Regency Roguess

August 2019

Outrageous Scandal

September 2019

Rakes’ Redemption

October 2019

Wicked Seduction

November 2019

A Winter’s Night

December 2019

Unlacing the Forbidden

January 2020

Stolen Sins

February 2020

Candlelight Confessions

March 2020

Rescued by Temptation

April 2020

Wives Wanted

May 2020

Disgraceful Secrets

June 2020

Talk of the Ton

July 2020

Exotic Affairs

About the Author

GEORGIE LEE loves combining her passion for history and storytelling through romantic fiction. She began writing professionally at a local TV station before moving to Hollywood to work in the entertainment industry. When not writing, Georgie enjoys reading non-fiction history and watching any movie with a costume and an accent. Please visit www.georgie-lee.com for more information about Georgie and her books.

Regency Rogues: Rescued by Temptation

Rescued from Ruin

Georgie Reinstein

Miss Marianne’s Disgrace

Georgie Reinstein

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90682-5

REGENCY ROGUES: RESCUED BY TEMPTATION

Rescued from Ruin © 2014 Georgie Reinstein Miss Marianne’s Disgrace © 2016 Georgie Reinstein

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Rescued from Ruin

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Miss Marianne’s Disgrace

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

About the Publisher

Rescued from Ruin

Georgie Reinstein

I’d like to thank my husband, parents and in-laws

for all their support, childcare, dinners, and

patience while I worked on this book. I couldn’t

have done it without all of you.

Chapter One

London 1816

Randall Cheltenham, Marquess of Falconbridge, looked down the length of the salon, his chest tightening as if hit by a low branch while riding.

Cecelia Thompson stood in the doorway, just as she had so many times in his dreams.

When was the last time he’d seen her? Ten years ago? For ever?

Her eyes met his and the image of her standing in a field, the acrid smell of cut grass and damp earth blending with the warmth of the late afternoon sun, overwhelmed him. He was eighteen again and she was here.

Once, he would have sold his soul for this moment. Now, he waited for the tenuous connection to snap and for her soft look to turn hard with disdain. In his experience, it was a rare woman who forgot past slights. He’d played no small part in her decision to leave England; driving people away was a talent he’d possessed in spades back then.

He stood rock-still, anticipating the sneer, but it never came. Instead her face remained soft, her smile easy and genuine. Her brown hair was a shade darker and her hazel eyes, flecked with green, held something of the girl he’d once known, but with an unmistakable maturity. In other women it made them seem hardened by life, but in Cecelia it increased her beauty, surrounding her with an air of mystery more fascinating than the innocence he remembered so well.

Then old Lord Weatherly shuffled between them to greet her and she looked away.

‘You already know the young woman?’ Madame de Badeau gasped, her thick voice pulling his thoughts back to the room. He looked down at the mature French woman standing beside him in her lavender dress, her dark eyes dancing with the thrill of having discovered something new about him after all their years of acquaintance.

‘If you call conversing with her at my uncle’s estate knowing her,’ he said abruptly, uneasy at the obviousness of his reaction and eager to distract his former lover from it. ‘What’s she doing here? I thought she lived in America?’

‘She’s here to find a husband for the cousin.’

Randall finally noticed the young woman standing beside Cecelia. ‘And her husband is with her?’

‘No. He’s dead.’

Randall’s muscles tightened more at the news than the callous way Madame de Badeau delivered it. Cecelia was here and a widow. He swallowed hard, remembering the night Aunt Ella had told him of Cecelia’s marriage to the colonial landowner, his aunt’s soft words raining down on him like the blows from his father’s belt. The wrenching pain of having lost Cecelia so completely was almost the only thing he remembered from that night. The rest was blurred by the haze of alcohol. It was the last time he’d allowed himself to drink.

‘How do you know Mrs Thompson?’ he asked, looking around the room and accidentally catching the demure Miss Thornton’s eye. Lady Thornton, her dragon of a mother, shifted between them to block his view and he met her warning glare with a mocking grin. He wasn’t about to trouble with a green girl. They weren’t worth the effort, not with so many willing widows aching to catch his notice.

‘Cecelia’s mother and I attended the same ladies’ school in France, the one your aunt attended when your grandfather was ambassador there. Cecelia’s family was in the silk trade, quite wealthy at the time. They did a great deal of business with my father, back when the country was civilised. Dreadful revolutionaries.’

He clasped his hands behind his back, uneasy at the idea of Madame de Badeau having any connection with Cecelia, no matter how tenuous. ‘It’s difficult to imagine you in a ladies’ school.’

‘I had my pleasures there, too. Ah, the curiosities of young girls. Most delightful.’ She swept her fingers over the swell of breasts pressing against her bodice, adjusting the diamond necklace resting in the crevice of flesh. Though old enough to be Cecelia’s mother, Madame de Badeau was still a stunning woman with a smooth face and lithe body. Young lords new to London often fell prey to her beauty and other, more carnal talents.

He glanced at the full bosom, then met her eyes. His passion for her had faded long ago, but he maintained the friendship because she amused him. ‘And now?’

She snapped open her fan and waved it over her chest in short flicks. ‘I’m helping her launch her cousin in society.’

‘Why? You never help anyone.’

Madame de Badeau’s smile drew tight at the corners before she covered her irritation with a light laugh. ‘Lord Falconbridge, how serious you are tonight.’ Her hand slid around his arm, coiling in the crook of his elbow like a snake. ‘Now, let me reacquaint you with the little widow.’

They strode across the room, past the pianoforte where Miss Marianne Domville, Madame de Badeau’s much younger sister, played, her head bent over the keys, indifferent to the crowd of young bucks surrounding her. The room hummed with the usual assortment of intellectuals and friends Lady Weatherly regularly gathered for her salons. Randall cared as much for them as the poet in the corner sighing out his latest drivel. Only Cecelia mattered and he focused on her, wondering what she would think of him after all these years. Madame de Badeau must have told her of his reputation and all the scandals surrounding him. The woman took pride in spreading the stories.

Of all the disapproving looks he’d ever caught in a room like this, Cecelia’s would matter the most.

He ground his teeth, the failings he’d buried with his father threatening to seize him again. A footman carrying a tray of champagne flutes crossed their path, the amber liquid tempting Randall for the first time in ten years. He ran his thumb over the tips of his fingers, wanting to take one smooth stem in his hand and tip the sharp liquid over his tongue, again and again, until everything inside him faded.

Instead he continued forward, shoving down the old craving and all the emotions fuelling it.

They passed a clutch of whispering ladies, the women’s fans unable to muffle their breathy exclamations as they watched him.

‘...he won a duel against Lord Calverston, drawing first blood...’

‘...he and Lady Weatherly were lovers last Season...’

He pinned them with a hard look and their voices wilted like their folding fans.

As he and Madame de Badeau approached Cecelia, Lord Weatherly took his leave and Cecelia’s eyes found his again. An amused grin raised the corner of her lips, almost bringing him to a halt. It was the same smile she used to taunt him with across the card table at Falconbridge Manor. Back then, she could send him into stutters with a look, playing him like Miss Domville played the pianoforte, but not any more. No one could manipulate him now.

‘My dear Mrs Thompson, I’m sure you remember Lord Falconbridge,’ Madame de Badeau introduced, a strange note of collusion in her voice, as though she and Randall shared a secret of which Cecelia was not aware. Randall narrowed his eyes at the Frenchwoman, wondering what she was about, before Cecelia’s soft voice captured his attention.

‘Lord Falconbridge, it’s been too long.’ The hint of a colonial twang coloured the roll of his title across her tongue, conflicting with the tones he remembered so well.

‘Much too long.’ He bowed, taking in the length of her body draped in a deep red dress. Cut straight across the bodice, the gown was modestly high by London standards, but still displayed the white tops of her pert breasts. He longed to drop light kisses on the tempting mounds, to find a secluded bedroom where they might while away the evening in more pleasurable pursuits, finishing what they’d started so long ago.

He straightened, hating the vulnerability in this wanting. ‘My condolences on the loss of your husband.’

‘Thank you.’ She fingered the gold bracelet on her wrist, her smile fading before she bolstered it and motioned to the young woman standing beside her. ‘Allow me to introduce my cousin, Miss Theresa Fields.’

With reluctance, Randall tore his eyes away to take in the cousin. She was pretty, but not ravishing, and met his appraising look with an air of confidence most green girls lacked. Her dress was made of fine cotton, but simply cut and lacking the ruffles and ribbons preferred by the other young ladies this Season.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Falconbridge,’ she replied, the Virginia twang strong in her speech.

‘Miss Fields, I know my sister is dying to see you again.’ Madame de Badeau took Miss Fields by the arm and drew her out from between Cecelia and Randall. Madame de Badeau threw him a conspiratorial look as she passed, as though leaving them alone together in a bedroom and expecting nature to take its course. He wondered what scheme she had in mind for him and Cecelia. Whatever it was, she was mistaken if she thought to manipulate him like one of her country lords new to London.

‘You’re the Marquess of Falconbridge now?’ Cecelia asked, her voice flowing over him like the River Stour over the rocks at Falconbridge Manor and all thoughts of Madame de Badeau vanished.

‘Yes, Uncle Edmund couldn’t keep it for ever.’

‘My condolences on your loss,’ she offered with genuine concern. ‘I remember him fondly.’

‘You were one of the few people he truly liked.’

‘Then I’m even sorrier to hear of his passing.’

‘Don’t be.’ Randall smirked. ‘He died as he lived, with a large appetite for the pleasures of life.’

‘And no doubt still railing against society. What is it he used to say?’

‘“Nothing to be gained by chasing society’s good opinion”,’ Randall repeated Uncle Edmund’s words, remembering the old man sitting at the head of the table thumping his large fingers against the lacquered top. ‘“All it does is make you a slave to their desires and whims”—’

‘“Be your own man and you’ll be the better for it”,’ she finished, her voice deepening to mimic Uncle Edmund’s imperious tone.

Randall laughed at the accurate impression. ‘I wanted to engrave it on his headstone, but Aunt Ella wouldn’t allow it. She said it wasn’t how she wanted to remember her brother.’

‘How is Lady Ellington?’ Cecelia accepted a glass of champagne from a footman.

‘She’s quite the mistress of Falconbridge Manor.’ Randall waved away the offered drink, making Cecelia’s eyebrows rise in surprise. ‘She decided to live there after Uncle Edmund passed. It amuses her to manage the house.’

‘Will she come to London for the Season?’ There was no mistaking the eagerness in her voice and it grieved him to disappoint her.

‘Aunt Ella is as likely to venture to town as Uncle Edmund was to live as a respectable country gentleman.’

‘Nor are you likely to live so quiet a life. I hear enough stories about you to make your uncle proud.’ She touched the glass to her full lips and tilted it, letting the shimmering liquid slide into her mouth.

He focused on her moist lips, almost jealous of the glass. ‘As Uncle Edmund also used to say, a touch of scandal lends a man a little mystery.’

Cecelia laughed, wiping away a small drop of champagne from the corner of her mouth. ‘From what Madame de Badeau tells me, you have more than a touch.’

He stiffened, struggling to hold his smile. ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, especially from her.’

‘Do my ears deceive me or is the notorious Marquess of Falconbridge embarrassed?’ she gasped in mock surprise and Randall’s jaw tightened. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had dared to tease him like this.

‘Do you have a reputation, Mrs Thompson?’ he asked, determined to take back the conversation, the old familiarity too easy between them.

Darkness flickered through her eyes and she fiddled with her gold bracelet, turning it on her wrist. Whatever suddenly troubled her, he thought it would bring the discussion to an end. Then she raised her face, bravely meeting his scrutiny, her smile alight with mischief. ‘If I do, it is far behind me in Virginia and unlikely to be discovered until well after the Season.’

