CRITICAL PRAISE FOR
RUTH AXTELL MORREN

LILAC SPRING

“Lilac Spring blooms with heartfelt yearning and genuine conflict as Cherish and Silas seek God’s will for their lives. Fascinating details about nineteenth-century shipbuilding are planted here and there, bringing an historical feel to this faith-filled romance.”

—Liz Curtis Higgs, bestselling author of Grace in Thine Eyes

“Morren’s engrossing style is sure to please her readers as well as win over new fans. This pleasing saga has likable characters and just enough tension to satisfy gentle romance enthusiasts.”

—Library Journal

WILD ROSE

Selected as a Booklist Top 10 Christian Novel for 2005

“The charm of the story lies in Morren’s ability to portray real passion between her characters. Wild Rose is not so much a romance as an old-fashioned love story.”

—Booklist

“A beautiful, believable love relationship…Richly defined characters and settings enhance this meaningful novel.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

“An uplifting and spiritual tale of small town life in turn-of-the-century New England. Wild Rose is a gentle, but poignant offering from Ms. Morren and proves that she is an author to watch in the coming months. This is a book you will not want to miss!”

—Romance Reviews Today

WINTER IS PAST

“Inspires readers toward a deeper trust in the transforming power of God…. [Readers] will find in Winter Is Past a novel not to be put down and a new favorite author.”

—Christian Retailing

“Ruth Axtell Morren writes with skill, sensitivity and great heart about the things that matter most…. Make room on your keeper shelf for a new favorite.”

—Susan Wiggs, New York Times bestselling author

“Faith journeys are so realistic, all readers can benefit from the story. Highly recommended.”

—CBA Marketplace

Dawn in My Heart
Ruth Axtell Morren

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For Mora,

Without you,

I’d still be waiting around, hoping to be published…

Without me, you’d be…

Well, God knows…

Here’s to obedience and discipleship.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

London, 1814

T ertius Pembroke, Fourth Earl of Skylar, observed his future bride across the drawing room.

“She’s a comely lass, isn’t she?” his father, the Marquess of Caulfield, asked in the false hearty tone Sky recognized as the striving-to-please one when he wasn’t at all sure his news would be well received.

When Tertius said nothing, his father went on. “Look at that porcelain skin, those exquisite arms, the dainty turn of her ankle.” He was positively gushing now.

Sky surveyed Lady Gillian Edwards, determined to find some fault with his father’s choice. He took a critical appraisal, from the crown of her brunette curls cut in the latest short fashion to the tips of her silver slippers.

What he found in between was in no way displeasing. Pale skin delightfully tinged pink at the cheeks bespoke untouched innocence. A pleasant tinkling sound reached his ear when she laughed at what the young dandy beside her was saying.

Comely indeed, he thought, noting the even white teeth.

“A true English rose,” his father added.

A low-cut evening gown revealed a creamy bosom. There was nothing inordinately immodest about the fashionable neckline, just enough to whet a man’s appetite. A silver ribbon cinched in the high-waisted white gown.

“Well, haven’t you anything to say?” his father demanded. “Didn’t I tell you I’d picked the best for you?”

“So you did.” At that moment, the young lady’s glance strayed to him. The two stared at each other across the room. He weighing, judging. She caught in midsmile, a smile that slowly died as it wasn’t returned, and she stood transfixed, as if uncertain what to do next.

Then the moment passed. His father nudged him on the elbow. “Come, Tertius. I told the duchess we would be here this evening to present you to her daughter.”

Skylar made no reply, having become resigned if not wholly convinced of his duty to marry and produce an heir. He’d made it clear to his father earlier that he would commit to nothing until he’d seen the young lady.

“Duchess.” Bending over her hand, his father greeted the stately woman seated near her standing daughter at the opposite end of the drawing room. “Delighted to see you. As always, you are looking more splendid than all the ladies present.”

His father’s eloquence grated on Sky’s nerves. He, in turn, bowed over the duchess’s gloved hand.

“Lord Skylar, my youngest son. It has been long since you last met, nigh on ten years, I believe.”

“Lord Skylar.” The Duchess of Burnham gave Tertius the barest nod while directing her comments to his father. “I remember. He was making his mark here in London.” The elegant, middle-aged woman appraised him. “You are much changed, my lord.”

Sky knew the words were not a compliment. “The tropics,” he replied. “They either kill you or leave you a wrecked shell as you see me now.” He gave a thin smile, having learned it was better to preempt an intended insult by stating it plainly. That usually gained one a temporary advantage.

“You have my deepest condolences on your brother’s demise,” the duchess said in the silence.

Skylar inclined his head a fraction to acknowledge her remark. He took time to observe his future mother-in-law. She was perhaps in her late forties or early fifties, her beauty skillfully maintained with the aid of cleverly applied cosmetics, her honey-hued hair not revealing any gray.

He gave his attention to her daughter. Lady Gillian was petite, brunette to her mother’s fair hair and, not quite as slim but shapelier than her mother, dressed in white muslin adorned with silver ribbons. Up close she presented even more distinctly the picture of youthful innocence than she had from across the room. Her pink cheeks contrasted prettily with her dark hair. Her neck, slim and pale, led the eye downward to the creamy expanse of shoulder exposed by the wide scalloped neckline.

She did indeed appear to be of superior quality. Trust his father to choose well. As the marquess had described her, she was “exquisitely fashioned, in good health, untouched.” In short, all the endowments required in a wife of a peer of the realm.

His father beamed at him. “What do you think, Sky, isn’t Lady Gillian a pretty lass?”

“She’ll do,” he said, wanting as always to put a damper on his father’s perpetual good humor.

He hadn’t noticed the color of Lady Gillian’s eyes until that moment, but as she turned their dark-lashed focus on him, he was struck by their pale green. Wintergreen, he thought, taking in their icy hue, rimmed by a dark spruce. She looked as cold as an icehouse, he thought, comparing her to the warm, honey-toned women of the Indies, with their open nature and easy embraces.

Knowing it was up to him to initiate the act of courtship, he asked her, “May I entreat you to take a turn about the room?”

She gave a slight bow of her head. Like mother, like daughter, he thought, comparing her condescension with the duchess’s.

He held out his arm and she placed her hand around it, barely resting her weight upon it. Slowly they promenaded the long, guest-filled drawing room, as his father’s voice trailed after them. “See there, what a handsome pair they make.” He could be speaking of a matched set of bays. “I knew they would be agreeable to the arrangement.”

Sky led Lady Gillian about the room as the tinkling strains of Telemann vied with the babble of voices in the background.

The top of her head scarcely reached his shoulder. She was looking away from him, and he realized she hadn’t looked at him since that first straight-on stare.

He had no clue how to court a young lady of the ton. He hadn’t even done so back in his days as a young buck in London society, preferring the company of tavern wenches. And now it had been at least a half dozen years since he’d said anything meaningful to a young chit barely out of the schoolroom.

He cleared his throat. “Is this your first season?”

“No, my lord,” she replied, not deigning to turn toward him.

“Your second?” he asked blandly.

The deep-fringed eyes stared up at him. “It’s my third.” The tone dared him to make anything of the fact.

Something about her haughtiness impelled him to bait her. “Hanging out for a title?”

“Putting off the state of matrimony as long as possible.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought a young lady’s sole ambition was to make a match approved by society?”

“If there were a worthy candidate, I might have changed my mind.” When he continued studying her, she said, “It appears you have avoided the state longer than I. How old are you? Forty? And still not wed?”

“I’m sure the duchess has made you aware of my five-and-thirty years,” he said, irritated that he felt the barb.

“Painfully,” came the acid reply.

Wondering at her animosity, he said, “I have not ‘avoided’ the state, as you misjudge. In my case, there was no undue hurry. I was not in search of a fortune or anyone’s good name to improve the Caulfield line. That responsibility rested upon my elder brother’s shoulders. I could take a more leisurely approach to matrimony. A young lady hasn’t that luxury. Her bloom quickly fades and soon she is what the gossips term ‘on the shelf.’”

“I can assure you, my lord, I am far from on the shelf!” The hue of her cheeks deepened. “I have had plenty of offers, but I, too, could afford to wait. Just as you, I have no need of someone else’s title or fortune.”

“It appears we are well suited then. We should be grateful for our parents’ having taken the trouble of the selection of partner out of our hands.”

When she made no reply, he mused, “Three seasons…Aren’t you concerned the gossips would have commented on you by now?”

She flashed him a look of anger. “I had no need to be! My mother has been very particular of whom she has allowed to pay court to me. When your father approached her, she viewed your suit favorably.”

“How fortunate for me.”

“As my mother has pointed out, apart from our difference in age, we are social equals in every way.”

She feigned a cool facade, but contained some fire in her, he thought in grudging admiration. Beneath that exquisite bosom beat a proud little heart—perhaps as proud as his own. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about diluting his bloodline with inferior stock. “We should suit admirably by all conventional wisdom,” he concluded.

Her dark eyebrows drew together in a slight frown. “As to that, I have no opinion. I trust, as is customary, we shall each go our own way once we are wed.”

“Do you?” he murmured. “That depends,” he added softly.

She disengaged her hand from his arm and turned to face him. “Lord Skylar, I think we should be clear on this point. I have agreed to this betrothal because, as my mother has so sensibly explained to me, you are Lord Caulfield’s heir, which means I stand to become the Marchioness of Caulfield someday. Apart from your advanced age, you possess all the qualities suitable for a good match.” She gave him the same kind of appraising look her mother had. “In short, my lord, you’ll do.”

Ah. Comprehension dawned. He had offended the chit and now she was striking back. She had spirit, and he liked that. Better than a simpering deb.

He smiled at her. “And did your mother further explain that, together, we need to produce one healthy male heir—a feat my dear, departed brother Edmund, for all his other accomplishments, was not able to achieve. What think you? Shall we manage it?”

She seemed unfazed. “It remains to be seen.”

“I would say, rather, it remains to be done.”

Her color rose to her already rosy cheeks until it suffused her whole face and neck at this direct reference to their marital duties. Tertius was almost sorry he had spoken so quickly, but he needn’t have worried. She rallied admirably.

“You, my lord, are disgusting.” With that pronouncement, she wheeled away from him and marched back toward her mother.

The next morning, Gillian paced back and forth in her bedroom. Her opinions about the insufferable man she had been introduced to the evening before had not changed overnight. Each time she thought of his words “she’ll do!” she was outraged afresh.

“Mother, he’s ghastly! You can’t make me marry him.” Gillian stopped in front of the chaise where her mother lounged in her embroidered silk dressing gown.

She shuddered at the memory of Lord Skylar’s supercilious way of looking down at her from his great height while he pronounced some shocking statement in that lazy drawl. And that last ungentlemanly remark! Oh, it didn’t bear thinking on!

“Don’t speak nonsense,” her mother replied, examining her buffed nails in the morning light. “Lord Skylar is the best catch of the season now that he’s inherited his brother’s title.”

“Well, let someone else have him…if they can stomach his company,” she added under her breath as she resumed her pacing. She shook her head at the sprigged muslin her maid held out to her.

