I thought so, you look ready to drop. Jordan! Food for Miss Gifford, in the library as soon as possible.’

‘At once, my lord.’

‘I thought you were the sensible one in all this—what were you thinking of, to starve yourself?’ Gareth was positively scolding as he guided her into the book-lined room and sat her firmly down in one of the big wing chairs in front of the fire.

‘There were so many agencies to get round,’ Jessica protested, stretching out her feet to the hearth and letting her tired back rest against the soft old leather. It was seductively easy to allow him to take charge and organise her. It gave her an entirely false sense that all would be well and she knew she could not succumb to that: she was in charge of her own destiny and no one could help her but herself.

‘This is not a race—you know I will find you somewhere to stay for as long as you need.’ Gareth dropped into the chair opposite and crossed his legs, the silver tassels on his Hessian boots swinging. A pair of those boots would keep her for months. It was a timely reminder of just how far apart their worlds were.

‘It seems the residence you suggested for me is not so suitable after all.’ Jessica held out the note. Gareth took it, scanned it and grimaced. ‘And I am afraid I was unable to find anything in the way of employment today. I will have to look at the newspapers and try the agencies again in a day or two.’

‘Nothing suitable? Please, Jessica, don’t let it worry you.’ He read the note again. ‘Maude has such a taste for the dramatic it is a pity a career on the stage is so ineligible.’ Gareth screwed it up and tossed it on to the fire. ‘It is true that if you agree to our plan it will be impossible for you to stay with her, but did you think we were going to cast you out?’

‘I am having trouble thinking clearly at all,’ she confessed. ‘I am so disorientated, so much out of my depth. I fear I must ask you for a loan of money until I can get funds from my bank in Leicester.’

‘You have funds?’ He was regarding her steadily, his face thoughtful. It was like being interviewed for a post.

‘My savings.’ My precious savings.

‘Well, you will not want to dip into those.’ She found herself nodding agreement and forced herself to sit still. It was dangerous to agree with anything he said. ‘Jessica, I have to say I am selfishly glad that you have not secured employment yet. I have a proposition for you. Maude may be dramatic, but she is right, things have deteriorated.’

‘Yes?’

He smiled at her wary tone, and she wondered why she had not thought him handsome before. And Maude does not want him? She must be about in her head…

‘You are right to sound so cool, my sensible Miss Gifford. Ah, here is something for you to eat. We will talk when you are a little revived.’

It took considerable self-control to sit quietly and eat the savoury omelette, the soft white roll and butter and the dish of lemon posset that the footman set out on the little table before her. Jessica sipped the glass of red wine Gareth poured and schooled her tongue and her patience.

When she had finished she waited while he lifted the table to the side and then folded her hands in her lap with as much composure as she could muster. ‘You say you have a proposition for me, my lord?’

‘Gareth.’ He waited until she repeated his name. ‘You made an eminently sensible suggestion at breakfast, Jessica.’

‘That you should appear to follow a path of dissipation with a mistress and scandalise Lord Pangbourne so that he will consider you unsuitable for Lady Maude?’

‘Indeed. He called upon me at my club this morning and made it very clear that he means what he says—but he also betrayed the fact that openly scandalous behaviour would not be tolerated. I think it is the only solution if I am to free Maude from this situation.’

‘And yourself?’ she asked, curious about his own position. He must be of an age where he was looking to marry, set up his nursery, ensure the succession to the title.

‘I have no desire to marry yet and, when I do, I foresee no problem. In this case it is, as so often, the woman who is weakest.’

Jessica nodded, surprised at his understanding. It seemed Gareth Morant could comprehend the difficulties of women more generally than just those applying to his friend Maude.

‘Then in what way can I assist you?’ The only possibility she could think of was that Lady Maude might require a companion to support her in this masquerade if Lord Pangbourne became even more difficult. It might even help to have another virtuous female voice echoing Maude’s assumed shock and outrage.

‘I would like you to be my mistress.’

The empty wine glass fell from her fingers and rolled away on the Oriental rug unregarded until it clinked against the table leg.