He stepped closer, inhaling her warm skin combined with a heady, floral scent he couldn’t name. ‘Perhaps I may discover it sooner?’

She met his low voice with a heated look from beneath dark lashes. ‘Only if you have a very fast ship.’

‘My ship is never fast, but lingers upon the salty water,’ he murmured, his body tightening with desire. ‘I’d be most happy to take you sailing.’

Her tongue slid over her parted lips, moistening the red bud, daring him to be bold and accept the invitation in her eyes. Then, like a wave rushing out to sea, the hungry look disappeared, replaced by her previous mirthful smile. ‘A very tempting offer, but I fear being disappointed so early in the Season.’

Randall coughed to suppress a laugh and a bitter sense of loss. ‘The Season will disappoint a spirited woman like you much quicker than I.’

‘After enduring such a difficult crossing, I can only hope you’re wrong.’

‘I’m never wrong.’

‘Then you’re a very fortunate man.’

‘Not entirely.’ For a brief moment, the hard shell he’d cultivated since coming to Town dropped and he was simply Randall again, alone with her in the Falconbridge study, free of a title and all his London escapades. ‘Even the life of a Marquess has its dark moments.’

Her teasing smile faded and a soft understanding filled her eyes. ‘Everyone’s life does.’

He’d watched stone-faced while mistresses wailed on their chaises and stepped casually to one side to avoid the errant porcelain figure lobbed at him. None of these overwrought reactions cut him to the core like her simple comment. For the second time in as many minutes, the shame of his past gnawed at him before he crushed it down.

‘Good.’ He smiled with more glib humour than he felt, clasping his hands behind his back. ‘Because in London, I’m a very good acquaintance to have, especially for someone who’s left her reputation across the Atlantic.’

‘I shall keep it in mind. Good evening, Lord Falconbridge.’

She dipped a curtsy and walked off across the room to join a small circle of matrons standing near the window.

He watched her go, the boy in him desperate to call her back, the man he’d become keeping his shoes firmly rooted to the floor.

‘Quite the morsel, isn’t she?’ a deep voice drawled from beside him, and Randall’s lip curled in disgust. Christopher Crowdon, Earl of Strathmore, stood next to him, a glass of claret in his thick fingers.

‘Careful how you speak of her, Strathmore,’ Randall growled, hating the way Strathmore eyed her like a doxy in a bawdy house. ‘She’s an old acquaintance of mine.’

‘My apologies,’ Strathmore mumbled, trilling his fingers against the glass, a rare fire in his pale eyes as he studied Cecelia. ‘Is it true she has extensive lands in the colonies?’

‘Why? Are you in such dire straits as to chase after heiresses?’

‘Of course not,’ he sputtered, the claret sloshing perilously close to the side of the glass before he recovered himself. ‘But there’s something to be said for a widow. They know the way of things, especially when it comes to men. Best to leave such a prize to a more experienced gentleman.’

‘Should I find one, I’ll gladly step aside.’ Randall turned on one heel and strode away.

Cecelia stood with the other matrons, trying to concentrate on the on dit, but she couldn’t. Randall’s rich voice carried over the hum of conversation and she tightened her grip on the champagne glass, willing herself not to look at him.

When she’d first seen him standing in the centre of the room, as sturdy as a wide oak in the middle of a barren field, she’d been torn between fleeing and facing him. The girl who’d once pressed him about their future together in the Falconbridge conservatory, only to be sneered at by a man unwilling to debase the family name with a poor merchant’s daughter, wanted to flee. The woman who’d helped her husband rebuild Belle View after the hurricane demanded she hold steady. The wealth and plantation might be gone, but the woman it had made her wasn’t and she’d wanted him to see it.

She finished the drink, the biting liquid as bitter as her present situation. Despite her time at Belle View, she’d returned to London no richer than when she’d left, her future more uncertain now than it had been the day she’d climbed aboard the ship to Virginia, the husband by her side as much of a stranger as the people in this room. She might shine with confidence in front of Randall, but everything else—the land in the colonies and her wealth—was a lie. She wondered how long her fine wardrobe and the width of the Atlantic would conceal her secret and the nasty rumours she’d left behind in Virginia. Hopefully long enough for either her or her cousin Theresa to make a match which might save them.

She deposited the empty champagne glass on the tray of a passing footman, the crystal clinking against the metal. As the footman reached out to steady it, she glanced past him to where Randall stood with a group of gentlemen, his square jaw and straight nose defined as much by his dark hair as the practised look of London ennui. Then he turned, his blue eyes meeting hers with a fierceness she could almost feel. Her thumb and fingers sought out the gold bracelets on her wrist while her lungs struggled to draw in an even breath. For a moment she was sixteen again, desiring him beyond reason, and nothing, not the long years of her marriage or the hours she’d spent managing Belle View, seemed to matter. She’d loved him, craved him, needed him, and in the end he hadn’t experienced the same depth of feeling for her.

She looked away, shaken by how, after all these years, he could still needle her, and chastising herself for speaking so freely with him tonight. No matter how easy it was to tease and flirt with him as she used to, she couldn’t afford to be bold with a man like him. It might ruin her.

‘Mrs Thompson, I hear you’ve been living in America,’ a woman’s distant voice intruded, snapping Cecelia’s attention back to the circle of ladies.

‘Yes. I have a plantation in Virginia.’ Her stomach tightened with the lie.

‘What brings you and Miss Fields back to London after all this time?’ Lady Weatherly asked.

Cecelia met their curious looks, the same awkwardness that nearly stole her tongue the night Daniel had presented her to the Richmond families at the Governor’s ball stealing over her. She squared her shoulders now as she had then, defiant against her unease and their scrutiny. ‘I brought my cousin back to London in the hope of seeing her settled.’

‘Did she not have suitors in Virginia?’ Lady Weatherly pressed like a small terrier determined to dig out a rat and Cecelia bit back the desire to tell the Countess to keep to her own affairs. Despite a dubious reputation, the statuesque young woman draped in gauzy silk was a fixture of society whose good opinion Cecelia needed to keep. Swallowing her pride, Cecelia repeated the story she and Theresa had practised during the crossing.

‘She did, but when the British burned Washington, we were no longer warmly received, despite having known many of the families for years. It wasn’t suitable for her to look for suitors under such hostile circumstances. When I suggested a Season in London, she was thrilled with the chance to come home.’

‘Speaking of gentlemen—’ Lady Weatherly waved away her interest in Cecelia with one gloved hand ‘—here is Lord Strathmore.’

‘Good evening ladies.’ Lord Strathmore bowed before fixing Cecelia with a smile more snakelike than charming. ‘Mrs Thompson, would you care to join me for some refreshment?’

‘Thank you, but I have no appetite tonight.’ His smile faltered and she widened hers. She didn’t relish the Earl’s company, but it would prove less irksome than Lady Weatherly’s questions. ‘If you’d care to escort me to the pianoforte, I’d like to see how my cousin is faring.’

‘It would be my pleasure.’

As she and Lord Strathmore crossed the room, she hazarded a glance at Randall, startled by the glare he fixed on Lord Strathmore. As fast as the look came it was gone and he turned back to the man next to him and resumed his conversation.

Cecelia wondered what about the man raised Randall’s hackles. Lord Strathmore had no reputation she could discern, or none Madame de Badeau had seen fit to reveal, and the woman delighted in revealing a great many things about a number of people.

‘May I be so bold as to say how radiant you look tonight?’ Lord Strathmore complimented, his serpentlike smile returning to draw up the small bit of skin beneath his round chin.

‘You’re too generous.’ She untwisted the strap of her fan, shaking off the strange reaction to his look. With so many things worrying her, she must only be seeing trouble where none existed.

‘Madame de Badeau tells me you have no horse in London at your disposal.’

‘No. I had to leave my beautiful horse in Virginia.’ Anger burned through her at the thought of the stables, Daniel’s stables, the ones he’d worked so hard to establish, now under the control of her selfish stepson Paul.

‘It’d be my pleasure to accompany you and your cousin in Rotten Row. I keep a few geldings in London suitable for ladies to ride.’

‘You’re most kind.’ The idea of riding properly in Rotten Row beside Lord Strathmore dampened her enthusiasm. However, borrowing horses from his stable would spare her the expense of hiring them and allow her and Theresa to be seen during the fashionable hour.

Cecelia stepped up to the pianoforte and touched Theresa’s elbow. Her cousin turned, frowning at Lord Strathmore, and Cecelia shot her a warning look. In their present situation, Cecelia didn’t have the luxury to refuse any man’s attention. Except Randall’s.

Only then did she notice the absence of his voice beneath the melody of the pianoforte. She glanced around the room, expecting to meet his silent stare, but saw nothing except the other guests mingling. Relief filled her, followed by disappointment. He was gone, his conversation and interest in her as finished tonight as it was ten years ago. Yet something about their exchange continued to trouble her. Beneath Randall’s rakish smile and desire to capture her notice, she’d sensed something else, something all too familiar. Pain.

Polite applause marked the end of Miss Domville’s piece and Cecelia clapped along with the two young men standing on the other side of the instrument.

‘Play again, Miss Domville,’ Lord Bolton, the taller of the two, urged. ‘We so enjoy your fingerwork.’

Instead of blushing, Miss Domville rose and coolly lowered the cover on the keys.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with your own fingerwork for the rest of the evening,’ she answered in a sweet voice before coming around the piano and taking Theresa by the arm. ‘Miss Fields and I are going to take a turn around the room so we may discuss all of you in private. May we, Mrs Thompson?’

Cecelia studied Miss Domville, debating the wisdom of letting Theresa associate with such a bold young woman. However, Miss Domville’s sense of confidence and the gentlemen’s sudden notice of Theresa overcame her doubts. ‘Of course.’

‘Wonderful. We’ll discuss how much we dislike London.’ Miss Domville led Theresa away, chatting merrily, and Cecelia noticed the genuine enjoyment spreading over her cousin’s face.

If only all our worries could be so easily soothed.

Lord Strathmore lingered beside her and she struggled to ignore her discomfort as she faced him. ‘Tell me about your horses.’

He spoke more to her bosom than her face as he launched into a droll description of his stables. She forced herself to appear impressed, rubbing the gold bracelet again and hating this act. Speaking with him was like stepping up on the bidding block to be inspected by the first man who showed a modicum of interest in her. It made her feel cheap and deceitful, but what choice did she have?

The memory of Randall’s hooded eyes teasing her sent a wave of heat across her skin and her fingers stopped.

Yes, there was another option, the same one General LaFette had suggested when he’d cornered her at the Governor’s picnic, eyeing her breasts the way Lord Strathmore did now, but she refused to entertain it. She hadn’t scorned one man’s offer only to take up another’s. She wasn’t so desperate, at least not yet.

Chapter Two

‘Good evening, my lord,’ Mr Joshua, the wiry young valet, greeted as Randall entered his bedroom. ‘You’re in early tonight.’

‘So it seems.’ Randall stood still while Mr Joshua removed his coat, the skin along the back of his neck tightening as a chill deeper than the cool night air crossed him. He moved closer to the marble fireplace, the warmth of it doing little to ease the lingering tightness from his encounter with Cecelia.

She was back, the wealth and confidence of her experiences in Virginia circling her like her perfume, making her more beautiful then when she’d stood before him as a young girl with the weight of sorrow on her shoulders.

It seemed marriage had benefited her.

He grabbed the poker from the stand and banged it against the coals, trying to ignite the heat smouldering in their centres. A splash of sparks jumped in the grate, followed by a few large flames.

He didn’t doubt she’d benefited from the marriage. She’d practically rushed at the colonial after Aunt Ella made the introduction, fleeing from Randall and England as fast as the ship could carry her.