“He’s positively gothic. He reminds me of some creepy villain with those black eyes and hair and those gaunt cheeks. When he looks at me, I feel as if he sees right past me.”

“It’s a pity Lord Skylar doesn’t have his brother’s looks,” her mother conceded, “but he’s just got over a terrible fever. Who knows what malady a person can pick up in the Indies? But after he’s been in London a few weeks, he’ll put on some weight and be in the pink of health, just in time for the wedding, you’ll see.”

“I doubt his manners will improve on further acquaintance.” Gillian stopped long enough to remove her dressing gown and allow the maid to help her into the jaconet morning dress in pale green with the rows of pink ribbons along the hem.

“Oh, come, he was perfectly amiable to me.”

“He might have behaved so with you, but with me, he was most provoking.”

“Then you must exert yourself to be extra charming,” her mother replied.

“It will take every ounce of my resolve, which I confess isn’t any too strong at this moment,” she added, tapping her foot impatiently as the maid laced up her gown.

“The fact remains, it’s time you were wed. Don’t forget you’ll soon be twenty-one and that bloom will fade.”

She glared at her mother. Had she and Lord Skylar been consulting together? Gillian went to her dressing table and studied herself in the glass as her maid brushed out her hair. She’d always been considered pretty. More than pretty. Maybe it was her nose, not aquiline but a trifle pert, or her eyes, not a deep emerald green, but that washed-out shade she wished in vain leaned a trifle more toward blue.

She’d always thought her coloring good. Now she wondered if her cheeks weren’t too red.

As her maid arranged her hair into ringlets around her forehead and temples, Gillian looked at her in the glass. “Maybe we should try it away from the face today,” she suggested, pulling the side curls back.

“Lord Skylar’s is the kind of offer we’ve been holding out for,” her mother reminded her from the chaise.

“You’ve been holding out for,” Gillian corrected.

“Many a young girl has fared much worse in a choice of husband. You should be thanking your lucky stars old Lord Caulfield saw fit to approach us with this offer. As I said, you need to be married before you’re any older. It’s time you began setting up your own household.”

Her mother came to stand beside the maid.

“What do you think?” Gillian asked her mother.

The Duchess of Burnham smoothed back an escaping curl before nodding her approval. “It is simple, as is befitting a young lady.”

As the maid stepped away, Gillian’s mother placed a hand on her shoulder, her tone gentling. “You’ll soon see the advantages of being a matron over a debutante. You’ll have a freedom to come and go that you haven’t heretofore known.” She smiled. “If someday you meet a gentleman more to your taste, with your sensibilities…” She shrugged. “With a little discretion, you can enjoy the kind of romantic love you foolishly dream of now.”

Gillian’s further protests were stilled by her mother’s words. She shivered. Why did it seem her life was ending before it had scarcely begun? Would she never have that fulfillment she read about in romantic novels—that she’d scarcely tasted before it had been snatched from her? Would the only avenue that remained to her be to hope for some furtive alliance sometime in the distant future? She considered the ladies she read about in the society news. Lady Melbourne and her daughter-in-law, Lady Caroline, women who were known for their lovers, and she wondered sadly if that was the only future left to her.

She thought of the pimply faced dandies that had surrounded her at every dance since her come-out and compared them to the ideal she’d been dreaming about and waiting for for so many years. A handsome, manly officer coming back to claim her as his own.

She sighed, dispelling the futile dream. Yes, she was ready for marriage. She needed a change. Too many years spent waiting…waiting for someone she was now resigned would never appear.

Her mother patted her hand as if reading her mind.

“What you need to think about is your wedding trousseau. We shall begin making purchases immediately. I shall have Mme. Rouget stop by and measure you for your wedding gown. How fortunate for Wellington’s victory. Think of all the Paris fashions now available.

“Come, let us look at the spring edition of La Belle Assemblée. It’s full of all the latest French gowns and bonnets. Since our glorious army has driven Napoleon off the Continent, everything has a military flair.” Her mother held out the magazine to her. “Look at this riding habit with the frogged neck and epaulets.

“You must have half-a-dozen new ball gowns at least. You’ll no longer be limited to white muslin but can be much more daring in your selections.”

The thought was enticing. Gillian moved closer to her mother to look at the colored illustrations.

“You’ll need a whole new wardrobe as the Countess of Skylar. Think of the estates you’ll be mistress over. I imagine Lord Skylar will be purchasing his own residence in town and not expect you to live with Lord Caulfield, although his mansion on Park Lane is quite stupendous.”

As her mother talked on, flipping through the pages of the magazine, Gillian managed to forget her initial encounter with the cold, rude Lord Skylar and focus on the advantages of life as a young society matron.

The rest didn’t bear thinking on. Her mother wanted her married by the end of the year. A good six months away. There was plenty of time to enjoy being betrothed to one of the most illustrious names in the ton without dwelling too much on the wedding night.

“What the deuce were you thinking of, Tertius?” His father paced the confines of Sky’s dressing room as Sky finished his toilette. “From what the duchess tells me, the girl is balking at the marriage. Don’t you know how to woo a lady? Who were you living among, a bunch of wild savages in the Indies?”

Sky opened his eyes and glanced at Nigel, his valet, who was shaving him. “No, there was your usual small, tight coterie of the well-bred. I wouldn’t call them all savages, would you, Nigel?” He arched an eyebrow at his valet as the man wiped his jaw clean and handed him a glass.

“No, sir,” the black man answered, holding out a starched muslin square of cloth for his approval.

Sky lifted his chin as the man wrapped it around his neck and began the intricate work of folding it.

“Well, whatever they were, you’re back among the civilized and grateful you should be. You at last have a purpose in life, thanks to poor Edmund’s demise.”

Tertius frowned at his father’s waistcoat. “You know, I never liked puce on you. It makes you look bilious.”

His father looked down at his middle, momentarily distracted. “No? Weston himself made it up for me.” He walked to Sky’s full-length mirror and stood in front of it, his head tilted to one side, his hands pulling the waistcoat straight. He moved his body this way and that before turning back to Sky. “The color of my waistcoat is neither here nor there. To get back to the point, all I want is for you to exert yourself, make yourself tolerably agreeable to a lovely young lady of irreproachable pedigree—”

Tertius snorted. “Who has been thrust upon me as soon as I set foot on British soil, my newly inherited title not even having a chance to settle on me.”

His father sputtered. “That’s gratitude! I find you a perfectly suitable young lady to wed. I’ve already lost one son. I’ll not let the other go without issue. You’re five-and-thirty, Tertius. You look closer to the grave than Edmund ever did.”

“I said I’d marry the chit,” Tertius returned in an even voice. “What more do you want?”

“A little cooperation. You appeared long after Edmund’s funeral,” Caulfield retorted. “You come back surly and disagreeable and looking like a victim of typhus. You can’t make me believe it was such a sacrifice for you to pull yourself away from the Indies. It certainly hasn’t done anything for you.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” His cravat finished, Sky stood and eyed it in the glass. “I had quite a comfortable life on my sugar plantation.”

His father harrumphed. “Tending a plantation in the backwater of the kingdom, a job any good steward could do?”

Tertius’s glance crossed Nigel’s before his valet began silently putting away the morning’s toilet articles.

“Well, what do you think, Father? Has Nigel mastered the trone d’amour?” He turned for his father to inspect the white neck cloth.

His father stepped closer and peered at his neck. “Not bad. Nigel, is it?” For the first time since entering his rooms, his father gave his attention to the manservant. “Got him in the Indies?”

“It would appear so,” Sky replied.

“Don’t be impertinent. Almost everyone these days in London has a blackamoor footman—but this is the first time I’ve seen one for a valet. Did it take you long to train him?”

“Nigel was an amazingly quick study,” Tertius drawled. “From the cane fields to the intricacies of folding white linen, in what? Six months, Nigel?”

His valet’s muddy green eyes met his. “Yes, sir, that would be about the time.”

“What a fine specimen,” his father remarked, as he took a turn around the West Indian. “Look at that brawn. He’d make a fine boxer. He reminds me of Cribb. I saw him spar it out with Tom Molineaux back in “10.” Lord Caulfield stood in front of Nigel and eyed the breadth of his chest. “Your man makes ‘the Black Diamond’ look like a dwarf. Sure you wouldn’t want to put him in the ring?”

“He’s played Apollo for me at an evening’s festivities, but I haven’t as yet had him take up pugilism. It’s an idea…” Sky mused.

“Apollo? Why not Atlas?” Caulfield asked, continuing to admire the valet’s physique. “I imagine he looked splendid draped in a white toga.”

“Splendid indeed. I chose Apollo because of the loftiness of his thoughts. Atlas represents brute strength, and I believe Nigel has a bit more than that in his skull, eh?” he asked his valet with a smile before turning to shrug on the coat Nigel held out to him. He took his watch and fobs from him, along with a pocket-handkerchief.

“Thank you. You may go,” he told Nigel.

Lord Caulfield waited until the servant had left the room carrying an armful of linen. “Now, back to your affianced. You must make yourself agreeable. Take her out for a nice ride in Hyde Park. There are a dozen victory celebrations planned with Wellington’s arrival. The first thing you can do is meet her at Almack’s tonight and pay her court.”

Tertius stopped listening to his father’s instructions. Instead he thought about the young lady’s angry tone and frosty green eyes. He admitted how deliberately unflattering his remarks had been. She’d had a right to take offense. He had nothing against her personally. If he was easily irritated, it wasn’t due to Lady Gillian Edwards.

“Very well, Father, I shall see her tonight and endeavor to ‘woo’ her as you so quaintly put it.”

Tertius scanned the company assembled in Almack’s ballroom. Things hadn’t changed much in his ten-year absence, he concluded as he took in the assortment of muslin-clad young ladies, most in white bedecked with pastel ribbons and flowers, standing amidst the gilt columns, their mamas and chaperones closely in attendance. The young misses simpered at the young gentlemen hovering around them. His attention went to the dancers and he finally spotted Lady Gillian. She was in the middle of executing a tour de main with her partner in the quadrille.

“She’s a dandy little filly,” his longtime friend, Lord Delaney, opined, quizzing her through his glass.

“She’s accomplished in the quadrille, at any rate,” observed Tertius dryly.

“From what I hear, she’ll bring you ten thousand per annum. It makes little difference, in that light, I suppose, how well she dances,” Lane added with a chuckle.

“She strikes me as a bit lively.” Tertius narrowed his eyes, watching Lady Gillian laugh and bat her eyelashes at her dance partner.

“A tremendous flirt,” Delaney informed him.

Tertius’s frowned deepened.

“But no one has ever been able to take the least liberties with her,” his friend added hastily, “on account of the dragon lady.”

Tertius raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

Delaney nodded across the room. “Miss Templeton. See the dark-haired lady with the pursed lips?”

“The one who looks as if she’s swallowed sour wine?”

“The very one. That’s Lady Gillian’s companion. She appeared soon after her first season, and she hasn’t let Lady Gillian out of her sight since then.”