‘What? Outrageous! What do you take me for?’ Jessica sprang to her feet and took three strides away from the fireside before she swung round to face him, more words of righteous indignation trembling on her lips. And then it hit her—the memory of his mouth over hers, the heat and the smell and the feel of him. The long, hard body—

Furious and horrified at herself, Jessica shut her mouth with a snap as Gareth got slowly to his feet. ‘A masquerade, Jessica. I am asking you to pretend to be my mistress.’ His voice was steady, but there was a trace of colour across his cheekbones. ‘I would not insult you by proposing anything else.’

‘I… You… No, you would not. You made that clear last night. I beg your pardon; I seem to be more tired and less rational than I thought.’ Jessica walked back to her chair and sat, her legs suddenly stiff and awkward. She knew why she had reacted with such vehemence: Mama, of course. But mostly it was because of her own guilty desires. Self-knowledge, an admirable trait she had always thought, did nothing to improve her mood.

‘You must be tired.’ Gareth sat again too, making the silver boot tassels swing as he crossed his long legs. Jessica found herself staring at them and dragged her eyes up to meet his somewhat rueful gaze. ‘It is the shock of yesterday’s experiences; you should not underestimate the effect such trauma has on the body and mind. And then you have spent the day without proper refreshment or rest. Not very sensible of you, Miss Gifford.’

‘Then let us be sensible at all costs,’ she retorted, taking a grip on her emotions. ‘What, exactly, are you proposing, my…Gareth?’

He steepled his fingers and bent his head to touch the tips to his mouth as if collecting his thoughts, then he raised his head and looked at her steadily. How changeable his eyes are. From the light grey of a cloudy sky to hard steel from moment to moment.

‘I believe the course of shocking Lord Pangbourne is the only way to reach a speedy resolution of this problem. But I am reluctant to involve a professional—actress or Cyprian—in our personal affairs. One places too much trust in their discretion and too much power in their hands should they choose to make mischief later: I cannot risk that with Maude. Nor, I find, can I contemplate some vulgar piece of play-acting.’

Gareth paused, marshalling his thoughts. ‘I believe this wants more than simply my apparent misbehaviour with one of the demi-monde. A man of Pangbourne’s generation considers that almost routine. The scenario I believe would be most effective is a flagrant dalliance with a lady on the thin edge between scandal and respectability. To have the maximum impact my liaison must be conducted under the noses of the ton, not merely observed at the theatre or in the park.’

‘But who, then, do you want me to be?’

‘A wicked widow.’ Gareth smiled suddenly, and she found her own lips curving in response. She caught herself and pressed them tight together. ‘A lady returned from abroad where her husband died. A lady on the fringes of respectability, yet with an entrée into London society as she searches for her next protector. And I am going to fall head over heels in my blatant pursuit of her favours.’

‘I can see that that would, indeed, cause talk and scandalise Lord Pangbourne, especially if you insultingly ignored Lady Maude in the process,’ Jessica agreed. ‘But firstly you will need to secure an entrée for this impostor and secondly—look at me! Do I look like a glamorous and dangerous adventuress?’

As she spoke she gestured at the overmantel mirror that reflected the upper parts of their bodies as they sat before the fire. Her blonde hair was still neatly in its governess’s braids and bands, its colour pretty, but, in its tight confinement, quite ordinary. Her gown was high at the neck, shrouding her figure that, while brisk walks and healthy eating might have kept neat, was by no means the voluptuous form she assumed such a siren as Gareth was describing would possess. And her deportment was that of a respectable professional woman—contained, controlled, immaculate, designed to be the very opposite of obvious.

‘Not at the moment, I must agree.’ That smile again, turning a well-looking man into one of dangerous appeal. ‘You look charming and eminently respectable. But you forget, I know exactly what you look like without that drab gown and those neat braids.’ He ignored her inarticulate sound of protest and her reddening cheeks and added, ‘And you could look spectacular, Jessica. No, do not shake your head at me—it will take two things, the transformation of your wardrobe and your coiffure and for you to think like an adventuress, a woman on the edge, a dangerous, predatory, beautiful huntress.’

Despite everything Jessica’s sense of humour got the better of her. She laughed at him, ‘You think the church mouse can turn into the hunting cat, Gareth?’

‘No, I think the fireside tabby can arch her back and flex her claws and become a tigress.’

She shook her head, unconvinced. There was no need to panic over his scandalous scheme—it would fall at the first hurdle, her inability to be the woman he was describing. She would humour him a little.

‘And who are you going to prevail upon to let this dangerous female loose in a respectable setting?’