She’d escaped her troubles, and left Randall behind to be tortured by his.

He returned the poker to the stand, his anger dying down like the flames.

After everything that had passed between them, when he’d been foolish enough tonight to show weakness, she hadn’t belittled him. Instead she’d displayed an understanding he hadn’t experienced since coming to London. Considering the way they’d parted, it was much more than he deserved.

The squeak of hinges broke the quiet and the bedroom door opened.

‘Hello, Reverend.’ Randall dropped to one knee and held out his arms.

The black hunting dog ran to him, his long tongue lolling out one side of his mouth. Randall rubbed Reverend’s back and the dog’s head stretched up to reveal the wide band of white fur under his neck. ‘And where have you been?’

‘Probably in the kitchen hunting for scraps again,’ Mr Joshua answered for the dog while he brushed out Randall’s coat.

‘I’ll hear about it from cook tomorrow.’ Randall scratched behind the dog’s ears, the familiar action soothing away the old regrets and torments.

‘A message arrived while you were gone.’ Mr Joshua held out a rose-scented note, a cheeky smile on his young face. ‘It seems Lady Weatherly is eager to renew last Season’s acquaintance.’

Randall’s calm disappeared. He stood and took the note, skimming the contents, the sentiments as trite as the perfume clinging to the envelope.

‘Good dalliance, that one. Obliging old husband with more interest in the actresses of Drury Lane than his wife,’ Mr Joshua observed with his usual candour. No one else in London was as honest with Randall as the valet. Randall had encouraged it from the beginning when he’d taken the labourer’s son into his service and saved his family from ruin. ‘Lord Weatherly isn’t likely to object to your lordship’s continued acquaintance with his wife.’

‘Yes, but I’ve had enough of Lady Weatherly.’ Randall tossed the paper in the grate. ‘If she calls again, tell her I’m engaged.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Randall leaned against the mantel, watching the letter curl and blacken. He dropped one hand to his side and Reverend slid his head beneath it. Randall rubbed the dog behind his ears, despising Lady Weatherly and all those of her ilk. They never flattered him without an eye to what they could gain. Yet he tolerated them, enjoyed what they eagerly gave because they demanded nothing more of him than the esteem of being his lover.

The image of Cecelia danced before him, her lively voice ringing in his ears. She’d entered Lady Weatherly’s salon, a butterfly amid too many moths, standing alone in her beauty while the rest flapped around the candles. She didn’t need light, it was in her eyes, her smile, the melody of her voice, just as it was ten years ago. Her responses to his amorous suggestions were playful and daring, but tinged with an innocence women like Madame de Badeau and Lady Weatherly had abandoned long ago. He grieved to think what London might do to her. What had it done to him? Nothing he hadn’t wholeheartedly embraced from his first day in town. Nothing his father hadn’t feared he’d do.

You’re as bad as your uncle, his father’s deep voice bellowed through the quiet, and the faint scar on his back from where his father’s belt used to strike him began to itch.

Randall closed his eyes, seeing again his father waiting for him in the vicarage sitting room, the darkness of the window behind him broken by small drops of rain flickering with the firelight.

You think your Uncle Edmund has all the answers, but he hasn’t, his father sneered from his chair. All his wine and women, they’re only to fill the emptiness of his life. You can’t see it now, but some day you will, when your own life is as hollow as his.

At least he accepts me, Randall spat, his uncle’s port giving him courage, anger giving him words. Reverend stood next to him, the puppy’s tense body pressed against his leg.

I’m hard on you for your own good. He slammed his fist against the chair, then gripped the arm as a raspy cough racked his body. He stood, his skin ashen, and he closed his eyes, drawing in a few ragged breaths as he steadied himself.

Randall braced himself for the usual onslaught of insults, but when his father opened his eyes they were soft with a concern Randall had only experienced a handful of times, yet every day craved. I want you to be more of a man than Edmund. I want to know your mother’s death to bring you into this world was worth it.

His father’s eyes drifted to the portrait of Randall’s mother hanging across the room, the concern replaced by the constant sadness Randall loathed, the one which always pulled his father away. Randall tightened his hands at his side, wanting to rip the portrait from the wall and fling it in the fire. Why? No matter what I do, it’s never enough for you.

And what do you do? Drink with your uncle without a thought for me. His father’s face hardened with disgust. You’re selfish, that’s what you are, only ever thinking of yourself and your future riches instead of being here and tending to the vicarage like a proper son.

Randall dropped his hand on Reverend’s head, anger seething inside him. He’d obeyed his father for years, taken every insult heaped on him and more, thinking one day the old man would look at him with the same affection he saved for the portrait, but he hadn’t, and tonight Randall realised he never would. I’m not staying here any longer. Uncle Edmund has invited me to live at the manor. I’m going there and I’m not coming back.

You think because you’ll be a Marquess some day, you’re too good for a simple vicarage. Well, you’re not. His father snatched the poker from the fireplace and Randall took a step back. You think I don’t know how you and my brother laugh at me, how you mocked me when you named that wretched dog he gave you.

He levelled the poker at Reverend and a low growl rolled through the gangly puppy.

Well, no more, his father spat. You killed the one person I loved most in this world, then turned my brother and sister against me. You have no idea how it feels to lose so much, but you will when I take away something you love. He focused on Reverend and raised the poker over his head.

No! Randall rushed at his father, catching the poker just as his father brought it down, the hard metal slamming into his palm and sending a bolt of pain through his shoulder. He tried to wrench the iron from his father’s hand, but the old man held on tight, fighting with a strength fuelled by hate. Reverend’s sharp barks pierced the room as Randall shoved his father against the wall, his other arm across his chest, pinning him like a wild animal until his father’s fingers finally opened and the poker clattered to the floor.

I hate you. You killed her, he hissed before the deep lines of his face softened, his jaw sagged open and his body slumped forward on to Randall’s chest.

Randall struggled to hold his father’s limp weight as he lowered him to the floor, then knelt next to him, panic replacing his anger as he patted his face, trying to rouse him. Father? Father?

A faint gurgle filled his father’s throat before his eyes focused on Randall’s. Reverend whimpered behind him, as if he, too, sensed what was coming.

Father, forgive me, Randall pleaded.

You aren’t worthy— he slurred before his head dropped forward and he slumped to the side.

The room went quiet, punctuated by the crackling of the fire and Reverend’s panting.

Randall rose, stumbling backwards before gripping a table to steady himself. Reverend came to sit beside him and he dropped his hand on the dog’s soft head. I didn’t mean to hurt him, I didn’t mean to— kill him.

A gust of wind blew a fury of raindrops against the window, startling Randall. He couldn’t stay here. He had to get help, to tell Aunt Ella and Uncle Edmund.

The poker lay on the floor next to the wrinkled edge of the rug. With a trembling hand, he picked it up and returned it to the holder. With the toe of one boot, he straightened the rug, careful not to look at the dark figure near the white wall. Then he turned and left, Reverend trotting beside him out into the icy rain.

Randall opened his eyes and knelt down next to Reverend, rubbing the dog’s back, struggling to calm the guilt tearing through him. He’d walked through the freezing rain back to the manor, then stood dripping and shivering as he’d told Aunt Ella he’d come home to find his father collapsed. The doctor had said it was his father’s heart that had killed him. Randall had never told anyone the truth, except Cecelia.

His hands stopped rubbing Reverend and the dog licked his fingers, eager for more. Randall noticed with a twinge of sadness the grey fur around Reverend’s black muzzle. ‘I wonder if you’d remember her.’

‘Did you say something, my lord?’ Mr Joshua asked.

‘No, nothing.’

The small clock on the side table chimed a quarter past twelve.

‘Will you be going out again tonight, my lord?’

‘Perhaps.’ Randall stood, shaking off the memories, but the old emotions hovered around him, faint and fading like the waking end of a dream: vulnerability, uncertainty, innocence, regret. In the end, he’d driven Cecelia away, too horrified by what he’d done to keep close the one person who knew his secret. His father had never forgiven him. Would Cecelia have forgiven him back then? He’d never had the courage to ask her.

‘Keeping such hours, society will think you’ve gone respectable,’ Mr Joshua joked, ‘then every matron with a marriageable daughter will be here at the door. I’ll have so many cards stacked up we won’t need kindling all winter.’

Randall frowned, hearing the truth in his jest. No, he wasn’t going to spend the night wallowing in the past like his father used to do. Those days were far behind him, just like his relationship with Cecelia. At the end of that summer, they’d both made their choices. He refused to regret his.

‘I’m going to my club.’ He patted Reverend, then flicked his hand at the bed. ‘Up you go.’

The dog jumped up on the wide bed, turning around before settling into the thick coverlet, watching as Mr Joshua helped Randall on with his coat.

Randall straightened the cravat in the mirror, then headed for the door. ‘Don’t expect me back until morning.’

Cecelia sat in the turned-wood chair next to the small fireplace in her bedroom, staring at the dark fireback. Still dressed in her evening clothes, she shivered, having forgotten how cold London could be even in the spring, but she didn’t burn any coal. She couldn’t afford it.

She closed her eyes and thought of the warm Virginia nights heavy with moisture, the memory of the cicadas’ songs briefly drowning out the clop of carriage horses on the street outside.

The sound drew her back to Lady Weatherly’s and the sight of Randall approaching from across the salon. He’d moved like the steady current of the James River, every step threatening to shatter her calm like a tidal surge driven inland by a hurricane. She’d known he’d be there tonight. Madame de Badeau had mentioned it yesterday, leaving Cecelia to imagine scenario after scenario of how they might meet. Not once did she picture his blue eyes tempting her with the same desire she used to catch in the shadowed hallways of Falconbridge Manor. Back then every kiss was stolen, each moment of pleasure fumbling and uncertain.

There was nothing uncertain about Randall tonight, only a strength emphasised by his broad shoulders and the height he’d gained since she’d last seen him. Her body hummed with the memory of him standing so close, his musky cologne and hot breath tempting her more than his innuendoes and illicit suggestions. Yet she’d caught something else hovering in the tension beneath his heated look—a frail connection she wanted to touch and hold.

She opened her eyes and smacked her hand hard against the chair’s arm, the sting bringing her back to her senses. There’d never been a connection between them, only the daydreams of a girl too naive to realise a future Marquess would never lower himself to save her. He hadn’t then and, with all his wealth and privilege, he certainly wouldn’t now, no matter how many tempting suggestions he threw her way. No, he would be among the first to laugh and sneer if the truth of her situation was ever revealed, and if she could help it, it never would be.

She slid off the chair and knelt before the small trunk sitting at the end of the narrow bed, her mother’s trunk, the only piece of furniture she’d brought back to London. The hinges squeaked as she pushed opened the lid, the metal having suffered the ill effects of sea air on the voyage from Virginia. Inside sat a bolt of fabric, a jumble of tarnished silver, a small box of jewellery and a stack of books. It was the sum of her old possessions and the few items of value she’d managed to secrete from Belle View after Paul had taken control. They sat in the trunk like a skeleton in its coffin, reminding her of everything she’d ever lost. For a brief moment, she wished the whole lot had fallen overboard, but she needed them and the money they could bring.

She pushed aside the silver, the metal clanking as she lifted out one large book on hunting from beneath a stack of smaller ones. It had been Daniel’s favourite and the only one she’d taken for sentimental reasons. She opened it and, with a gloved finger, traced a beautiful watercolour of a duck in flight, remembering how Daniel used to sit in his study, his brown hair flecked with grey falling over his forehead as he examined each picture.

Guilt edged her grief. In the end, this book would probably have to be sold, too.