Tertius felt a twinge of pity for the young lady if that disagreeable-looking lady was her watchdog. Miss Templeton looked like the typical spinster past her prime. “Let me guess, she’s probably a distant relation living out some cheerless existence on too little.”

“Yes, who knows where the Duchess of Burnham found her, but she never hesitates to tell anyone willing to listen how she is accustomed to better things. I believe she’s a third cousin to the late Duke.”

It crossed Tertius’s mind to wonder how Lady Gillian would behave once her bodyguard were removed.

“Lord Skylar!” a lady exclaimed. “When did you arrive back in town?”

“Lady Jersey.” Tertius bowed over her kid-encased hand. “The prodigal has returned, as you can see.”

“My, yes.” She stood at arm’s length, surveying him. “It has been years that you’ve been away.”

“A decade, to be precise.”

“A decade!” Her eyes opened wide. “You were a young man about town then, quite a rake as I recall. So, you have come from making your fortune in the Indies, I presume?”

He sketched another brief bow. “That was the purpose.”

“Dear Lord Caulfield was at his wits’ end, I recall.” She peered at him more closely. “I don’t know how that climate across the Atlantic agreed with you. You’re awfully brown and thin.”

He shrugged. “The sun is to blame for the one and a plaguey fever for the other.”

She patted his hand. “London will soon put you to rights.”

“One can but hope.”

“Well, I trust you will find some pleasant amusement here tonight. Still unmarried?”

He nodded. “A state shortly to be remedied.”

Lady Jersey, smiling delightedly, asked, “Is that what brought you here tonight? What think you of our pretty young ladies? There will surely be one to catch your eye.”

“One already has.”

“Oh, I’m all aflutter with curiosity. Tell me who it is, and I shall arrange an introduction.”

Things had certainly not changed at Almack’s. “In point of fact, my dear Lady Jersey, the introductions have already been effected. Our two families came to an understanding ere I set foot on British soil. It but remains for the betrothal to be announced.”

Her mouth formed a small circle of astonishment. “Oh, my. When is the good news to be made known?”

“Within the week, I’m certain. Apropos of it, I would crave your indulgence on something touching this engagement.”

“Oh, yes, tell me.” Her eyes lit up in anticipation that she would be privy to some inside information.

“Since the young lady and I are already promised to each other, I would like to ask your permission to dance the waltz with her.”

Her mouth formed another O as she blinked at him. “Oh, dear Lord Skylar, we do so frown on the waltz. There’s been a mania for it ever since the Czar danced it here earlier this month. We could hardly refuse him permission. But we don’t encourage it. I know it is danced all over the Continent, and at private dances in town, but we have always tried to maintain a certain standard of propriety at Almack’s. We’ve only just introduced the quadrille this season. We are the upholders of the highest decorum for the young ladies who are presented every season, you understand.”

“I understand,” he interjected smoothly when it was apparent she would continue in this vein. He smiled his most charming smile. “But seeing how my betrothal to Lady Gillian Edwards will shortly be announced, I can see no harm in indulging us in this one dance.”

“Lady Gillian?” Her eyes grew wide at this piece of information.

“Yes, though I know you can be trusted to be discreet about the betrothal until it is officially announced.”

“Oh, of course. You can trust absolutely to my silence.”

Knowing it would be all over town before another day had passed, he pressed his advantage. “So, my lady, will you favor me with this request?”

She pursed her lips and made a few sounds of debating with herself. Finally she drew herself up. “Very well, I suppose a waltz with Lady Gillian wouldn’t be improper under these circumstances. But only one, mind you. There will be talk. I must go and explain to the other patronesses why I have given you my leave.” She gave him a conspiratorial smile. “I shall even request that the orchestra play a waltz after this set.”

He bowed.

By this time, Lady Gillian was standing along the wall, surrounded by a gaggle of overly refined young dandies, from what Sky could judge. He ambled over, Delaney at his side congratulating him on his smooth handling of Lady Jersey.

When Sky arrived behind her flock of admirers, he stood a good half-head above them, so he could observe Lady Gillian easily.

“Oh, Pinky, you mustn’t be so naughty. You know he can’t help who his tailor is,” she remonstrated with the young man nearest her. The others chuckled.

One by one they fell silent as they noticed Sky’s presence. He didn’t look at any of them but approached Lady Gillian as a path opened up in front of him. He bowed over her hand. “My lady, would you honor me with this next waltz?”

Her mouth dropped open at his request before she snapped it shut. She removed her gloved hand from his in what struck him as a studied gesture. “I must decline as I have not as yet been given the nod from the patronesses to dance the waltz.”

“But I have.” Fixing his eye on the so-called Pinky, an effete-looking young man with too much pomade on his hair, Sky quelled him with a mere look as he opened his mouth to speak. Then he turned his attention back to Lady Gillian. With a deliberately imperious gesture, Sky held out his arm as the first strains of the waltz began. Silently she placed her gloved arm in his.

The two walked onto the dance floor, where Tertius took her in his arms and began to lead.

“However did you get permission from one of the patronesses? They are notoriously strict, you know.”

The two glided smoothly over the dance floor. “I told Lady Jersey as you and I were to be leg-shackled, I could see nothing objectionable to a waltz. I think the value of the gossip I gave her overrode any hesitation on her part.”

Although he had said this with a perfectly straight face, he could see the smile tugging at her mouth at this last piece of information. She had beautiful lips, he conceded, full and rosy. “Haven’t you obtained the nod from them as yet?” he asked.

“Goodness, no. They dislike me. I think they consider me too forward.”

“Are you?”

She flushed and turned her face away from him. “They are a bunch of old ladies who wield absolute power in their little kingdom.” She shrugged. “They are entirely too full of their own importance. I have danced the waltz on many occasions at private balls.”

“You dance well.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Gillian gave him a slight inclination of her head, to show the compliment pleased her. Her dislike lessened a fraction. She had been impressed by the way he had silenced all those silly young boys surrounding her. And he did dance smoothly. He was too austere for her taste, however. During the entire dance, she felt as if she were being observed through a quizzing glass.

As the music played, she wondered idly what it would take to get such a man to fall in love with her. She hadn’t a clue, she admitted, observing his dark features. His hair and eyes were nearly black, the hair a trifle long, raked back against a high forehead, his skin unfashionably dark.

With no conscious thought, she compared him to another dark-haired gentleman she’d known. The likeness ended there. The two were nothing alike, either physically or in their character.

She pushed aside the memory and focused on her dance partner. She had never known a man so completely insensitive to her charms. Since her come-out, she was accustomed to receiving praise, if not always in speeches, then certainly in the flattering looks directed her way. Young gentlemen flocked around her to pay her court. They laughed at her sallies and wrote odes to her.

She couldn’t imagine this man behaving in such a manner. His less-than-complimentary assessment of her still rankled. As the dance continued, the idea of contriving an infatuation on his part continued to grow. How would she go about it?

At that second his gaze met hers. She couldn’t read anything in it but indifference, before it strayed beyond her. Once again, she felt her annoyance grow. He could at least have given her a smile.

In half a year, she would be wed to this stranger.

She shuddered inwardly as the full implications gripped her.

She blinked, erasing the image that filled her mind, and set her mind to thinking of the beautiful trousseau she would have and the new measure of independence that marriage would give her. No longer would Templeton dog her every footstep or frown in disapproval at the least action.

Life as the Countess of Skylar was a step upward, she reminded herself. She wouldn’t think about the other aspects of it. Or about the colossal obstacle she’d have to surmount in order to arrive there.

As soon as the dance ended, Lord Skylar took her back to her companions. Miffed that he hadn’t even expressed the desire to dance another set with her, she removed her hand from his as he bowed.

“I shall come by and collect you tomorrow afternoon for a drive around the park. Is three o’clock satisfactory?”

Did he think her acquiescence was to be taken for granted just because their two families had agreed on their betrothal? Did it imply she was not to be won? “I must check my engagement book,” she told him haughtily.

His eyes narrowed. “As I am your intended, I believe I take precedence over any other engagements. I suggest you clear your calendar for my invitations.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“If you prefer we not see each other until our wedding day and bed a stranger that night, be so good as to inform me. I can find suitable occupation and companionship until then, I assure you.”

“You are insulting!” she said through stiff lips.

He gave her a thin smile. “But nevertheless honest. Until tomorrow afternoon then?”

Leaving her no chance to reply, he turned and left.

Chapter Two

L ord Delaney approached Tertius as soon as he saw him alone.

“Well, how goes the courtship?”

Tertius hid a yawn behind his gloved hand. “Normal, I expect.”

“I must say you make a fine couple.” He cleared his throat. “You haven’t taken it amiss your father’s ordering you to marry and choosing your bride for you?”

Sky shrugged. “As long as my affianced has received the proper upbringing and is a virtuous young lady, the two of us should make out tolerably well together.”

Lane smiled. “You can rest easy on that score. Lady Gillian is a diamond of the first water. Your father has chosen the best of the season’s crop.”

Sky’s lip twisted. “I’m sure that was no hardship for him. Women are his specialty.”

Delaney laughed. “Lord Caulfield is an expert in the field of beauty and wit.” He rubbed his hands together. “Speaking of which, the evening is still young. What say we leave this establishment and find greener pastures?”

Sky raised an eyebrow at his friend. “What had you in mind?”

“Since you’ve been away from London so long, why don’t we start by getting you reacquainted with some of the—er—delights of town?”

“The only delights I recall are waking up with my head about to split open like a ripe melon and going to my father like a young whelp, begging him to cover a debt of honor incurred the night before.”

Lane chuckled. “London hasn’t changed much, but I trust you have. You are a man of means. You don’t have to go to your father anymore, do you, to cover your gambling debts?”

“That is one thing that has changed for the better. I also know how to hold my liquor,” he added as the two headed out of the ballroom.

“I have the most delicious thing to show you.”

“Yes? Whereabouts?”

“Drury Lane.” He removed his watch. “We’re in time for the second show. Come along. You shan’t regret it.”

Once seated in Lord Delaney’s box at the theater, Sky observed that the earlier show had been a performance of Richard the Third with Kean. He would have preferred seeing the debut of the actor who was causing such a stir on the London stage to the farce being enacted now.

“See, what do you think?” his friend asked him, leaning forward in his seat.

Taking up his opera glasses, Tertius regarded the players on the stage. He lingered on a pretty actress before replying to Delaney. “The one playing the maidservant?”

“Isn’t she divine? Look at that leg, that shapely calf!”

“Yes, she is the handsomest of the lot,” he said, continuing to eye the young woman who was retorting to a male actor. As she swiveled around, he gave her a slap on the backside. The crowd roared with laughter.

“Handsome? She’s beautiful. A goddess.”

Tertius nodded. She was beautiful, even beneath her painted face and atrocious wig. He recognized the classical features. Suddenly she looked straight at him and acknowledged his scrutiny with a saucy wink before performing a pirouette away from his end of the stage. He could say the wink wasn’t meant for him for all the attention she paid him after that. But he knew it was real. He had enough experience to know.