‘My cousin Bel, who has recently remarried. She and Maude are both deeply involved in a charity to secure employment for soldiers returning from the wars. One of Maude’s schemes to raise money for this cause is to hold a subscription ball, but as she is an unmarried girl the hostess issuing the invitations will be Bel, now Lady Dereham. Everyone who is anyone will be there, for they plan to make it one of the grand opening events of the Season—and that will include Lord Pangbourne.’

‘And how, exactly, am I going to prevail upon the respectable Lady Dereham to invite me?’

‘She would do it as a favour to me, but for the public explanation of the acquaintance we depend upon another cousin of mine, Bel’s brother, Lord Sebastian Ravenhurst. He is married to Eva, the Grand Duchess of Maubourg.’

‘But I read about that in the newspapers—it was a most romantic affair by all accounts!’ The dashing Lord Sebastian had snatched the Grand Duchess from the claws of French agents and had smuggled her across France to arrive in Brussels on the day of the Battle of Waterloo. The Grand Duchess had been reunited with her son in London and returned to Maubourg with the young Grand Duke and the man she had fallen in love with on their perilous journey.

‘It was, and there was considerably more romance to it than you would guess, even reading between the lines. However, for now I think we can agree that your late husband was employed in some manner by the Duchy. As an economic adviser perhaps? I will ask Eva’s advice.’

‘She is in England?’ A few days ago Jessica had been attempting to instil the basics of Italian conversation and Mozart sonatas into the daughter of a baronet. Since then she had been kidnapped, flung herself naked into the arms of a man, escaped from a brothel and been kissed for the first time. Now, it appeared, she was to be thrust into proximity with minor royalty.

‘She and Sebastian divide their time between his estates here—where she is Lady Sebastian Ravenhurst, a private citizen—and Maubourg where she is the Grand Duchess and Sebastian seems to have taken over as Minister for Agriculture, although I am not sure I entirely believe that. Fréderic, her son, is at school at Eton. Eva has decided she would like to do the London Season for a change, so they arrived last week and the Duke of Allington, Sebastian’s brother, has loaned them the town house.’

And now dukes, Jessica thought faintly, then pulled herself together. She was never going to be the sultry temptress Gareth was deluded enough to imagine, but at least she could continue to apply common sense to this madcap scheme.

‘And where am I going to live whilst I am scandalising London?’

‘In Bel’s house in Half Moon Street, which is currently empty while she decides whether to sell it, keep it or lease it out. You will appear to have purchased it.’

‘Or perhaps the Grand Duchess has done so in recognition of my late husband’s contribution to the Duchy?’ She had meant to be faintly sarcastic, but Gareth nodded.

‘Good idea.’

Jessica sat and regarded him, trying to convince herself she was not dreaming. Although whether this was a dream or a nightmare was debatable. ‘I arrive, transformed by some miracle into a femme fatale. We conduct a very public, flagrant liaison, Lady Maude goes into a shocked decline, Lord Pangbourne cuts your acquaintance—and then what?’

‘We keep it up for the Season.’ Three months of flirting—or worse—with Gareth? Oh, my God…’ And then you vanish off to Maubourg, seduced by one of Eva’s court, perhaps, and I am left a sadder and wiser man. One who is, most obviously, unworthy of Templeton’s ewe lamb.’

‘And I return to seeking work as a governess, with no doubt some good explanation of what I have been doing for three months?’

Gareth dropped his hands and clasped them together, his eyes on her, searching, it seemed, for some insight into her thoughts. Jessica felt they should be more than obvious.

‘Do you enjoy being a governess? No, let me rephrase that—do you have a dedication to education?’ She shrugged. ‘Why then do you seek employment in that way?’

‘Because I wish to eat! And I find I am a good teacher.’

‘You have no relatives?’ he asked, frowning at her snappish tone.

‘Yes—an aunt, cousins.’ Jessica began to see the drift of his questions and produced her usual prevarication—it was not so very far from the truth in some ways. ‘You wonder why I do not live with them? I do not chose to be beholden to anyone and dwindle into an unpaid companion, dependent on family charity for my very existence. I wish to be independent and to provide for my old age. I have no aptitude as a milliner or a dressmaker. There is very little money or security as a paid companion. But I do have skills that I can teach and I have chosen my employers with great care to enhance my references and my reputation.’

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