She snapped it shut and laid it in the trunk next to the velvet case that had once held the gold bracelet she wore. It had been a gift from her father, given to her the Christmas before his ship had sunk off the coast of Calais, taking with it his life and the merchandise he’d needed to revive his business. Moving aside the silk, she caught sight of the small walnut box in the corner. She reached for it, then pulled back, unable to open it and look at the wispy curl, the precious reminder of her sweet baby boy.

Squeezing her eyes tight against the sudden rush of tears, she fought back the sob rising in her throat and burning her chest with grief. Her hands tightened on the edges of the trunk, the weave of her silk gloves digging into her fingertips. Loss, always loss. Her father, her mother, her infant son, Daniel... Would it never end?

She pounded one fist against the open trunk lid, then sat back on her heels, drawing in breath after breath, her body shaking with the effort to stop the tears.

Why did she have to suffer when people like Randall found peace? Why?

A knock made her straighten and she rubbed her wet face with her hands as the bedroom door opened.

Theresa appeared, a wrapper pulled tight around her nightdress. ‘I heard a noise. Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine.’ She looked away, trying to hide her tears, but Theresa saw them.

‘You aren’t missing Daniel, are you?’ The girl knelt next to her and threw her arms around Cecelia.

‘No, I’m angry with him.’ Cecelia pulled herself to her feet, not wanting anyone’s pity or comfort tonight, not even Theresa’s. ‘When he recovered from the fever eight years ago, I asked him, begged him to write his will, to provide for me, not leave me at the mercy of Paul, but he wouldn’t. All his superstitions about making a will inviting death, his always putting it off until next month, next year until it was too late. Now, we’re lost.’

‘We aren’t lost yet.’

‘Aren’t we?’ She slammed the lid down on the trunk. ‘You saw everyone tonight, treating us like nothing more than colonial curiosities. How they’ll laugh when the money runs out, scorn us the way Paul did when he evicted us from Belle View and refused to pay my widow’s portion. Not one of them will care if we starve.’

Theresa fingered the wrapper sash. ‘I think one person will care.’

‘You mean Lord Strathmore?’ Cecelia pulled off the damp gloves and tossed them on the dressing table. ‘It seems I can attract nothing but men like him and General LaFette.’

‘I didn’t mean Lord Strathmore. I meant Lord Falconbridge.’

Cecelia gaped at Theresa. The memory of Randall standing so close, his mouth tight as he spoke of the difficulties of life flashed before her. Then anger shattered the image. She shouldn’t have bothered to comfort him. He wouldn’t have done the same for her. ‘I assure you, he’ll be the first to laugh at us.’

‘I don’t believe it. I saw the way he watched you tonight. Miss Domville did, too. She said he’s never looked at a woman the way he looked at you.’

‘I hardly think Miss Domville is an expert on Lord Falconbridge.’ Cecelia crossed her arms, more against the flutter in her chest than the ridiculous turn of the conversation. ‘And be careful what you tell her. We can’t have anyone knowing our situation, especially not Madame de Badeau.’

For all the Frenchwoman’s friendliness, Cecelia wondered if the lady’s offer to introduce Cecelia and Theresa to society had an ulterior motive, though what, she couldn’t imagine.

‘I don’t like her and I don’t like Lord Strathmore.’ Theresa wrinkled her nose. ‘He’s worse than General LaFette. Always staring at your breasts.’

‘Yet he’s the man we may have to rely on to save us.’ She paced the room, the weight of their lot dragging on her like the train of her dress over the threadbare rug. She stopped at the window, moving aside the curtain to watch the dark street below. ‘Maybe I should have accepted General LaFette’s offer. At least then we could have stayed in Virginia.’

‘I’d starve before I’d let you sell yourself to a man like him,’ Theresa proclaimed.

Cecelia whirled on her cousin. ‘Why? Didn’t I sell myself once before to keep out of the gutter?’

‘But you loved Daniel, didn’t you?’ Theresa looked stricken, just as she had the morning Cecelia and Daniel had met the newly orphaned girl at the Yorktown docks, her parents, Cecelia’s second cousins, having perished on the crossing.

Cecelia wanted to lie and soothe her cousin’s fears, allow her to hold on to this one steady thing after almost two years of so much change, but she couldn’t. She’d always been honest with the girl who was like a daughter to her and she couldn’t deceive her now.

‘Not at first,’ she admitted, ashamed of the motives which drove her to accept the stammering proposal of a widower twenty years older than her with a grown son and all his lands half a world away. ‘The love came later.’

Yet for all her tying herself to a stranger to keep from starving, here she was again, no better now than she’d been the summer before she’d married. Even Randall had reappeared to taunt her and remind her of all her failings.

She dropped down on the lumpy cushion in the window seat, anger giving way to the despair she’d felt so many times since last spring when General LaFette had begun spreading his vicious rumours. The old French General had asked her to be his mistress. When she’d refused, he’d ruined her with his lies. How easily the other plantation families had believed him, but she’d made the mistake of never really getting to know them. Belle View was too far from all the others to make visiting convenient, and though Daniel was sociable, too many times he’d preferred the quiet of home to parties and Williamsburg society.

‘Now I understand why Mother gave up after Father died.’ She sighed, staring down at the dark cobblestone street. ‘I had to deal with the creditors then, too, handing them the silver and whatever else I could find just so we could live. I used to hide it from her, though I don’t know why. She never noticed. I don’t even think she cared.’

‘She must have.’ Theresa joined her on the thin cushion, taking one of her cold hands in her warm one.

‘Which is why she sent me to Lady Ellington’s?’

‘Perhaps she didn’t want you to see her suffer.’

‘No. I think all my pestering her to deal with the creditors bothered her more than the consumption. The peace must have been a relief when she sent me away.’ Cecelia could only imagine how welcome the silence of death must have been.

Theresa squeezed her hand. ‘Please don’t give up. I don’t know what I’d do if you lost hope.’

Cecelia wrapped her arms around her cousin, trying to soothe away all her fears and concerns the way she wished her mother had done for her, the way her father used to do.

‘No, I won’t, I promise.’ She couldn’t give up. She had to persevere just as Daniel had taught her to do when his final illness had begun and she’d had to run Belle View, to pick up and carry on the way her father used to after every blow to his business. ‘You’re right, all isn’t lost yet. We’ll find a way.’

We have no choice.

Randall sat back, his cards face down under his palm on the table. Across from him, Lord Westbrook hunched over his cards, his signet ring turning on his shaking hand. A footman placed a glass of wine on the table in front of the young man and he picked it up, the liquid sloshing in the glass as he raised it to his lips.

Randall reached across the table and grasped the man’s arm. ‘No. You will do this sober.’

Lord Westbrook swallowed hard, eyeing the wine before lowering it to the table. Randall sat back, flicking the edges of the cards, ignoring the murmuring crowd circling them and betting on the outcome. In the centre of the table sat a hastily scribbled note resting on a pile of coins. Lord Westbrook’s hands shook as he fingered his cards and Randall almost took pity on him. If this game were not the focus of the entire room, he might have spared the youth this beating. Now, he had no choice but to let the game play to its obvious conclusion.

‘Show your cards,’ Randall demanded.

Lord Westbrook looked up, panic draining the colour from his face. With trembling fingers he laid out the cards one by one, leaving them in an uneven row. It was a good hand, but not good enough.

Randall turned over his cards, spreading them out in an even row, and a loud cheer went up from the crowd.

Lord Westbrook put his elbows on the table and grasped the side of his head, pulling at his blond hair. Randall stood and, ignoring the coins, picked up the piece of paper. Lord Westbrook’s face snapped up, his eyes meeting Randall’s, and for a brief second Randall saw his own face, the one which used to stare back at him from every mirror during his first year in London.

‘I’ve always wanted a house in Surrey,’ Randall tossed off with a disdain he didn’t feel, then slid the note in his pocket. ‘Come to my house next week to discuss the terms.’

Turning on his heel, he left the room, shaking off the many hands reaching out to congratulate him.

Chapter Three

Cecelia shifted the white Greek-style robe on her shoulders, the wood pedestal beneath her biting into the back of her thighs, the sharp odour of oil paints nearly smothering her as she struggled to maintain her pose. Pushing the wreath of flowers off her forehead for the third time in as many minutes, she sighed, wondering how she’d ended up in Sir Thomas Lawrence’s studio in this ridiculous position.

‘Lord Strathmore was right. You make the perfect Persephone,’ Madame de Badeau complimented from beside the dais, as if answering Cecelia’s silent question.

Cecelia shifted the bouquet in her hands, feeling more like a trollop than a goddess. Lord Strathmore wanted a painting of Persephone to complement one he already possessed of Demeter. Madame de Badeau had convinced Cecelia to pose, all the while hinting at Lord Strathmore’s interest in her. If it weren’t for the need to maintain his interest, Cecelia never would have agreed to this ridiculous request.

Her spirit drooped like the flowers in her hand, the weariness of having to entertain a man’s affection out of necessity instead of love weighing on her. Thankfully, business prevented Lord Strathmore from accompanying them today and deepening her humiliation.

‘Have you heard the latest gossip concerning Lord Falconbridge?’ Madame de Badeau asked, as if to remind Cecelia of how her last affair of the heart had ended.

‘No, I have not.’ Nor did she want to. She’d experienced enough cruel gossip in Virginia to make her sick whenever she heard people delighting in it here.

‘Lord Falconbridge won Lord Westbrook’s entire fortune. Absolutely ruined the gentleman. Isn’t it grand?’ She clapped her hands together like a child excited over a box of sweets.

‘What?’ Cecelia turned to face Madame de Badeau and the wreath tumbled from her head.

‘Mrs Thompson, your pose.’ Sir Thomas hurried from behind his easel to scoop up the wilting wreath and hand it to her.

She repositioned it on her head, her hand shaking with the same anger she’d known the morning Paul had turned them out of Belle View. ‘How could Lord Falconbridge do such a thing?’

‘My dear, he prides himself on it.’ The smile curling Madame de Badeau’s lips made Cecelia’s stomach churn. ‘The losses aren’t the worst of Lord Westbrook’s problems. Now that he’s penniless, the family of his intended has forbidden the match.’

Cecelia’s fingers tightened so hard on the bouquet, one flower snapped and bent over on its broken stem. She more than anyone knew the hardships Lord Westbrook now faced. ‘Surely Lord Falconbridge must know.’

‘Of course he does. All society knows. I think it most fortunate. Now Lord Westbrook will have to marry for money instead of love. I abhor love matches. They are so gauche.’

As Madame de Badeau launched into a description of the now-infamous card game, Cecelia fought the desire to rise and dismiss her. If she didn’t need Madame de Badeau’s connections in society, she’d have nothing to do with the shallow woman. Despite being an old friend of her mother’s, Cecelia sensed the Frenchwoman would gladly push her into poverty if only to provide a few witty stories for the guests at her next card party.

Cecelia thought again of Lady Ellington and all the unfinished letters she’d drafted to her since returning to London. The sweet woman had been such a comfort ten years ago, listening while Cecelia poured out her heartbreak over losing her father, her mother’s illness and, in the end, Randall’s rejection. The Dowager Countess was the only other connection she still possessed in England, though it was a tenuous one. They hadn’t exchanged letters in over eight years.

Cecelia shifted again on the dais, pulling the robe tight against the cold grief which had ended the correspondence. During her first two years at Belle View, she’d sent the Countess so many letters filled with the details of her life, from surveying her own fields to dining with the Governor. She’d written each with the hope the lady might share them with Randall and show him how far the ‘poor merchant’s daughter’ had come.

Then, after the loss of her little boy and the near loss of Daniel to the fever, all her girlish desires to impress someone half a world away had vanished.