“I tell you,” Lane waxed on, “I shall have her before another fortnight is out. She has been holding off, but she won’t be able to resist me much longer. Everyone in town is vying for her affections. I have sent her flowers, candies, baubles. Yesterday, I sent her a pair of silver bracelets. I promised their duplicate in gold the day she allowed me to visit her after a show.”

“Has she replied?”

“Not yet. But I expect to receive word any night.”

“Well, let’s hope your gifts are not in vain.”

Lord Delaney’s hopes were not dashed. Before the end of the last act, a young errand boy delivered a note to his box. He smiled slyly at Sky after reading it.

“We are requested the pleasure of Miss Spencer’s company backstage after the performance.”

When the actors had given their last curtain call, Tertius followed Delaney along the dim corridor, as they wended their way past actors, stagehands and props. At the dressing-room door, the stagehand knocked and called out, “Your visitors, Miss Spencer.”

“Send them in.”

“Those dulcet tones, music to my ears,” Delaney murmured.

The small room was crammed with costumes and various other paraphernalia ranged along the walls. Sky shoved aside a silken garment to station himself by the door.

Miss Spencer swiveled about on the stool in front of her dressing table. Her amber locks tumbled behind her shoulders. She was draped loosely in an embroidered silk dressing gown.

“Good evening, Lord Delaney. Who is your friend?” she asked, her gaze lingering on Sky. He stared back at her until she gave him a coy smile with her carmine-red lips.

“This is the Earl of Skylar, lately arrived from the Indies. He was bowled over with your performance and threatened me with untold dire consequences if I didn’t escort him to meet you.”

“Indeed? We couldn’t permit that.” She held up a slim, white arm, allowing a pair of silver bracelets to fall from her wrist to her forearm.

“You flatter me with sporting so trifling a gift,” Delaney responded with a bow. “May I say your performance was magnificent tonight?”

“You may,” she answered, her focus on the worked bracelets. Suddenly she yawned, a large gaping yawn. “I’m famished. Would you care to escort me to dinner?”

Sky watched his friend’s unfeigned delight and anticipation. As she motioned the two of them to have a seat on a damask settee, she rose slowly and made her way behind a dressing screen. Lane lounged on the settee while Sky remained where he stood. He listened to their conversation as he watched the silk robe being tossed onto the top of the screen.

When Miss Spencer reappeared, she looked like a proper English lady in a long-sleeved muslin dress. Delaney helped her on with her cloak and together they went out to Sky’s carriage. At Miss Spencer’s request, he gave his coachman directions to the Shakespeare.

Despite the late hour the chophouse was full when they arrived.

“All the theater crowd comes here,” she told them, “but the owner always has a place for me.” They followed a waiter to a snug table by the mullioned windows. Golden candlelight glowed in the reflection from its uneven surfaces. The room was redolent with the smell of grilling meats and tobacco smoke.

They were soon served thick steaks smothered in oyster sauce and pots of porter. Sky relished each savory bite. For weeks he hadn’t been able to tolerate any but the blandest soups and broths during the last bout of fever. He shoved aside the memory, not wishing to dwell on the long, terrible ordeal, only relieved it was over.

Miss Spencer frequently waved to or called out greetings to fellow theatrical acquaintances.

When their main course had been cleared away, they enjoyed an apple tart. The actress listened tolerantly to Lane’s flattering remarks but mainly treated him with careless disdain.

“What brings your friend back from the Indies?” she asked Delaney with a sidelong glance at Sky.

“A death in the family,” Sky replied before Lane could speak.

“Oh, dear, not close, I trust?”

Sky cracked a filbert and offered it to her. “A brother.”

“The eldest,” added Lane. “You see before you the new Earl of Skylar.”

She took the nutmeat from Sky’s palm. “I see a gentleman of few words but deep thought.”

“And very deep pockets,” Lane added with a laugh.

She joined in his laughter. “Tell me, how is the theater in the Indies?” she asked Sky directly this time.

He shrugged. “Not to be compared to London, by any means.”

“Is there a chance for a working girl like me?” she asked.

“I think a girl of your talents would have a measure of success anywhere she chose to reside.”

“A measure only?”

“That probably depends on the efforts she puts forth.”

“I’m a very hardworking girl.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“My dear Miss Spencer,” Lane said, bringing her attention back to himself. Sky watched his friend strive to engage her, wondering if this young woman was anything like the series of dancers his father had enjoyed over the years of Sky’s youth. He hadn’t been back long enough to know whom his father was currently involved with. Sky had discovered long ago his sire was a very private man. He wondered if there was anyone privy to all his secrets.

Sky had hardly seen his father. When the marquess wasn’t at the races, he was at the gaming table or at someone’s house in the country round about London.

The three of them lingered over their table until two in the morning. When at last they rose, Sky gave instructions to his coachman to drop off Miss Spencer first at her residence. She gave him a very pointed look of open invitation, but he ignored it.

When she had left them, Lane closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat. “Have you ever seen such an exquisite complexion? And those eyes, they make you feel either you can conquer all or that you’re the biggest imbecile she’s ever come across.”

Sky had to chuckle at that. “She is, after all, an actress.”

“Ah, her talent!”

Sky hadn’t actually seen her act, merely prance across the stage, but he didn’t point this out to his enamored friend. He shifted against the squabs, feeling a vague discomfort. He had already begun to feel it in the restaurant, but now it grew stronger. The meal had obviously not agreed with him.

Just a bout of indigestion, nothing more. Probably bad oysters. He refused to think it could be anything else.

Certainly not a recurrence of the fever that had almost killed him.

“Pity you shall soon be leg-shackled, although I think Lady Gillian is a wonderful girl.” Lane gave a deep sigh. “But I wouldn’t want to miss the delights of a Miss Spencer.” He grinned wickedly at Sky in the darkened coach interior. “Of course, after a suitable period, the proverbial honeymoon, you can always keep an eye out for another such morsel.”

“Except for the fact I’m one of those who believes in the exclusivity of marriage.”

“What? You mean keeping one’s marriage vows?”

Sky pulled aside the curtain, not caring to enter into a discussion on his views of matrimony.

“Oh, come on, man, show me one London couple who keeps their vows after, say, five years of marriage.”

“I daresay one would be hard-pressed,” he admitted.

“Is this some West Indian custom you’ve picked up?”

Sky breathed in deeply, hoping that would ease the queasiness stirring in his stomach. “Let’s just say I would want to know my heirs are my own.”

Lane nodded. “Of course. But say after a time, once your lineage is secure…”

“There’s a small matter of pride. If I can’t satisfy my bride, I probably deserve to be cuckolded.”

Delaney laughed. “If only more gentlemen held that viewpoint.”

They fell silent as the carriage crossed Haymarket. Then Lane ventured once again, “What if, despite everything, your wife should stray?”

“Well, let us hope my marrying a young lady of high birth who knows little of the world will give me someone innocent enough to conform to my way of thinking.”

Lord Skylar appeared at Lady Gillian’s residence promptly at three o’clock the next afternoon. Gillian saw him descend from his curricle, hand his tiger the reins and give him some instructions, before striding toward the front steps. She sat ensconced in a comfortable chair at her bedroom window, having retired to her room with a book at half-past two and neglecting to mention to her mother that Lord Skylar would call.

Twenty minutes went by before she received a summons. During that time, she had paced and stopped in front of her full-length mirror a half-dozen times, wondering why her absence hadn’t been noted sooner.

She smoothed down the jonquil-yellow lawn dress and readjusted the moss-green ribbon tied under the bodice, knowing the colors enhanced her complexion and dark hair. Giving herself one final look in the glass, with a quick rearranging of her curls, she left the confines of her room.

She could hear voices through the drawing room door. Quietly she opened it, wanting to observe before being observed.

Lord Skylar sat forward on the striped settee, with his hands upon a cane, directing himself to Templeton. He looked perfectly at ease chatting with her.

“I know precisely what you mean,” he said to Gillian’s companion in an understanding tone. Gillian stared from his benign demeanor to her tormentor’s parched features, which reminded her of a desiccated fish. Templeton coughed and reddened, stammering something in reply. It was probably the first time someone had agreed with her on anything.

Her mother sat across from them, regarding Lord Skylar with an interested smile.

“Ah, there is Gillian at last,” she declared, turning to her.

Lord Skylar rose in a leisurely fashion and gave her a slight bow. “Good afternoon, Lady Gillian.”

He wore black, and she realized he was still in mourning for his brother. His appearance continued to unnerve her, those dark looks deepened by the dark garments he wore.

She gave him a brief nod. “Good afternoon.”

He waited until she had seated herself as far away from him as possible before taking his seat again.

“Lord Skylar has requested your company for a ride around the park. He was hopeful to find you at home today. I told him of course you would be available to him at any time. He has but to send round a note.”

Gillian gave Lord Skylar a tight smile, conceding him the victory. At least he hadn’t given her away. “Lord Skylar did mention paying a call this afternoon. It must have slipped my mind.”

“Slipped your mind!” Templeton’s disapproving tone intruded. “Good gracious, my lady. You have better manners than that. You owe Lord Skylar an apology.”

“She owes me nothing. I have found her at home and that is all that is required,” he drawled, returning Gillian’s smile with one of his one.

“I believe a ride is a delightful idea. It will give the two of you the chance to get better acquainted with one another,” put in her mother. “It is such a lovely afternoon.”

“As you wish, Mama.”

Lord Skylar rose again. “Then, as we have the duchess’s permission, I suggest we depart.” He approached her chair and held out an arm. “Shall we?”

As they were leaving the room, she turned toward her companion. “Aren’t you coming with us, Templeton?”

Her mother answered for her. “No, my dear. Since you are taking a drive with your betrothed and his groom, you have no need of Templeton.”

Gillian blinked at her mother. Before she could say anything, Lord Skylar led her out the door.

“Don’t forget your parasol and shawl, my lady,” Templeton called out.

Gillian was too amazed at her sudden freedom from Templeton to be aware of Lord Skylar handing her up into the close confines of the curricle. As he took the reins and whip from his tiger, she unfurled her parasol in the open carriage, aware all the while of how closely she sat beside him.

She watched his gloved hands as he maneuvered the curricle around the crowded square and was forced to concede he was a competent whip. He skirted the crested coaches parked in front of the stately residences while avoiding the oncoming vehicles clip-clopping toward them.

“You have a fine pair of grays,” she commented once they were away from the crowded streets of Mayfair and approaching the green expanse of Hyde Park.

“I can take no credit. They were Edmund’s. Not the pair that killed him,” he added.

“I’m sorry. It must pain you to think about your brother…the suddenness of the accident.”

“By the time I was informed, he was long dead and buried, but yes, it still came as a shock. I never expected him to go in quite that manner. An overturned coach…a broken neck…He was still in his prime and always had a strong constitution. I’d always expected him to live to his nineties.”

“You must have looked up to him,” she commented, wondering how it felt to suddenly inherit the place of an elder brother and heir. As an only child herself, she had always thought it would be nice to have a brother or sister, someone to turn to and confide in when there was no one else.

Lord Skylar glanced at her before fixing his attention back on the congestion in front of the park gates. “Everyone admired Edmund.”

She glanced at his profile. The words were spoken as a statement of fact. Before she could comment further, she noticed they were passing the gates without turning in. She sat up. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded as they continued down Knightsbridge.

“Oh, to a little farmhouse in Kensington Village,” he drawled, not taking his eyes off the crowded thoroughfare. “I thought I’d make love to you all afternoon and then return you to your mama in time for tea.”

“Turn this vehicle around immediately!”

He grinned wickedly, sparing her only a glance, and she realized her mistake. She sat back and fumed. “That’s not amusing.”

“My apologies. You are easily repelled by any mention of the physical aspect of our relationship. It seems to bring out the worst in me. I ask your pardon.”

Instead of replying to him, she craned her head around to take a last look at the park gates and gave a little sigh of regret.

“I hope you’re not too disappointed with the change in plans. I have found the park choked with traffic. They’ve turned it into a veritable fairground since the victory,” he said in disgust.

She turned back to settle in her seat. “I have scarcely seen the celebrations. Mother shares your opinion and deems it best to avoid the crowds.”

When he made no comment but continued, focused on the road, Gillian fell silent, deciding to make the most of the outing. Tilting her head back, she breathed deeply of the warm June air, which was filled with the smells of vegetation from the park alongside and baked pastries from a nearby hawker selling meat pies. The sharp tang of leather from the curricle’s seat reminded her of drives with her father.

She wished anew they could ride in the park, where her acquaintances might see her in this smart vehicle. It was well sprung and polished to a brilliant shine. Her hands caressed the supple leather seat. What a difference from riding in the closed landau with Templeton.

Suddenly, she laughed, looking upward past the leafy trees to the powder-blue sky and soft white clouds beyond.

Skylar gave her a brief look. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Freedom from my jailer.”

“The redoubtable Miss Templeton?”

“The very one.”

“If I had to select a companion to guard a young lady’s virtue, I do believe I would have chosen Miss Templeton.”

Gillian gave him a sidelong glance. “She has been my shadow for the last three years.”

“Tell me,” he asked, stepping up their speed as the traffic thinned, “are you in need of such an assiduous guard?”

Her smile disappeared and she looked away. “It is Mama’s desire to protect me. That is why I was astonished she let me go on this ride without Templeton.”

“Your mother trusts the contract drawn up between our solicitors. She knows the Pembrokes won’t renege on an agreement once they’ve given their word. What transpires between now and the wedding date does not unduly concern her.”

“Since you are going to behave with absolute propriety, I suppose Mama’s trust is not misplaced,” she answered with a firmness she was far from feeling. When he gave her no such assurance, Gillian turned to study the scenery along the Kensington Road.

She decided she would enjoy her outing and not let Lord Skylar’s unusual manner unsettle her. He was a gentleman, otherwise her mother would not have agreed to the match. She must believe that.

When they arrived in the village of Kensington on the outskirts of London, he took her to a small tea garden set in the middle of pastures where cows grazed peacefully. Gillian looked about her in delight at the quaint establishment surrounded by flowering gardens. Small round tables covered in pretty linen tablecloths were set up both in the main dining room and out in the gardens.

She readily agreed when he suggested they sit outside.

“Mmm.” She inhaled the fragrance of moss roses, pinks and sweet pea growing in a profusion beside their table.

He helped her into a chair, and a waitress brought her a glass of lemonade and a pot of tea for him. Sky asked her to bring them a selection of their cream-filled pastries.

“What a charming place. I’ve never been here before.” Gillian looked at the man seated across from her, against the backdrop of flowers, the drone of bees and the twitter of birds. “It’s not the sort of place Mother would frequent.” Nor you, she added silently.

“I’m glad it’s still around. I have scarcely had a chance yet to explore all my old haunts. My mother would bring me here as a boy when I was home on holiday. I used to dream of the syllabub made with their cream.”

She eyed him, finding it hard to imagine this austere looking man clad in black ever being a little boy craving sweets.

“These look scrumptious,” she said, preferring to turn her attention to the fruit tarts heaped with whipped cream the waitress set before them. She put one on her plate.

“The place is famous for its cream and butter,” he explained, nodding to the cows grazing in the lawn beyond the garden. “I don’t know how much longer it will be around. Everyone prefers Vauxhall, from what I hear.”

Her eyes lit up. “How I’d love to go there!”

He raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t been? In all your three seasons?”

“Mother thinks it vulgar. She believes it is only a place for the lower classes to go for their trysts.”

He sat back, crossing his long legs, his fingers playing idly with a teaspoon. “Some would say the same thing of tea gardens. We have the place practically to ourselves. The lower classes must indeed all be at Vauxhall.”

She looked around at the airy yet intimate surroundings. It did seem ideal as an out-of-the-way place to meet a sweetheart. Her thoughts went unbidden to other times, times she thought long dead and dormant, when she had been desperate for such a place. She turned her attention to the pastry in front of her. She was in a different position in life now. Older. Ready for a home of her own.

She took a bite of the warm tart and savored its buttery crust and rich custard hidden by the sweet strawberries and fresh cream atop it.

“You’re not having any?” she asked with a glance at his empty plate.

He shook his head. “You go ahead.”

“I should think you could use some of these pastries,” she commented, remembering her mother’s mention that he’d been ill.

“Are you of the opinion as most that I am in need of ‘fattening up’?”

“You are quite thin. Is that just natural or—or…” She hesitated.

“Have I been ill?” he finished for her, taking a sip of his tea.

“Mother mentioned something of it.”

He nodded. “Yes. I was ill.” He did not elaborate. After a moment, he asked her, “Tell me, Lady Gillian, what do you expect from this marriage?”

She washed the taste of strawberries and cream from her mouth with a swallow of lemonade and set down her glass, wondering at the directness of the question.

When she didn’t answer right away, he said, “Come, you agreed to this arrangement between our parents. Despite all their interests in our union, I don’t believe your mother would force you against your will. You have seemed less than willing up to now.”

“Well, that’s due solely to your—your somewhat less than gentlemanly manner.”

“I was somewhat caught by surprise by my father’s announcement. I had no more stepped off the ship than he was insisting on my marriage. I beg your pardon if my manner has offended you. I was still adjusting to the notion of having my bride already picked out for me.”

“You objected to the match?” she asked curiously. “You’ve reached your majority. Surely your father can’t make you marry someone you don’t know.”

He leaned back in his chair and focused his gaze on a fat bumblebee hovering over the stalks of blue delphinium. “After considering all his persuasive arguments, I had to concede his point. I am not getting any younger. Edmund’s death taught us all that we can depart at any moment. Without an heir—” He shrugged. “Our estates are entailed. If I expire without leaving a male heir, all our lands pass to a cousin. The mere thought brings on an attack of gout to my poor sire.”

“But wouldn’t you want to choose your own wife?”

“I am afraid I have neither the inclination nor energy at this point in my life to sort through all the young ladies of marriageable age presently making their debut in society. The mere thought is both exhausting and excruciatingly tedious.”

“You certainly don’t believe in flattery,” she replied, not sure whether she should be insulted or amused at his description of the Marriage Mart.

“Since most of the candidates would have been merely after my title and fortune, it makes things much simpler to select a young lady who is already possessed of these assets.”

“But to marry a virtual stranger—” she began.

He gave her a humorless smile. “My father is a philanderer, an inveterate gambler and, above all, a lover of pleasure. Whatever my opinion may be of his way of life, I cannot fault his taste in women. He is a connoisseur of the fairer gender.

“When he promised I would be pleased with his choice, I could not but agree to have a look at you. He sang your praises. I can’t say you displease me, fair Lady Gillian.”

Her name sounded like a caress in the softly pronounced syllables, his dark eyes appraising her.

“Is he as good a judge of horseflesh?” she asked evenly, once again inclined to feel affronted.

He looked amused. “He’s an excellent judge of horseflesh.”

“Then I should be flattered.”

He shrugged. “That’s up to you. I’m merely telling you that my father has an eye for beauty and the finer things of life.”

She squirmed, feeling he could see things she had revealed to no one. When she didn’t answer right away, his tone gentled. “I have told you my reasons for agreeing to the match. Can you not confide something to me?”

Not ready to do any such thing, she persisted with the topic. “If you have such confidence in your father’s opinion, why were you so ungracious the first evening we met?”

He raised a dark eyebrow in inquiry.

“Oh, come, my lord, you remember perfectly well how you behaved, looking me up and down as if I were a mare. Telling your father I’d do.”

He smiled, his forefinger playing with the contours of his mouth. “That was not against you. My father and I, how shall I put it, don’t like to concede the other a point scored. I would no more admit to him he is right than I would wear a spotted waistcoat.”

Not quite mollified, but beginning to understand him better, she nodded.

“That still leaves why you acquiesced to your mother’s choice.” His soft tone intruded on her thoughts.

“I want a home of my own,” she finally admitted, looking down at the doily under her glass.

“A home of your own,” he answered, surprise edging the low timbre of his voice. “I would not consider you homeless.”

“I want to be mistress of my own household.”

“Well, you will have ample opportunity as the Countess of Skylar.”

“It is what I have been trained to do. I know I would do it well.” She felt her face warm as she spoke the next words. “I want to have children of my own and bring them up. You are right when you say I am tired of playing the debutante. I would like my life to serve some purpose.”

“I think we will suit,” he said finally. “I, too, want to run my father’s estates and prove I can manage them well. I need a wife for that. A good one. I want a woman I can trust. She may play hostess for me whenever she wants. I want to devote my time to my estates and to taking my seat in Lords. I can grace whatever parties she chooses to give, but I don’t intend to become caught up in the social whirl.

“I expect my wife to remain faithful to me, as I will to her.”

She met his gaze. His dark eyes seemed to be probing her, willing her to confess any tendency toward waywardness. Would they ferret out her past secrets or only demand future fidelity?

She said nothing. He continued. “I will be frank with you, my lady. I have not led the life of a saint. I sowed my wild oats here in London before I was banished across the Atlantic.” A faint smile tinged his lips, though his tone was bitter.

“In the Indies I dedicated myself to turning around a failing plantation. I have just ended a six-year relationship with a wealthy island widow. It was not a love union, merely a mutually agreeable arrangement. I left no illegitimate children behind.

“Forgive my frankness to your maidenly ears. I do not wish to offend your sensibilities, but I want to make it clear I ended any entanglements and fully intend to honor my wedding vows once I take them. I expect my future wife to do the same. Do you understand me?”

Her face had blanched at his unvarnished confessions. Did he expect the same of her? A complete disclosure of her past conduct?

Perhaps with his confession, he was making it clear the past was behind him and he would behave differently as a husband. Her heart lightened. The past didn’t matter. She, too, intended to honor her wedding vows, despite her mother’s advice, no matter how distasteful they seemed to her at the moment.

She swallowed. “Yes, I understand you. I, too, will—” she almost choked over the words “—honor our wedding vows.”