Stinging tears filled her eyes and she blinked them back, determined not to cry in front of Madame de Badeau and risk the woman’s mocking laughter. Like her heartache, the sense of isolation from anyone of decency sat hard on Cecelia’s chest. She pressed her thumb into one of the thorns on the stem, forcing down the encroaching despair. She would not fail, nor give up on Theresa the way her mother had given up on her. The Season was still young. They would make new friends and meet the man who’d save them before the truth of their situation became impossible to conceal.

‘Madame de Badeau, I’m surprised to see you here. I didn’t think you a patron of the arts,’ a familiar voice called out from behind her.

Cecelia’s back stiffened with a strange mixture of excitement and anger and the sudden movement made the garland tumble to the floor.

‘Hello, Mrs Thompson.’ Randall came to stand in front of the dais, towering over her, his tan pants covering his long legs while one hand grasped the silver head of his ebony walking stick. His other hand rested on his hip, pushing back his dark coat to show the grey waistcoat hugging the trim waist underneath. With an amused look he took in her draping-goddess dress and the basket of fruit at her bare feet.

‘Lord Falconbridge,’ she greeted through clenched teeth, annoyed at having to face the man whom, at the moment, she very much detested.

He bent down to pick up the garland, his hot breath caressing the tops of her toes and making her skin pebble with goose bumps. ‘I’ve never thought of you as a muse.’

She pulled her feet back under the robe. ‘You haven’t thought of me at all.’

‘Oh, I have, many times.’ His beguiling eyes pinned hers and she shivered. ‘But more as an adventurous Amazon in the wilds of America.’

He held out the wreath, the simple gesture more an invitation to forget herself than a desire to aid the painter.

She snatched it from his hands and pushed it down on her head. ‘How flattering.’

Randall straightened and for a brief moment appeared puzzled, as though surprised by the edge in her words. He quickly recovered himself, tossing her a scoundrel’s wink before strolling off to stand behind the easel.

‘I heard the most delicious news about you,’ Madame de Badeau congratulated, her wicked cheer grating. ‘You must tell me all about the game with Lord Westbrook.’

‘The subject bores me and I’m sure you already know the most interesting parts.’ Randall watched Sir Thomas work, irritation sharpening the lines of his face.

Cecelia wondered at his reaction. She expected him to boast about his win over Lord Westbrook, or revel in Madame de Badeau’s praise, not dismiss it as if he weren’t proud of what he’d done.

‘Then you’re the only one.’ Madame de Badeau sniffed. She wandered to the tall windows and peeked through a crack in one of the shutters covering the bottom and shielding Cecelia from the people passing outside. ‘Ah, there is Lady Thornton. I must have a word with her. Lord Falconbridge, please keep Mrs Thompson entertained until I return.’

His hot eyes pinned Cecelia’s. ‘It would be my pleasure.’

‘I don’t need company.’ Cecelia fixed her attention on a small crack in the plaster on the far wall, trying to avoid Randall’s suggestive look.

‘Tilt your head a little to the left, Mrs Thompson,’ Sir Thomas instructed and she obliged. Randall continued to study the portrait and Cecelia, but said nothing. Only the sound of the painter’s pencil sketching across the canvas, combined with the muffled clack of passing coaches outside, filled the room.

‘I have not seen the likeness yet,’ Cecelia remarked, the quiet making her restless. ‘Tell me, Lord Falconbridge, is it favourable?’

‘Hmm.’ He stepped back to examine the portrait and the subject. ‘It’s an excellent likeness. My compliments to the artist. However, the original is still more stunning.’

Cecelia arched one disbelieving eyebrow at him. ‘Thank you, my lord, but be warned, I won’t succumb to such obvious flattery.’

‘It’s the truth.’ His soft protest was like a caress and her heart ached to believe him, to know again what it was like to be valued by a man, not sought after like some prized cow.

She adjusted one hairpin at the back of her head, unwilling to believe that a man who’d bedded a number of society women possessed any real interest in her. ‘Tell me, Sir Thomas, how many times have you heard such compliments made in your presence?’

‘Many times,’ the painter chuckled. ‘But Lord Falconbridge’s are the most sincere.’

‘There you have it,’ Randall boasted. ‘I’m not lying.’

‘Or you’re simply better at it than most.’

They fell silent and the sketching continued until Randall said something to the painter in a low voice. She strained to hear, but the laughter of two men on the street muffled the words. Then, Sir Thomas rose from his stool.

‘If his lordship and the lady will excuse me, I need another pencil. I shall return in a moment.’

‘Don’t hurry on our account,’ Randall called after him.

‘You asked him to leave, didn’t you?’ Cecelia accused, wary of being left alone with him.

‘You really think I’d stoop so low?’ He came closer to the dais, moving with the grace of a water snake through a lake in Virginia.

She struggled to remain seated, eager to place the distance of the room between them as he rested one elbow on the half-Corinthian column beside her. ‘Based on the gossip I hear attached to your name, it seems you’re fond of ruining people.’

He dropped his chin on his palm, bringing his arrogant smirk so close, all she needed to do was lean in to feel his mouth against hers. ‘You think a moment alone with me will ruin you?’

She glanced at his lips, wondering if they were as firm as she remembered. ‘It’s possible.’

‘I shouldn’t worry.’ His breath brushed her exposed shoulders and slid down the space between her breasts. ‘Sir Thomas is a very discreet man.’

Neither of them moved to close the distance, but she felt him waiting, expecting her to weaken under the strength of his charm and throw herself at him like Lady Weatherly and heaven knew how many others. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of meeting his expectation.

‘You, however, enjoy boasting of your conquests.’ She leaned away and Randall jerked up straight.

‘You’re truly mad at me?’

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘Why should you be?’

‘Because you ruined Lord Westbrook.’

‘Lord Westbrook?’ He had the audacity to look surprised before a scowl replaced the suggestive smile of only a moment before. ‘What interest do you have in him?’

‘None, but I can sympathise with his plight, something you’re obviously incapable of doing.’

‘How can a rich widow sympathise?’

Cecelia looked down, pulling the cloak closer around her shoulders. Her situation was already precarious. She needn’t arouse suspicion by showing so much emotion. ‘Whether I can sympathise or not doesn’t matter. What you did to him is still wrong.’

‘Is it?’ Randall paced the studio, swinging his walking stick in time with his steps. ‘Lord Westbrook is a man with responsibilities and capable of deciding whether or not to risk his future at the gaming table. You should be happy it was I who played him. Others wouldn’t have been so kind.’

‘You believe ruining him is kind?’

He halted, jabbing his stick into the floor. ‘I haven’t ridden to his estate and turned him out as I assure you is quite common. Nor have I forced him to the moneylenders and outrageous terms.’

‘Yes, he’s very fortunate indeed. It’s a wonder people don’t speak more favourably of you when you’re obviously such a generous gentleman.’

A muscle in his jaw twitched and shame flashed through his eyes before he looked away. For a moment she felt sorry for him. She’d seen this expression once before, ten years ago, when they’d stood together under the large ash tree at Falconbridge Manor, the shadows shifting over his father’s plain headstone. Like then, the look didn’t last, but fled from his eyes as fast as he’d fled back up the lawn, hard arrogance stiffening his jaw.

Footsteps sounded in the hall outside the studio.

‘Sir Thomas is returning,’ Randall announced, moving to examine a large landscape near the window, his back to her as Sir Thomas’s footsteps grew louder. He stood still except for his fingers. They toyed with the walking-stick handle, betraying a certain agitation, as if her words had struck a chord. Did he feel some guilt over what he’d done to Lord Westbrook? No, surely it was only the shock of being dressed down by a lady, something she was sure he rarely experienced.

‘Are you ready to continue?’ Sir Thomas asked, taking his place behind the easel.

‘Yes, please.’ Cecelia resumed her pose just as the curtain flew open and Madame de Badeau swept into the room.

‘You won’t believe what Lady Thornton just told me. Lord Falconbridge, you’ll think it sinfully good when you hear it.’

‘I’m sure, but for the moment, you’ll have to entertain Mrs Thompson with the story. I have business to attend to.’ He snapped his walking stick up under his arm and made for the door.

‘What a bore you are,’ Madame de Badeau chided, then turned to Cecelia. ‘My dear, wait until you hear what’s happened to Lord Byron.’

Randall barely heard two words of Madame de Badeau’s gossip as he stormed from the room, catching Cecelia’s reflection in the mirror near the door, disapproval hard in her eyes before she looked away.

He passed through the dark shop and out into the sunlit street beyond, tapping his walking stick in time with his steps.

He hadn’t expected to meet her in the studio today, especially not in a silky robe wrapped tight around her narrow waist, exposing the curve of her hips and breasts and making him forget all business with the painter. Once together, he hadn’t been able to resist tempting her with a few words, or trying to draw out the alluring woman who’d met his daring innuendoes at Lady Weatherly’s. Who knew his efforts would be rewarded with a reprimand?

Randall sidestepped two men arguing on the pavement, a crate of foul-smelling vegetables smashed on the ground between them.

Who was she to chastise him? What did she know of London habits? Nothing. She’d spent the past ten years among provincials, cavorting with heathens and who-knew-what society. Now she seemed to think it her duty to shame him the way his father used to.

He slammed his walking stick against the ground, the vibration shooting up his arm.

Why didn’t she stay in America?

Instead she’d returned to London, dredging up old memories like some mudlark digging for scraps along the Thames, determined to berate him like some nursemaid. She was mistaken if she thought she could scold him with a look, or if her chiding words meant anything to him. He wasn’t about to change because of her or anyone else’s disapproval.

He swatted a tomato with his walking stick, sending it rolling into the gutter, trying to ignore the other, more dangerous feeling dogging his anger. He’d caught it at the salon the other night and again today when he’d complimented her and for a brief moment she’d almost believed him. It was the faint echo of the affection they’d once enjoyed. Whatever she thought of his behaviour, somewhere deep beneath it, she felt the old connection, too.

He turned a corner into a square of fine houses, trying to concentrate on the bright sun bouncing off the stone buildings and the steady clop of horses in the street, but his thoughts remained stubbornly fixed on Cecelia.

His anger changed to interest as he walked, twirling his stick. He’d ached to trace the line of her shoulders with his fingers, push back the tumble of brown hair sweeping her neck and draw her red lips to his. Even angry she was beautiful and he wanted her, more than he’d ever wanted any woman before.

His pace slowed and he trailed his walking stick along the wrought-iron fences surrounding the houses, the quick clicks echoing off the buildings.

What weakness kept bringing him back to Cecelia? He’d enjoyed and left a number of women over the years without regret. Why couldn’t he forget her?

Because at one time, he’d loved her.

He stopped, his walking stick pausing against the metal before he snapped it up under his arm.

Love, he snorted, resuming his walk. This had nothing to do with love or any other ridiculous sentiment, but the excitement of a challenge. There wasn’t a woman he’d known who hadn’t thrown herself at him once he made his interest clear. Until today. He’d nearly forgotten the excitement of the pursuit and the pleasure of the capture.

Despite Cecelia’s caustic words, he’d caught the flashes of desire his suggestions brought to her eyes and how her parted lips practically begged for his kiss. He recognised her reprimand for what it was—an obstacle to overcome. After all, most women found it necessary to put up some charade of resistance, even after showing up at his house in the middle of the night wearing little more than a pelisse.

He turned a corner, stepping out on to busy Great Russell Street, the energy of the people rushing past him feeding the anticipation building with his determination. She might sneer at his reputation today, but once she surrendered to him, and she would, they’d enjoy enough pleasure to ensure she forgot all about his previous escapades.

He tapped his fingers against his thigh, eager to feel her soft skin against his and taste the lips which had been so tantalisingly close to his in the studio.

It would be so different between them this time. With her wealth, she wouldn’t demand more of him the way she had before, and when the passion faded, as it always did, they could part without regret, all the old sins forgiven and forgotten.