He sat back, as if relieved some decision had been taken. “Good. I will tell my father to have the betrothal announced and the banns posted. We can discuss a date with your mother.”

He raised his glass to hers. “Let us toast our future union.”

She raised her glass slowly to his, keeping her eyes fixed on the two glasses, preferring not to meet Lord Skylar’s penetrating dark gaze.

After that, as if deliberately seeking lighter topics of conversation, Lord Skylar took her for a stroll about the gardens. He spoke to her of the different plant life in the tropics. They drove back to London in the late afternoon. Gillian had long since put the serious part of their conversation out of her mind and focused on the enjoyment of the day. As they neared London once again, she felt a sense of regret that the outing would soon be over.

She enjoyed watching Lord Skylar’s handling of the curricle, as she had her father. The two would have liked each other, she realized, and she felt a passing sadness that her father would not have the chance to meet her future husband.

Lord Skylar turned to her. “Would you like to take a turn?” he asked offering her the reins. Her eyes widened. Most men were so proud of their skill with the ribbons and so protective of their precious vehicles and horses, they would never allow a female companion to try her hand. She smiled and nodded, taking the reins from him.

She had her own low phaeton with its pair of ponies, but it had been a while since she’d handled a pair of horses. She kept the horses at a steady pace, glad they were still on the outskirts of the city. Lord Skylar seemed in no hurry to have the reins back. As the streets became more congested, he finally took them back.

“You handle the ribbons well. Who taught you?”

“My father. We often rode together.”

“Do you know anything of horseflesh?”

She nodded again, surprised anew.

“Maybe I’ll take you to Tattersall’s with me. I’m looking to buy my own horse now I’m back in England. Everything in our stables is either Father’s or Edmund’s.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Gillian spied a movement on her side of the road. She craned her neck to see around the coach passing them at that moment.

A dog dashed into the street to avoid a man’s whip. Without thinking, she grabbed Skylar’s arm. “Stop the carriage!”

“What the—” he began, as his pair pranced at the sudden jerk to the reins. Not waiting to find out what she’d caused, Gillian jumped out of the curricle before it had come to a complete stop.

“Lady Gillian!” She heard his sharp command, but she paid it no heed. She dodged traffic and ran toward the dog. Just before a coach ran it over, Gillian lunged at the dog and grabbed its neck.

Hearing the neighing of horses almost on top of her, she dragged the dog back with her.

“What are you thinking of doing, old fellow?” she crooned into its ear as her hands patted his neck, afraid to let it go. “You could have gotten yourself killed. We couldn’t have that. No indeed! There. You come back off the road with me.” As she reached the edge of the street, she noticed the crowd around her. Astounded faces ringed her.

“Miss, are you all right? You almost got run over. If the coachman hadn’t stopped in time—”

Not removing her hand from the dog, still feeling its trembling beneath her fingertips, she realized the full extent of the situation. Coming from behind the onlookers was Lord Skylar, his jaw set.

The crowd parted for him and he came straight to her.

“Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. Before he could say anything more, she turned to look for the man who had caused the commotion, as far as she was concerned. He stood behind a table, selling trinkets.

She marched toward him. “How dare you, sir! Taking a whip to a poor, defenseless dog. You should be whipped yourself.”

The man looked at her in astonishment. “Why—why, that cur’s been pestering me. It’s a worthless stray. Ought to be taken out of its misery.”

Her outrage knew no bounds. “I’ll have you reported. I’ll see you—” Before she could utter her threat, she felt Lord Skylar’s hand on her arm.

“The lady is understandably distressed with the near miss she had. Her nerves are overset—”

She opened her mouth at Lord Skylar’s cool tone. “My nerves! I’ll show you nerves.” Wrenching her arm from his grasp, she went in search of the dog. She found him cowering behind a stack of crates. “Come on, boy. Don’t be afraid.” She petted him, crouching down to his level once again. “We’ll take you away from this place, from that awful brute…”

“She means no disrespect,” she heard Skylar say to the vendor in a soothing tone. “Here, this should cover any damages. We’ll take the cur away from here.”

Then he was standing over her. “We’d better remove ourselves from the premises if we want to avoid a riot. The man’s an unemployed soldier. He’ll soon have the crowd on his side.”

“Come on, boy,” she coaxed the dog, her hand urging it forward. The dog was gazing at her with limpid brown eyes the color of topaz, and she fell in love with it.

She gave a last outraged glance at the man with the stall and only then noticed his missing leg, and the crutch he leaned against. She shuddered and turned in search of the curricle.

Lord Skylar pointed to where he had left it on the other side of the road, his tiger holding the reins. “We shall have to cross the street.”

Gillian looked at him expectantly.

“What is it?”

She motioned to the dog. “Aren’t you going to carry him? We mustn’t risk his getting run over again.”

She almost laughed at the expression on Lord Skylar’s face as he looked down at the dog.

With a lengthy sigh, he finally stooped down and lifted the dog in his arms.

“Don’t hurt him,” she begged Lord Skylar.

“I hope you’re addressing the dog and not me,” he said dryly.

With a doubtful look at the curricle’s immaculate interior, Skylar dumped the animal onto a rug on the floor. “We shall have to have the vehicle fumigated,” Skylar told his tiger.

“Yes, sir,” he answered, unable to aid his master as he held the horses.

After helping Gillian in, Lord Skylar climbed in, shoving the dog out of the way of his feet in the confined space. The dog whined pitifully.

“Be careful! He’s been mistreated enough.”

“I believe it’s a she, not a he,” he answered shortly as he took the reins from the groom and waited only long enough for the man to jump up in back before setting the carriage in motion.

He handed her his handkerchief with barely a glance. “You might want to wipe the dust from your face.”

“Oh—” She took it from him, wondering that he’d even noticed her face in the entire fray. She scrubbed at her cheeks.

“Where are we going?” she asked as she watched him turn into the park gates.

“We can drop the mutt in the park. Either that or drive back to Kensington. Perhaps I could bribe a farmer to take it off our hands.”

She twisted around in the tight space and glared at him. “We shall do no such thing. How do we know they will take care of it properly?” She laid her hand on his forearm, her outrage turning to entreaty.

“I would suggest, my lady, that you refrain from interfering with my driving a second time. If you did not cause an accident just now, or break your neck, I cannot guarantee your safety another time.”

She removed her hand. “Didn’t you see that man? What he was doing to this poor animal?”

“No, I was watching the traffic, a fact you can be thankful for. Otherwise, all three of us would probably have been thrown from the vehicle.”

Finally conceding the folly of her jump, she said, “I’m sorry for the suddenness of leaving the curricle, but the man was whipping this poor dog, and he—she’d—run into the street. In another second she would have been run over by that closed carriage.” Her voice broke at the thought of what might have happened. She sniffed into the large handkerchief, appalled at her reaction.

“Spare me from emotional women,” Lord Skylar muttered.

“At least I’m not being heartless!”

“Excuse me. Next time I’ll jump out alongside you with no thought for anyone else on the road.”

She ignored his sarcasm. “This dog needs medical attention. Look at that wound.” She bent over, noticing the gash from the whip. “Can’t you take her home with you and have your stableman look at her?”

It was his turn to look at her in outrage. “Home with me? That flea-ridden creature? For all we know, it’s rabid.”

She looked down at her knotted handkerchief. “I can’t—that is, Mother wouldn’t allow it into our house, not even into the stables. I—I’ve taken in some stray cats and keep them there, but Mama doesn’t even know about them. I don’t think I could keep a dog hidden for very long.”

Lord Skylar remained silent, but after a moment she heard him give another pained sigh. When she dared look around, she saw with relief that he’d turned around and was leaving the park. She said nothing but dabbed at her nose, being careful not to sniff audibly.

“My father’s mastiffs will probably eat her for breakfast.”

She glanced at him in alarm. “You mustn’t let them! Can’t you keep her apart from them?”

He said no more until he stopped in front of her house. She bent over one last time and petted the dog until Lord Skylar came around to her side of the carriage. She did not look at him as he helped her down.

“You’re sure you’re not hurt?” he asked curtly.

She nodded.

“You’d best change your dress before your mother sees you.”

She glanced down at her light-colored muslin. Dust and dog prints stained it.

“She might have second thoughts of allowing you to go on another outing with me if she sees your dirty and disheveled condition from a simple turn in the park.”

As he spoke, he took her arm and propelled her toward the front entrance. A footman opened the door before they reached it. Lord Skylar released her and stepped back. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

She looked back at him and bit her lip. “You won’t let the other dogs hurt it?”

“We’ll muzzle them until they get used to this mongrel.”

“You’ll let me know how she gets on?”

“You’ll hear from me.” With a final tip of his hat, he turned and made his way back to the curricle.

Her attention went to the dog, whose chestnut head peered out the side. She gave it an encouraging smile and wave. “I’ll see you soon,” she said, not at all sure she would be able to keep her promise.

Chapter Three

T ertius lay on the narrow ledge. He dared not move or he’d fall over the edge. He couldn’t see over it but felt instinctively the drop into the darkness had no end. Like the terror that gripped him, it was black and bottomless.

The tension in his muscles from keeping against the wall was dissipating his energy at a rapid rate.

A sudden spasm jerked him over the side. His heart in his throat, his body free-falled. He opened his mouth to scream but no sound came forth.

He awoke with a jerk into the dark room. Immobilized by fear that overwhelmed his reason, his every faculty, it took a moment to realize he was safe. It had been nothing but a dream.

Relief came in a slow wave that loosened his muscles, which were tight like twisted rope. As the reality of pillow and covers intruded on his consciousness, he relived the dream from the viewpoint of wakefulness. A sense of familiarity hovered over it.

As his breathing slowed and he listened to his heartbeat, he searched his memory. He’d been there before. As his thoughts cleared and sharpened from the deep sleep he’d been in, he remembered.

He’d dreamed of the ledge during his last fever.

The details finally faded, and he became aware of his actual surroundings—soft bed under him, hangings at each corner of the bedposts, pillow cushioning his head. As he took in each detail, he became conscious of something else present in the room.

The brief relief at waking evaporated as a new evil confronted him. He wasn’t alone. His heart stepped up its pace again as the malignant presence at the end of the dark room made itself felt. It sat there, heavy and still, biding its time before it closed in on him.

He tried to call out but couldn’t. Something gripped his throat and kept him mute. He tried moving his mouth, but it didn’t respond to his commands.

Before all rational thought left him, the sensation receded, and at last he knew he was truly alone with the natural darkness. He remained paralyzed, voluntarily now, for several moments, his reason doubting what his senses told him.

As the darkness continued to feel normal, Tertius finally dared to move. Slowly, he drew back his bedcovers and felt for a candle. With shaking hands, he managed to light it.

The room was empty. His focus traveled to every reach of it. Everything appeared as he had left it when he’d extinguished his lamp last night. The long shadows of bedposts and hangings danced about in the candlelight, and he realized the hand that held the taper was still shaking, so he set it down.

He got back into his bed, propping up the pillows to rest against them. He wasn’t a coward. He’d faced down plenty of dangers in his life. So why this blind panic in the face of an invisible danger? It was only a dream—it had to be. There was nothing in the room.