For the first time in a long time, he looked forward to the chase.

Chapter Four

Cecelia and Theresa sat astride two geldings from Lord Strathmore’s stable, slowing their horses to match the leisurely pace of Madame de Badeau and Lord Strathmore’s mounts as they entered Rotten Row. It was the first ride for either of them during the crowded fashionable hour. Cecelia sat up straight in the saddle, savouring the gentle gait of the horse beneath her and the fine spring evening. It was well worth the pain of enduring Lord Strathmore’s endless chatter about his carriage to be on horseback again.

‘I painted it red and ordered gold crests to match the gilding along the top,’ he explained to Madame de Badeau, who offered a perfunctory nod, her attention on the riders surrounding them. ‘I’m also rebuilding the carriage house in stone. I much prefer the smooth texture. It’s quite alluring, especially when rendered into the curves of the female form.’

His hungry eyes fixed on Cecelia, sliding down the length of her. She offered him a wan smile, then leaned back in the saddle so Madame de Badeau and Theresa blocked her from his view. Theresa rolled her eyes at Cecelia, who shot her cousin a reprimanding look betrayed by the smile sneaking in beneath it.

‘Look at Lord Penston’s mount,’ Madame de Badeau interjected, inclining her head at a round man with white hair riding past them. ‘What a shame. Someone of his standing should invest in a better bit of blood.’

Lord Strathmore responded with an ‘hmm’ before returning to the topic of his carriage, his words keeping pace with the horses as they continued down the Row.

Cecelia smiled at two passing gentlemen, grinding her teeth as their stony faces stared past her. One would think all London were afraid to crack a smile for fear of sending the city sliding into the Thames. Adjusting the reins, she wanted to tap the horse into a sprint and ride like she used to at Belle View. Let the spectacle of a horse truly exercising bring some emotion to the other riders’ staid faces. Instead, she rested her hands on her thighs, rocking with the horse and settling into her thoughts, the mounting pile of bills at home preying on her.

She’d spent the better part of the morning calculating the value of her few possessions against their mounting debts, her depression growing by the minute. The one small ray of hope was the inheritance payment she’d soon receive. It was the only money left to her by her father, his share of a sugar plantation in Barbados, the single investment to have ever made him any money. The payments were never large because there were so many other investors, but even the paltry amount would be enough to ease some of her present worry.

She ran her hand over her wrist, feeling the small bump of the gold bracelet beneath the velvet, not wanting to think about the last time she’d so desperately needed the money. Her mother hadn’t been able to rouse herself for even two hours to see to this small matter and Cecelia had ventured alone to Mr Watkins’s office to collect the payment. Cecelia had railed at her mother afterwards, no longer capable of holding back all her fears and frustration, wishing her mother would wrap her arms around her and tell her everything would be all right. She hadn’t.

Not long afterwards, she had told Cecelia to pack for Lady Ellington’s.

Cecelia’s shoulders sagged, the pain and loneliness of then mirroring her life now. She wanted to slide off the gelding and crawl beneath a bush, curl up in a ball where no one and nothing could bother her. Then she forced back her shoulders and raised her head high, smiling at a passing gentleman. Was his name Mr Hammerworth or Mr Passingstoke? She couldn’t remember and it didn’t matter, nor did she let it trouble her when he trotted past without so much as a glance. She would not give up, she would not leave Theresa alone to face an uncertain future the way her mother had left her.

‘Look—’ Theresa’s voice pierced Cecelia’s thoughts ‘—there’s Lord Falconbridge.’

Cecelia’s body tensed as she watched Randall ride towards them, his eyes fixed on her, his smile wide and inviting. She struggled not to frown, frustrated to know she could elicit smiles from no one in Rotten Row except him.

‘Good evening, Lord Falconbridge,’ Madame de Badeau sang, more cheerful than she’d been the entire length of the ride.

‘Falconbridge,’ Lord Strathmore mumbled.

‘Isn’t it lovely out, Lord Falconbridge?’ Theresa greeted in a bright voice, arching a suggestive eyebrow at Cecelia with an obviousness as chafing as Randall’s presence.

‘Yes, it is, Miss Fields.’ Randall turned his horse, bringing it alongside Cecelia’s. ‘No greeting from you, Mrs Thompson?’

‘Hello, Lord Falconbridge.’ She tried to focus on the path instead of him, but she couldn’t. Atop the brown stallion, he looked like a fine sculpture, his confidence as solid as any bronze casting. He wore a dark riding coat tailored close to fit the strong angles and broad expanses of his torso. The cut of the coat was nothing compared to the close fit of his breeches. His stallion danced and Randall’s thigh muscles tightened as they gripped and eased to control his mount. She followed the line of them up to a more enticing muscle before a rumbling laugh made her eyes snap to his.

‘I see you’re enjoying all the sights of the Row,’ he teased.

She swatted a fly from her skirt, annoyed at having been caught staring at him.

‘I’m enjoying the ride, not the sights, Lord Falconbridge.’

‘Randall, please, like in old times.’ He placed one hand over his heart, the gesture genuine and matched by the sincerity in his eyes. She caught in their depths the young man who’d once sat beside her on the banks of the River Stour, listening while she cried out her anger at being sent away and her worries over the future. It touched the cold, lonely place inside of her, the one growing like a tumor since Daniel’s death.

‘I’m surprised to see you out riding,’ she commented, eager to thwart the encroaching pensiveness. His comfort had been fleeting and hardly worth remembering. ‘Why aren’t you home resting for another long night of ruining people?’

The teasing remark came out sharper than intended and she steeled herself, expecting a cutting response. Instead he laughed, the barb rolling off him like water off a fine saddle. ‘Contrary to what you believe, I don’t spend every evening ruining young gallants who possess more money than wits.’

‘How do you spend your evenings, then?’ She was truly curious.

He shrugged. ‘Much the same as you do.’

‘I doubt it.’ Since I don’t bed half the widows in society. Lady Ilsington rode by on her chestnut gelding, eyeing Randall with a hungry look, then frowning when he failed to acknowledge her. ‘With the exception of balls, it isn’t my habit to keep late hours.’

He leaned towards her, his thighs tightening beneath the buckskin, their hardness carrying up through the solid centre of him to his blue eyes shaded by his hat. ‘Then we must cure you of such a strange malady.’

Her hands tightened a little too hard on the reins and the horse began to veer towards Randall.

‘An interesting proposition, but I think your cure might be worse than the disease,’ she rushed, correcting the horse.

‘You would die a thousand little deaths.’

His low voice twined around her and her knee bent harder around the pommel, her pulse fluttering against the tight collar of her habit as she slowed the horse to drop behind the others, ignoring Theresa’s questioning look.

Randall slowed his stallion to keep pace, loosening his grip on the reins as the horses ambled along.

‘Shall we dismount here and wander off into the bushes?’ she suggested. ‘Or would you prefer a more clandestine meeting— your town house, perhaps—late at night? I could wear a veil and arrive by hackney, most sinful and nefarious indeed.’

His finger trilled slowly over his thigh. ‘You make it sound so sordid when it could be so beautiful.’

She ran her tongue over her lips, noting with triumph how it drew his eyes to her mouth, her power over him driving her boldness. ‘Am I really an illustrious enough candidate to bestow your favours on?’

‘Who could be more illustrious than an old friend?’

Friend. She brought the gelding to a stop, the word snapping her out of the seductive haze. They’d been more than friends once, or so she’d believed until the end. He was mistaken if he thought he could charm her into forgetting. It was time to bring his teasing to an end. ‘As an old friend you will understand when I politely decline.’

He turned his horse, walking it back to her as the others rode on. ‘And you will understand when I ask again tomorrow, or perhaps the day after.’

‘No, Randall, I won’t.’ The gelding shifted and she tugged the reins to steady it, the animal’s agitation adding to her own. ‘Why do you continue to pester me when I’ve made my position clear?’

‘Because you captivate me, more than you realise.’

The revelation nearly knocked her from the saddle and she shifted her foot in the stirrup to keep her seat. Did he really care for her or was this all part of his game, his ego’s desire to capture the adoration of every woman in London, even an insignificant widow? Her horse shook its head and she turned it in a circle, eager like the animal to vent the energy building inside her.

She positioned her riding crop over the horse’s flank, mischief creeping in beneath her resentment. If he wanted the thrill of the chase, she’d give him one, along with a beating solid enough to end his interest in her. ‘Do you still race, my lord? I remember you were the best in the county.’

‘I was eighteen.’

‘Then I expect you’ve improved with age. To the statue and do not disappoint.’

She snapped the crop against the horse and it shot off down Rotten Row. Behind her, the stallion’s hooves drummed a steady beat on the packed dirt path and in a moment Randall was beside her. They raced side by side, the horses nearly in sync as they flew past geldings shying off the path or rearing up in surprise, their wide-eyed riders hanging on tightly. She turned the horse to the right to avoid a curricle, the driver’s curses lost in the pounding of the gelding’s hooves. Randall dodged around a group of riders and fell back until the path cleared and his stallion picked up speed. The statue came into view and his horse pulled ahead. She dug her heel into the side of the gelding and the horse leapt forward, passing the statue a nose length before Randall’s.

‘Now there’s the woman I remember,’ Randall congratulated, his thick voice echoing through her, infectious and alluring as they slowed their horses to a walk.

‘It’s been ages since I’ve ridden like that.’ Her heart raced in her ears and Cecelia lifted her face to catch the stiff breeze sweeping over her damp skin.

‘Shall we canter to the lake?’ He circled her with his horse, tempting her with the energy radiating between them. ‘Put that horse of yours through its paces?’

‘I think it’s you who’ll be put through his paces. You pulled back, just like you always used to do.’

‘I did no such thing.’

‘You did, I saw it, and I’ll see it again at the lake.’ She raised the reins, ready to snap the horse back into action, when three old matrons crossing their path in the curricle stopped her. The tallest one glared at her from beneath a dark parasol while the other two whispered behind their hands. Only then did Cecelia notice the other riders watching them, their faces pinched and disapproving. What little she’d accomplished with all her smiles, she’d just undone in a moment of rashness.

She swallowed hard, the riders’ scrutiny too much like the morning she’d entered Bruton Parish Church to meet the cold stares of every family who believed General LaFette’s lies. It would happen again here in London if she wasn’t careful. Only this time, there was nowhere else for her and Theresa to go.

‘What’s wrong?’ Randall asked.

She wrapped the reins around one hand, eager to be away from him, the Row and everyone who’d seen them. ‘Once again I’ve forgotten myself in your presence.’

Randall scowled, bringing his horse close to hers. ‘Don’t worry what they think.’

She pulled her horse’s head to one side, forcing him away from Randall’s mount. ‘Unlike you, I must.’

‘What happened to the brave girl I remember?’

‘As you said, I was a girl. A lady must mind her behaviour.’

‘No, you have the means to be free. Don’t let these people make you afraid.’

‘Don’t seek to counsel me, Lord Falconbridge,’ she snapped. ‘You know nothing of me or my life.’

She kicked her horse into a trot back up the path, her habit itchy under the rising heat of her embarrassment and anger. How dare Randall sit on his horse with all the privileges of his sex, title and wealth and instruct her on how to behave? How dare he try to tempt her into an indiscretion, then chide her for wanting to protect her reputation? He’d abandoned his so long ago, it was clear he couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to keep theirs.

The animal tried to gallop, but she kept him at a trot, despite wanting to let it run, to carry her away from all the heartless people and her own troubles. Ahead, Madame de Badeau and Lord Strathmore came into view, their faces hard. Madame de Badeau walked her horse out to meet Cecelia.