He wiped the sweat from the upper part of his lip.

He’d thought the dreams were finished when he’d gotten over his illness. Why were they coming again? And this latest phenomenon? It had been no dream; he’d been awake. What did it mean?

He was in England now. Somehow he’d thought nothing could follow him here.

Sky slept late the next morning. The bright sunshine made him laugh at his foolish terrors of the previous night. After a good breakfast, as he sat in his father’s office going over papers given him by his father’s solicitor, he was able to forget it completely.

A soft knock on the door interrupted his concentration.

“Yes?” he called out.

The butler opened the door. “Lady Althea has come to pay her respects. Would you like me to show her in? I have put her in the morning room.”

Tertius swore under his breath. He had no desire to see his half sister. What did she want? He thought he’d never have to see her again once she reached her majority and left the family seat of her own accord.

“Very well,” he finally said, as the butler stood awaiting his decision. “Show her in here.” Let her see he was busy and couldn’t take time for a family reunion.

A few minutes later the young woman entered and stood by the door without moving farther into the room. The door closed softly behind her, and he was left facing the sibling he hadn’t seen in over ten years.

She hadn’t changed much, he noted, except for her unfashionable attire. She, too, was in mourning for their brother, Edmund.

“Hello, Tertius.”

The very tenor of her voice exasperated him. It reminded him of some fearful servant, ready to cringe at its master’s raised voice. It enraged him, since she’d never been mistreated by his family. On the contrary, she’d received every largesse.

He rose slowly from his desk and came toward her. “Hello, Althea. How’ve you been keeping?” he asked in an offhand tone as he motioned her to a chair.

She seated herself and loosened her bonnet strings. “Very well, thank you. I only just heard you had returned or I would have been by earlier.”

“No hurry. I won’t be going anywhere soon.”

“I’m sorry about Edmund. It was a tragic loss.”

He inclined his head a fraction to acknowledge the condolence. “Still shaming the family name with those Methodist practices?” he couldn’t help asking as he flicked a speck of lint off the leg of his pantaloons, pretending a carelessness he was far from feeling.

He watched the color creep over her cheeks. Her hair, the same burnished gold he remembered, was no longer in two pigtails, but pulled back into a tight chignon. No loose curls framed her face. Not for pious Althea. How dare she pretend such holiness when her roots were so tainted? Time and distance had not diminished the impotent rage he felt every time he thought about her origins.

“I am still at the mission,” she said quietly. “I don’t believe I am shaming the Pembrokes in any way. I never took the family name. There is no reason for anyone to connect me to your family.”

“Yes, so Father told me,” he drawled. “You go simply by ‘Miss Althea Breton.’ How noble of you to carry the burden of your illegitimacy so bravely on your small shoulders.”

She smiled at him, a smile that struck him as resigned, and he felt renewed annoyance.

“I don’t carry any burden except those the Lord gives me, and that usually has to do with people you don’t know nor will ever chance to know.”

He said nothing but sat beating a tattoo against his pant leg, awaiting the reason of her visit. Was she going to ask for some donation for her charitable work? Hadn’t Father already been more than generous in his settlement on her?

“Your father sent a note letting me know of your return.”

“Our father, don’t you mean? Isn’t that what he wants you to call him? As well as take your rightful place among us and let the world know your true parentage now that Mother is gone?”

She swallowed and looked down at her clasped hands. “I’m sorry, Tertius. I have no desire to hurt either you or your mother’s memory. I usually still refer to Father as my guardian. I still think of him in that way,” she added with a small smile.

“How nice of you to consider my mother’s sensibilities,” he sneered.

She ignored the gibe and instead asked, “Did you have a good journey back?”

“The seas were calm for the most part,” he replied, a part of him regretting his lack of manners. What was the matter with him? It wasn’t Althea’s fault who her parents were. But he’d never been able to stop blaming her for having been so blatantly thrust under his mother’s nose. The late marchioness had been forced to endure the presence of a child who so clearly was not a “ward,” but the result of one of her husband’s many indiscretions.

“Father said you had been ill, and that’s why you couldn’t come any sooner,” Althea continued.

“Yes, that is so. But I’m fully recovered now.”

“I’m glad. You—you look thin,” she said in the soft, hesitant tone that never failed to irk him.

He shrugged. “So everyone tells me.” He made a point of pulling out his watch and snapping it open, wanting above anything for this interview to be over. He felt out of sorts and ill-humored. It was the poor night he’d had that was making him behave so surly.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you at your work,” she said at once. “I merely wanted to welcome you back and tell you how sorry I was about Edmund.”

He felt another twinge of guilt at his incivility. He was quite some years older than she—at least a decade—so he hadn’t had much contact with her growing up. But whenever he’d come home from school, he’d catch glimpses of her. His father seemed to keep her well hidden on the large estate.

She’d always been cowering behind somebody’s apron, usually a housekeeper’s or servant’s, those shy eyes looking out at him, a thumb stuck in her mouth.

He studied her critically. Her black dress with its narrow white ruffle high at the neck made her look older than her twenty-three or twenty-four years.

“How old are you now, Althea?” he asked abruptly.

She looked surprised at the question. “Twenty-four,” she answered softly.

Tertius hated that diffidence. It had always annoyed him and brought out the worst in him. “You look older,” he lied. In truth, she still looked young; it was her clothing and hairstyle that added years.

She didn’t seem affected by the implied insult. He preferred a more spirited person. An image of Lady Gillian rushing to save a stray flashed through his mind. Her passionate defense of the mangy mutt stirred something in him like nothing else had in a long time.

“You look older than I remember,” she said with a gentle smile. “You were a dashing young man of five-and-twenty when you left, and I was an awkward girl of fourteen, fearfully in awe of you and Edmund both.”

“I hardly remember you,” he replied, unable to stop his digs.

“I doubt you would. You were a young gentleman about town and I was away at school by then.”

She stood and began retying her bonnet. He stood as well and waited for her to put her gloves back on.

He didn’t thank her for coming. The words stuck in his throat. No matter how much his rational mind told him to treat her with courtesy, his gestures wouldn’t follow suit.

“I’ll show you out,” he said.

“There’s no need to accompany me. I’ll see myself out.”

“As you wish.” He accompanied her only to the door of the office, where the two stood a moment.

Her clear gray eyes regarded him. He read compassion in them, and he wanted to tell her he didn’t need her pity. Who was she—a poor, penniless, illegitimate half sister—to pity him?

Why then did he feel she had something to offer him? That she knew something of his fear and near panic of the night before? Of his feelings of inadequacy in filling Edmund’s shoes?

“Tertius,” she began.

“What is it?” he asked, not bothering to hide the impatience in his tone.

She reached a hand out to him but let it drop before touching him, and he realized he had braced himself for the contact. “I also wanted to…to let you know, if you ever need anything, you can come to me. You don’t seem fully recovered. I hope your new responsibilities won’t be too much of a strain—”

“You don’t think me capable of assuming the duties of the new Earl of Skylar?” he asked, and then could have kicked himself for revealing his own weakness. It was the fault of that soft, sympathetic tone of hers.

“Of course I do! But as I said, you’ve been ill. Take it slowly and don’t let the opinions of others control you.”

He regained his calm tone. “My dear sister, your solicitude overwhelms me. However, you needn’t concern yourself. I am perfectly capable of managing my affairs. And as I told you, I am completely recovered.”

She merely nodded. “You needn’t treat me as a sister if you’d rather not. I understand. Just think of me as a trusted childhood friend who would do anything in her power to help you if you should ever need me.”

She no longer struck him as a timorous inferior. Her tone had gained strength, as if she were supremely confident of her ability to help him.

What could she possibly help him with? “Thank you, dear Althea,” he replied, managing a thin smile. “I shall remember that whenever I am in need.”

She looked down, as if disappointed but not surprised at the condescension in his tone. “Goodbye then. I always pray for you.”

“I’m sure you have many more deserving souls worthy of your petitions.”

She made no reply as she exited the door. He shut it behind her and returned to his desk, but found it hard to resume his work. Drat her intrusion!

He didn’t want to have the past tormenting him. He’d achieved an emotional distance from his father and was certainly not going to let a half sibling he hardly saw, let alone hardly knew, upset the careful balance.

He was on the threshold of beginning something new. He would prove to society that he was fully capable of filling his brother’s shoes. With a lovely young wife at his side, and offspring soon to follow, there was absolutely nothing he need fear.

A few afternoons later Gillian entered the drawing room for tea. Once again she found Lord Skylar calmly seated with her mother and Templeton, one of her mother’s fine Sevres cups and saucers balanced upon his knee.

“Yes,” he told them, “she is of a very old pedigree, a direct descendant of a spaniel of my great-grandfather’s on our Hertfordshire estate. She’ll make a great companion for Lady Gillian.” He reached down to stroke the dog’s neck. “A very docile creature, I assure you.”

Gillian could only stare at the “creature” in question. The rescued dog, chestnut coat shiny and clean, sat at Lord Skylar’s booted feet. At that moment, it caught sight of Gillian. Immediately it jumped up, almost knocking over the edge of a silver tray on the table before Lord Skylar.

“Sit!” Lord Skylar’s tone was more effective than a whip. The dog and owner stared at each other a few seconds—seconds in which Gillian’s hand went to her throat and she held her breath, fearful of her mother’s reaction. Her mother leaned forward in her chair as soon as the dog had moved, itching to have it removed from the room, no doubt.

Gillian could feel her whole body willing the dog to obey Lord Skylar. The seconds dragged on until finally the dog whined and, with a longing look toward Gillian, sat back down before Lord Skylar.

He smiled at the animal—a smile that broke the austerity of his features—and reached across the table for a biscuit. Breaking off a piece, he held it out to the dog, who gobbled it up eagerly.

“Good girl,” Lord Skylar told the dog, giving her neck another rubbing.

“Good afternoon, Lady Gillian,” he said, only then turning his attention to Gillian. “If you’d like to greet your new pet, she is eager to slather you with gratitude for your timely rescue.”

Gillian needed no other prompting. She was at the dog’s side in an instant, kneeling beside her and receiving its wet greeting. “Hello, there,” she said, not knowing what to call the animal, so she continued petting it and crooning over it.

She looked up at Lord Skylar with a wide smile. She hadn’t heard anything from him since the afternoon outing and lived in terror that he’d inform her the dog had been found a home out in the country somewhere. He gave her a brief smile and turned his attention back to her mother.

“I am in the midst of a training program since the dog arrived from our estate. She was given a bit of a freer rein out in the country. We’ll have her well behaved for the drawing room in no time.” Again his glance crossed Gillian’s and she saw the glint in his eye. She looked over at her mother, and she detected nothing but alarm in her eyes. Good, she thought in relief. At least her mother didn’t see the mockery in Lord Skylar’s eyes.

“Well, I don’t know…” she began in dubious tones, her hand playing nervously with the gold chain about her neck. “We’ve never had any animals in the house.”