‘A splendid display of horsemanship.’ It was a warning, not a compliment. ‘I don’t know how ladies ride in Virginia, but here they don’t race through Rotten Row.’

‘I’m sorry. I quite forgot myself.’

‘I don’t recommend forgetting yourself again.’ She inclined her head at Lord Strathmore, his snub nose wrinkled in disapproval. ‘Not all gentlemen appreciate such spirited public displays.’

Anger burned up Cecelia’s spine and she wanted to turn and gallop back to Randall, dismiss them both and embrace the freedom he offered. Only the sight of Theresa beside the Earl kept her from snapping the horse into a run. It wasn’t freedom Randall offered, but an illusion as fleeting as those her father used to create before every failed trip to Calais, and as likely to sink her as her father’s ship had sunk him and his business.

‘Come along, then.’ Madame de Badeau escorted Cecelia back to Lord Strathmore, riding beside her like a guard.

Cecelia felt like a prisoner to her debt and to every bad choice made by her father, her mother and even Daniel. They’d all escaped the ramifications of their decisions, leaving her, always her, to deal with the consequences.

Resignation extinguished her anger and she let the horse, Lord Strathmore’s horse, continue forward. It wasn’t just her future at risk, but Theresa’s. If she lost the Earl’s good opinion, and the opinion of who knew how many others, Theresa would suffer, too, and she refused to allow it. Fingering her gold bracelet, she tried to look contrite while thinking of all the simpering words she might say to soothe the hard set of Lord Strathmore’s lips. Each turn of phrase burned her tongue like hot water, but she would say them. Life was what it was and she must make the best of it. Nothing good could come from wishing for it to be any different.

Chapter Five

Randall stood on the staircase, watching the elite men of London snigger and cough as they examined the selection of paintings arranged on easels across his wide marble hall. A fine collection of art base enough to make a bawd blush was on display. It was the last of Uncle Edmund’s collection, which used to hang in the entrance hall of Falconbridge Manor, his uncle’s defence against respectable ladies attempting to cross the threshold and land a Marquess.

‘Impressive works, Falconbridge,’ Strathmore mumbled as he walked past, looking a little red around the collar, as if this much flesh so early in the day was more than even a man of his tastes could tolerate.

The footmen carrying trays of Madeira were also having trouble maintaining a steady course in the face of so much painted flesh. For the second time in five minutes, Randall watched as the wiry-haired Duke of St Avery nearly collided with a gaped-mouth footman.

‘You’ll gain quite the reputation as a collector after this,’ Lord Bolton offered with a touch of reverence as he stopped to examine a nearby portrait.

‘I don’t think that’s the reputation I’ll gain.’ Randall smirked with more arrogance than he felt. The exhibition might titillate society, but today, the excitement of shocking their sensibilities left him flat. Instead all he could think about was Cecelia and their encounter yesterday in Rotten Row. His agitation was exacerbated by the ridiculously early hour he’d arisen. Not even Reverend had deigned to join him to watch the sun rise and tease out why Cecelia, after flying like a mad woman down the row, all lively laughter and glowing skin, had shrunk back into herself like some scared turtle at the sight of a few old matrons.

It wasn’t the Cecelia he remembered, the one who used to laugh boldly at these paintings in front of Uncle Edmund instead of averting her eyes.

What had dulled her bravery and made her more afraid of a few old crows than she’d ever been of Uncle Edmund? Perhaps the husband was to blame.

Randall tightened his hands into fists behind his back, imagining the colonial’s face twisted in disapproval. Cecelia might have stood up to such scrutiny at first, but over time it would have chipped at her, like his father’s constant reprimands ate at him.

Randall cracked the knuckle of one finger.

The colonial was a fool if he’d failed to cherish Cecelia’s spirit or revel in her sweet laughter the way Randall had yesterday.

The art dealer, a short man with a wide forehead, approached, tugging at the knot of his cravat, his discomfort no doubt eased by the tidy profit waiting for him at the end of the sale. ‘I know I objected to your lordship displaying such a...’ he paused, searching for the proper word ‘...unique collection in an open exhibition, but you were right. The interest this showing has generated is stunning. I don’t expect one painting to remain unsold.’

‘Good. I want them gone by the end of the day.’ For years, they’d kept Aunt Ella ensconced in the dower house until a fire the spring before Cecelia had come to visit made it unlivable. The morning after Uncle Edmund’s funeral, she’d demanded the paintings be taken down and Randall had agreed. He possessed no more desire than she did to live in a manor house decorated like a bordello.

Strathmore, standing before a painting of two naked women wrestling for the amusement of several soldiers, waved the dealer over.

‘If you’ll excuse me, Lord Falconbridge, I believe we’ve made another sale.’ The dealer hurried off to join the Earl.

Randall watched as Strathmore pointed a thick finger at first one and then another of the most sordid of the lot. All at once, he imagined Strathmore sitting close to Cecelia, his dry lips hovering near her ear as he relayed with delight the dirty details of every picture, relishing the chance to poison her against him.

Randall took a step down, ready to grab the Earl by the collar and toss him out of the house, but he stopped, regaining his imperious stance and wiping away all traces of annoyance from his expression. Strathmore was beneath his notice and his anger.

A footman pulled open the front door and Lord Weatherly, Lord Hartley and Lord Malvern entered, their loud voices dropping at the sight before them.

‘Heavens,’ Lord Weatherly mumbled as he stepped up to the nearest painting, an explicit depiction of an ancient Roman man and woman watched by their curious servants. It used to hang in Uncle Edmund’s study, a strange complement to the paintings of birds and hunting dogs.

Behind him stood Lord Hartley, Marquess of Hartley, a stately man of forty-five and a fixture of society whom Randall liked and respected. He could not say the same about his dolt of a nephew, Lord Malvern. The young Baron in the tight blue silk coat possessed more words than brains and little knew how to wield either.

The fop gaped at the paintings before catching Randall’s eye. He made for Randall, his poor uncle following behind like a tired governess chasing after a wayward charge. If it weren’t for Lord Hartley, Randall would have cut his nephew. Instead, he remained standing on the steps, looking down at the rail-thin Malvern.

‘Lord Falconbridge, with so much interesting art for sale, may we assume you have a new conquest, one who is making you part with your precious collection?’ His weak lips drew up into a grin Randall assumed was meant to be haughty, but it only made him look as if he’d smelled curdled milk.

Behind him Lord Hartley rolled his eyes.

Randall twisted the signet ring on his small finger, looking over the stupid man’s head. ‘You may assume whatever you like.’

‘Don’t disappoint, Lord Falconbridge.’ He lifted one foot to step up and Randall pinned him with a look to melt ice.

Malvern lowered his foot back to the floor. ‘Tell us who she is. All society wants to know.’

‘If by all society, you mean the betting book at White’s, don’t think I’ll give you the advantage. We aren’t on familiar enough terms for such confidences.’

Lord Malvern’s lips twitched as if trying to form a retort when his uncle dropped a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘Spare the Marquess any more of your wit, Morton. Go see the paintings and enjoy the only visit you’ll likely make to the Marquess’s house.’

Lord Malvern sneered at his uncle, but shuffled off to join a group of similarly dressed young men crowding around a painting of nymphs and satyrs engaged in an orgy.

‘If he wasn’t my wife’s nephew, I’d have nothing to do with him.’ Lord Hartley shook his head, leaning one elbow on the wood balustrade. ‘He thinks his mouth will make him a reputation, but it won’t be the one he wants. I don’t suppose you’d consider calling him out, aim wide and send him scurrying back to the country?’

‘As tempting as it is to draw first blood on him, he’s hardly worth the effort or the bullet.’ Randall stepped down to join the Marquess. ‘Besides, with his lack of wit, you won’t be saddled with him for long.’

‘Ah, how I look forward to the day he leaves.’ Lord Hartley laughed before he sobered at the sight of his nephew making a rude gesture to one of the other fops. ‘I’d better see to it he doesn’t embarrass himself further. Good day, Lord Falconbridge.’

Lord Hartley walked off to rejoin his nephew near the Roman painting.

The fops crowded around it, laughing into their hands like a gaggle of school girls before one of them reached out to run a gloved finger over the Roman woman’s arm.

Her arm is too long, Cecelia’s voice rang through his mind, the memory of her laughing at the painting bringing a smile to his face, but it faded fast. Her innocence felt too pure for a display like this.

The fops moved on to a similar Egyptian painting, leaving the Roman woman and her lover to their joy. Randall followed the line of the Roman woman’s arm and the long strokes of cream paint giving it a fleshlike texture. He stopped at the smudge of black in the corner of her elbow, the same speck of paint he’d fixed on the morning Uncle Edmund had called him into the study.

I like Cecelia, she’s a good girl, full of spirit. Uncle Edmund rubbed the wood of the hunting rifle lying across his lap, the smell of oil mixing with the dust of old books. But she’s poor and you’ll be a Marquess some day. Don’t think she doesn’t know it and won’t try to land you. Don’t let her, my boy, don’t let any of them ever trap you. Bored wives and widows, that’s what you need to keep you amused. They ask less of a man.

Randall had refused to believe him, until the morning in the conservatory when Cecelia had pressed him about their future together.

Randal dropped his hands to his sides, trying to laugh as another footman collided with the Duke of St Avery, but the little joy he’d gleaned from this ridiculous display was gone. He hated it and everyone here. For all the sideways glances and whispered remarks they made about him, he might as well crawl up on a dais like Cecelia, wrap his body in a toga and display himself to the crowd.

He clasped his hands tight behind his back, wanting to knock the filthy art off the easels and toss everyone from his house. Let them find some other fool to feed their need for amusement. He was tired of performing for them.

He turned and started up the stairs before stopping on the landing, his hand tight on the banister. No, he was not part of their amusement, but the lord and master of this game. He turned, resuming his imperious stance, meeting Lord Bolton’s eyes and smirking in triumph when the young lord dropped his gaze into his drink. The Marquess of Falconbridge would not run from society like some coward, no more than he’d run from Cecelia’s rebukes. Let them whisper and gawk at him, it was to his benefit, not theirs.

‘You mean I won’t receive a payment from my father’s inheritance until December?’ Cecelia blurted across the desk at Mr Watkins, the solicitor responsible for distributing the Barbados payments. In the chair next to hers, Theresa squeaked out a worried gasp and Cecelia reached over, giving her cousin’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

‘I’m afraid so.’ Mr Watkins sat back, his leather chair creaking. ‘And perhaps not even then. The hurricane devastated the harvest and though it’s expected to recover, as is always the case with crops, there is no guarantee.’

‘Perhaps I may receive an advance on future earnings?’ Cecelia asked, struggling to keep the desperation from her voice, feeling the blow to her situation as if Mr Watkins had struck her. ‘My income from Virginia has also been delayed. I was counting on this money to see me through until it arrives.’

It was a plausible enough lie, for there were many in London who received income from abroad and often found regular payments interrupted by storms or pirates.

‘There’s nothing I can do. The plantation doesn’t have the money to spare and there are other recipients waiting to be paid as well. If there are no further disasters, the harvest will recover and you may see a payment in December.’ He flicked the file on his desk closed, making it plain he intended to do no more for her than deliver this devastating news. Even if he wished to help them, what could he do? He couldn’t make the crops fruitful or force the ships transporting the money to sail faster.

‘I look forward to speaking with you then.’ She nodded for Theresa to rise, the strain on her cousin’s face striking Cecelia harder than Mr Watkins’s news. It ripped at her to see Theresa so worried instead of carefree and happy like she used to be before Daniel’s death. It reminded her too much of herself at sixteen.

‘I don’t normally recommend this measure, but I sense you may be in need of such services.’ Mr Watkins’s words stopped them and they settled back on the edges of their chairs. He removed a slip of paper from the desk drawer, laid it on the blotter and began to write. ‘This is the name of a gentleman who may be able to help you.’