“Every fine lady has a drawing room pet. Most are lap dogs that do nothing but yap at the guests and nip at their heels. This one is a real dog. She’ll be a good companion for your daughter when she goes out walking.”

“I don’t know…” her mother repeated. “She has Templeton.”

Gillian and Lord Skylar both glanced at the woman in question, and Gillian was hard-pressed not to burst out laughing.

“I assure you, Miss Templeton,” Lord Skylar said smoothly, “you will feel safer with a well-behaved watchdog between the two of you. You’ll fear no cutpurses or pickpockets. With the parks so crowded with riffraff during the festivities, you need a fearless animal with you.”

Templeton smiled, her rouged cheeks bright. “Oh, yes! I am so grateful for your thoughtfulness. The streets are an absolute peril nowadays for a lady.”

“Templeton!” her mother said sharply. Then she cleared her throat and turned back to Lord Skylar. “As I said, we’re not at all sure we can keep…her. We’re not accustomed to pets in the house. Perhaps in the mews…?” she suggested in a faltering voice.

“Oh, Mama, look at her! She’s so clean. And look how quietly she sits. Mayn’t I try her in the house?”

Lord Skylar ignored Gillian’s spirited tone. “I have received my invitation to Prinny’s grand fete for the Duke of Wellington. My father and I would like to request the pleasure of your company that night. We would be honored to escort you and Lady Gillian.”

“Indeed. The Regent’s fete?”

Gillian watched her mother’s dignified features. Not by a hint did she give away the fact that they had not as yet received their invitation, and that her mother looked assiduously through the pile of mail each day for the coveted invitation.

“Yes, on the twenty-first,” replied Sky smoothly. He took another sip of tea. “I hear Nash is working furiously to complete the special hall at Carlton House in time. I’m afraid it will be frightfully crowded, but I thought as a memorable historical event, it would interest Lady Gillian.” He glanced her way again. “Something to tell her grandchildren. The day she curtsied before Wellington.”

“Yes, most assuredly,” her mother agreed. “We shall be happy to have your escort.”

“Thank you, my lady.” He set the delicate porcelain cup and saucer down. “I would beg leave to take Lady Gillian with me for a turn about the square to acquaint her with her new pet. I can go over some of the commands I’ve taught the dog.”

He stood. “We shall be merely down below, in plain view, if Miss Templeton should care to sit here and observe us.” He moved to the window and pushed aside the curtain.

“Very well, but don’t keep her long.”

Down in the square below, Lord Skylar relinquished the dog’s leash to Gillian as they walked beneath the linden trees. She took it eagerly. “She’s beautiful. What did you do to get her coat so shiny?”

“I gave her to a groom and told him to make sure to rid it of any fleas. I presume he bathed it, deloused it and fed it.”

“And your father’s dogs, how did they behave?”

“Apparently they have accepted her.”

She looked down shyly. “I don’t know how to thank you.” She giggled, remembering her mother’s losing battle before Lord Skylar’s smooth, invincible logic. “I never thought I’d see the day Mama would agree to an indoor pet.”

“She hasn’t exactly agreed yet,” he corrected her.

“She will. After dangling the prince’s dinner in front of her,” she added with a sly glance at him. “I would call that a masterful stroke.”

He shrugged. “You were invited.”

“Not yet, we haven’t been.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I’m sure we shall receive an invitation,” she added quickly. “We have gone to all the major receptions there since Prinny became regent. But I believe since Papa passed away, the royal summonses are slower in arriving. Mama begins to fidget as the time draws closer.”

“I am glad, then, to be able to relieve her mind.”

“I have never met the Duke of Wellington,” Gillian marveled. “I can hardly wait to meet such a brave man. He has saved England and much of the Continent.”

“Have you been following the campaigns closely?” he asked, slanting her a curious look.

She could feel the color rising in her cheeks. “Yes, just as everyone else in England has.” Not caring to delve into the topic too deeply, she returned to the previous matter. “To think Mama has agreed to an abandoned stray from the streets!”

Taking the change of topic in stride, he said, “This dog is of good stock.”

“Oh, yes, the finest,” she said, laughter bubbling up. “If you are to be believed, she can probably trace her lineage back to Charles the First’s favorite pooch.”

“I may have exaggerated the facts to your mother, but I didn’t altogether lie. This dog has some illustrious spaniel blood. If it has been, er, tainted along the way with some lesser-known varieties, that doesn’t take away from the fact that she’s almost purebred.”

“‘Almost’—that won’t convince Mother.”

“Then let us hope she believed my story.”

She laughed again. After a moment, she turned to him. “You can be very charming and believable when you want to be. Do you only do it when you wish to obtain something from someone?”

“That usually is the case.”

“I think you could get almost anything you wanted if you set your mind to it.”

“Do you?” he asked noncommittally.

“Don’t you set your mind to it very often?” she asked, remembering his ungracious behavior when they’d first been introduced.

“It is wearing, I’ll admit. And so often not worth the trouble, wouldn’t you agree? Or are you yet so young that you haven’t suffered any disillusion?”

She remained silent, preferring to concentrate on holding the dog in check on its leash.

But Lord Skylar was not finished with the thought. “I still find it hard to believe you have remained free these years in London. There is no young gentleman who has stolen your heart? No drawerfuls of avowals of everlasting love and no keepsakes—a lock of hair, a monogrammed handkerchief…?”

“No, there is nothing!” she answered a little too warmly.

“A young lady with your attributes?” he asked in disbelief. “Your mother hasn’t kept you that locked up. And Templeton, no matter how forbidding she might be, wouldn’t put off a true suitor—”

“My father would have wanted me to wait for someone—” She stopped.

“Yes?” he prompted when she didn’t continue. “Someone like…?”

“Like you,” she said on a moment’s inspiration. Maybe if she flattered his vanity, he would be satisfied and let the subject drop.

He chuckled. “Wealth and a title—have there been a dearth of good candidates fulfilling those requirements these last three seasons?”

“Well, with the war on, you know, so many young men have gone off to Spain.”

“But not elder sons.”

She could feel his keen eyes on her. “Well, there was no one,” she repeated. “Why haven’t you married all those years out there in the Indies?” she asked, turning to him. “I can’t believe there were no suitable candidates out there.”

He prodded at a fallen leaf with his walking stick. “Perhaps I didn’t like what I saw of matrimony.”

“What do you mean?” she asked puzzled.

“Matrimony among our class seems to be a hypocritical arrangement between two individuals who agree to turn a blind eye to the other’s dalliances. Forgive the bluntness, but so often it is only one of the partners who gets to enjoy the pleasures of extramarital affairs, while the other is forced to suffer in silence.”

For someone who had never been married, he spoke as if he were acquainted firsthand with that kind of pain. It was not in the tone of voice, which had retained its airy, slightly amused quality as if he were commenting on a light romantic comedy. But the words themselves were, as he had said, blunt, and certainly improper to be speaking to a young, unmarried lady.

“I know many things go on in society,” she began slowly. “I believe my parents were happily married, however unfashionable that might appear,” she said, wanting to believe it, despite her mother’s cynical words of advice. Could she have cheated on dear Papa? No. Gillian wouldn’t give credence to the idea.

Lord Skylar swung his walking stick to and fro along the gravel path. “That is indeed a feat, if indeed improbable.”

“I could never consider such a thing of Papa! I know he was faithful to my mother,” she stated with finality.

“Well, for the sake of your memories, I hope you are right.” He smiled, a smile that had a hint of tenderness in it. “So, you see why I have retained my bachelorhood. Besides, I had an elder brother to fulfill the duties of heir. He, alas, died childless.”

Gillian turned to her new pet, tiring of the topic of marriage and fidelity. “What shall we name her?” she asked with a tug on the leash.

“We?”

“Well, you are part owner, you know.”

“I haven’t the foggiest. I’ll allow you the honor.”

Suddenly the animal in question spied a squirrel scampering up a thick trunk. She dashed toward it, yanking the leash out of Gillian’s hands.

“Heel!” Lord Skylar’s sharp command brought the dog to an immediate halt, though she whined in protest, her nose sniffing forward. Sky picked up the leash.

“Good girl,” he told the dog, bending down to pet her and offering her a biscuit from his pocket. He then rose and took over the leash. The dog strained toward the tree where she’d spied the squirrel. It was no longer in sight.

“I’m sorry, dear,” Gillian spoke to her pet. “But you’ll never catch it now. It’s gone up the tree,” she explained, petting the animal’s neck.

They resumed their walk. “You’d do best to train her early. Keep a firm hand on her and reward her when she obeys,” Lord Skylar advised.

He gave her a wry look. “You’ll probably mother her to death, indulge her every whim, and end up with a spoiled, ill-behaved mutt on your hands.”

She merely laughed at him. She was beginning to suspect he had a rather tender heart behind that detached demeanor. Perhaps he wouldn’t make such an awful husband.

Tertius walked along the streets of Mayfair after he’d escorted Gillian and her new pet back home. The day was a splendid summer one. He passed the shops on Bond Street. The sidewalks were filled with shoppers. He stopped to glance in at a window or two, but his mind was distracted. He kept thinking of his impending marriage. It no longer seemed a burdensome task.

In less than a fortnight he’d gone from outrage at his father’s preposterous announcement that Tertius must not only marry posthaste but that the bride was already picked out, to a sense of anticipation at his forthcoming nuptials.

The chit was getting to him, he realized, looking at the latest satirical prints in Ackermann’s bow window. He continued his walk, wondering when this shift had occurred. His mind kept going to the afternoon of their outing, her smudged face turned up to him in entreaty, seeking his help and protection for a poor, starved creature.

He shook his head, still finding it hard to believe how easily she had bent him to her wishes.

Or had his feelings begun to change even earlier in the day, when she’d looked down at her plate in the tea garden and shyly told him how much she wanted a home and children of her own?

He tried to rationalize his feelings. It was reasonable to expect him to be married at his age, with his new position. Lady Gillian was not only a very appealing young lady, but she fulfilled all the requisites of wealth and lineage to be joined to the Caulfield line.

If the amiability between the two of them continued to grow, there should be no reason for their marriage not to succeed.

Another inner voice warned him that undoubtedly his parents’ marriage had started out this way. At one time they must have had a regard for each other. He knew his mother had loved his father until the marquess had destroyed that love with his repeated infidelities.

Tertius turned left onto Piccadilly, telling himself it was too pleasant a day for such pessimistic thoughts. He reached Sackville Street and headed for Gray’s, where his family was accustomed to buying their jewelry.

He looked at various pieces until finding what he wanted.

Yes, the emerald pendant and earrings would look lovely against Lady Gillian’s pale skin. He also chose a set of wedding bands, telling the jeweler the bride would be in later for a fitting. At the last minute, a gold ring mounted with a diamond and ruby caught his eye. He purchased it as well.

Telling the jeweler to have the other things delivered later, he tucked the jeweler’s box with the ruby and diamond ring into a pocket and left the store. He would present the ring to Lady Gillian at the Regent’s fete.

A feeling of pride filled him as he thought of the ring gracing her slim hand.

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