He handed the paper across the desk. Cecelia took it and looked at the name and address.

Philip Rathbone, 25 Fleet Street.

‘A gentleman? You mean a moneylender.’

Mr Watkins nodded. ‘I would not recommend him except among his class he is exceptional.’

‘You mean he doesn’t ruin people as quickly as the others.’

Mr Watkins steepled his fingers in front of him. ‘He’ll deal fairly with you, more so than any other man in the Fleet.’

‘I’ll take it into consideration.’ She slipped the paper into her reticule. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Watkins.’

The solicitor escorted them through the front room past two clerks copying documents. ‘I’ll notify you if anything changes.’

She caught a slight sympathy in the older man’s words and, though she appreciated it, hated being in a position to need it. ‘Of course, you’ll be discreet concerning this matter.’

‘I’m always discreet.’

‘Thank you. Good day.’

Cecelia slipped her arm in Theresa’s and guided her down the pavement.

‘What are we going to do?’ Theresa whispered, looking nervously over the passing people as if expecting someone to stop, point and announce their secret.

She didn’t blame her for being nervous. There were many times when she had wondered if everyone already knew and if that’s why they kept their distance.

Cecelia clutched the top of the reticule and the paper inside crinkled. Having Mr Rathbone’s name in the bag made it, along with all the other burdens she carried, seem heavier. She stood up straight, trying not to let this new setback weigh her down, to be brave for Theresa’s sake and ease some of her cousin’s fears. ‘I may have to visit the moneylender.’

‘But you can’t.’ Theresa’s voice rose high with panic before she clamped her mouth closed, leaning in close to Cecelia. ‘We haven’t the means to repay a man like him.’

‘I know, but it’s better to owe one discreet man than to have the butcher and grocer declaring our debts through town. I can make arrangements with Mr Rathbone, then only use the money if things turn dire.’ Though at the moment, they were teetering precariously close to dire.

London was proving far more expensive than she’d anticipated. They reworked old dresses, made do with only Mary, shivered through the night to avoid burning coal and relied on refreshments at soirées and dances to help keep them fed, yet still it wasn’t enough. She’d sold the silver yesterday, the small amount it brought already spent to secure their town house for the next three months. Hopefully, it would be enough time for either her or Theresa to find a husband. If not, she wasn’t sure how they would survive. Except for their simple jewellery, fine clothes and the books, there was little left to sell.

‘Miss Domville told me all sorts of horrible stories about people being threatened by creditors,’ Theresa protested, stepping closer to Cecelia when the pavement narrowed and the crowd thickened. ‘It isn’t safe to deal with them.’

‘What does Miss Domville know except gossip?’ Cecelia scoffed, wondering if Madame de Badeau’s sister was the best influence for Theresa. ‘I’ve dealt with creditors before. I know how they conduct business.’

‘But I thought Daniel didn’t believe in credit?’

‘He didn’t, but after the hurricane, when the harvest was destroyed, we had no choice, not if we wanted to rebuild. If Mr Rathbone is as honest as Mr Watkins says, then his money will give us the time we need.’ She said it as much to convince herself as Theresa.

‘And if he isn’t?’

‘Then we can hardly be any worse off than we are now.’

They paused at the corner, waiting for a break in the carriages and carts to cross. Cecelia covered her nose with her hand against the stench of the filth littering the street. The fresh air of Belle View, the bright sun hanging over the lush green trees and reflecting off the red brick seemed so far behind her, and with it all the strength of Daniel’s patient smiles and tender ways. Daniel might have failed to provide for her after his death, but alive he had always been a rock, steady and calm beside her. Even after the loss of their little boy, Daniel, despite being weak from the fever, had held her and let her pour out her heart and her grief.

Tears blurred Cecelia’s vision, and she let Theresa pull her across the street, fighting the heaviness settling over her to reach the other side before a large carriage passed. Exhaustion pulled at her until she wanted nothing more than to sit on the stone pavement and surrender to her troubles, let them press down on her until she could do nothing except pace the hallways and cry, just like her mother.

‘Cecelia, I’ve been thinking. If the Season ends and neither of us are settled, I’ll become a governess,’ Theresa said as the clatter of the street faded behind them.

The announcement snapped Cecelia out of her fog. She couldn’t give up, not with Theresa depending on her. ‘Certainly not.’

‘Why? My wages could support us.’

Cecelia pulled her into the quiet of a small space between two shops, not wanting to discourage the girl’s spirit, but unwilling to let her live in ignorance of the realities of life. ‘You don’t speak French and you know nothing of music. Who but the most questionable of families might hire you and then where would you be? A stranger in a strange house, always hovering between a paid servant and an unwanted member of the family, perhaps suffering the inappropriate attentions of the gentleman?’

‘Yet you’ll let men like Lord Strathmore pester you?’

‘If it means seeing you happy and safe, then, yes.’

‘I won’t let you, not with him. Miss Domville says he may not even be rich and she tells me the most awful things about him. Please, promise me you won’t marry him.’

Cecelia laid her hands on either side of Theresa’s face, smoothing away the tight lines at the corners of her mouth with her thumbs. ‘Even if Miss Domville’s stories are true, I can’t promise not to marry him. His title will keep us from debtors’ prison, and a poor Countess is still more respected than a poor colonial.’ She smoothed Theresa’s dark hair from her forehead. ‘I saw so many of my father’s business associates driven into poverty by shipwrecks or war. Once they were poor, almost everyone turned their backs on them just like they did to us in Virginia, except here it’ll be worse. I know, because I saw what happened to the daughters of more than one of Father’s old associates. If tying myself to Lord Strathmore means saving us from a life uglier than you can imagine, then I’ll do it.’

‘What about Lord Falconbridge? He seemed quite taken with you when we were riding and you certainly enjoyed his company.’

‘Lord Falconbridge is only interested in me as a diversion, nothing more, and I was foolish to forget myself with him.’ Cecelia dropped her hands to Theresa’s arm and drew her back onto the busy pavement, her embarrassment rising at being reminded of her behaviour, and his. ‘You have no idea the damage it might have done.’

‘I know you told me about what he did to you before, but perhaps he’s changed.’

‘The only thing that’s changed is his conceit, which is worse now than ever. Trust me when I tell you, Lord Falconbridge is not the man to save us.’

‘Then why can’t we save ourselves, if not as governesses, then perhaps as a lady’s companion?’

Cecelia thought again of Lady Ellington, wondering if the Dowager Countess would be kind enough to take Cecelia on in such a position. She imagined the scorn Randall would heap on her then, assuming he allowed his aunt to employ her. ‘I’m sure we’ll find a way to survive, but let’s not think about it until we have to.’

‘Some days, I think that moment is coming faster than we’d like.’

Cecelia wrapped one arm around Theresa’s shoulders, drawing her close. ‘Please, don’t worry. Everything will be fine, you’ll see. You forget, this isn’t the first time I’ve been in this situation and pulled through.’

Hopefully, it would be the last.

Chapter Six

Cecelia laid down the winning card, able to breathe again as the other players erupted in begrudging congratulations. Reaching into the centre of the table, her hands shook as she scooped up the small pile of coins. She shouldn’t have taken a chance with her money, but Lady Thornton’s card party was no place to be frugal, not when pretending to be wealthy. Palming one coin, she examined the face imprinted on the surface. For a brief moment during the play, the thrill of risking her money had proved as exciting as racing Randall in Rotten Row. Thankfully, the win meant she didn’t have to go home and explain to Theresa why she’d gambled away the butcher’s payment.

‘You’ve been very lucky tonight,’ Lady Weatherly observed as she gathered up the cards. ‘Will you play again?’

Cecelia looked at the eager faces of the other players, tempted to try to win enough of their blunt to relieve some of her troubles, then changed her mind. When it came to risking money, like her father, luck never seemed to stay with her for long.

She dropped the coins into her reticule, then rose. ‘I believe I’ll stop while I’m winning.’

‘As we all should, but we won’t, will we?’ Lady Weatherly laughed, wasting no time dealing another hand to the players who remained.

Cecelia tightened the strings of her reticule and walked away, her excitement fading, the mask of calm respectability she’d worn since the incident in Rotten Row smothering her again. If only she could be as carefree about losing money as Lady Weatherly, play with abandon and enjoy herself without her heart stopping at every turn of the cards, but she couldn’t. She could barely afford a ride in a hackney, much less a gambling loss.

She dropped her hands to her side, working to appear the cheerful, wealthy widow. Handwringing and dejection would get her nothing, not even pity, and what she needed now as much as money were friends and introductions and all the possibilities they carried.

At the door to the adjoining gaming room, she paused on the edge of a group of matrons deep in conversation. Madame de Badeau had introduced her to Lady Thornton, but the other two, Lady Ilsington and Lady Featherstone, she knew only by sight. She stood on the periphery of their circle, catching Lady Thornton’s eye. The woman gave her a nod of acknowledgement, but nothing more, and Cecelia moved off, wanting to stamp her foot in frustration. She might as well try to widen the English Channel for all the success she enjoyed trying to widen her circle of friends.

A number of grim-faced people leaving the table in the corner blocked her progress. They avoided her eyes as they passed, or offered only the slightest acknowledgement, despite the wide smiles she threw their way.

‘Attempting to storm the city gates?’ Randall’s voice pierced her frustration, the deep tones rumbling through her like thunder.

Her hand went to her bracelet as he rose from his chair on the far side of the table. When had he joined the card party? He hadn’t been here when she and Madame de Badeau had arrived or she felt sure she would have noticed him, felt his presence permeate the air like a vase of fresh-cut flowers on a hot day.

He wore a dark coat with a white waistcoat beneath shot with gold. The subtle yellow threads caught the candlelight, bringing out the ring of yellow in his blue eyes. Gold buttons to match the thread rose up in a straight line to his cravat and she imagined them undone, the silk discarded, the shirt gaping open to reveal the sweep of chest and hair beneath.

Another thrill more potent than the draw of the cards raced along the edge of her spine, surprising her with its intensity before she banished it. ‘The gates are proving most formidable.’

‘My gates are wide open.’ He motioned to the empty seat across from him, his confident smile as irksome as the large pile of coins in front of him. Why did men like Randall always win while people like her seemed doomed to struggle? ‘Will you tempt fate with me, Mrs Thompson?’

She traced the edge of a coin through the velvet reticule, wanting to sit down and put a large dent in his winnings and his ego. Maybe he’d let her win in the hopes of currying favour. Remembering the way they used to play at Falconbridge Manor, the stakes low but the competition fierce, she knew better than to expect much lenience. ‘I don’t think my meagre shillings can compare to an estate.’

‘No, but your company is far preferable to any man’s, as I imagine mine is to his.’ He nodded to the doorway and Cecelia looked through it to see Lord Strathmore watching them from across the drawing room, his lips pulled down at the corners. Having been noticed, he looked away, raising a hand in greeting to another gentleman before hurrying off to speak to him.

‘Yes, those gates continue to meet me with an open invitation.’ She frowned, then silently chastised herself for speaking so meanly of the Earl. With no other prospects appearing, he was fast becoming her and Theresa’s only hope for salvation. She dropped her hands to her sides, hating the hopelessness of it all.

‘Don’t look so troubled,’ Randall’s voice cut through her gloom as he gathered up the discarded cards. ‘I won’t tell him. I don’t want to deprive you of the opportunity of disappointing him yourself.’

‘You’re too kind.’ She laughed, his devil-may-care attitude infectious and easing her dark mood before the memory of all the disapproving faces in Rotten Row sobered her. ‘But his good opinion isn’t the only one I’m interested in maintaining.’

‘Have you ever considered how a connection with me might benefit you?’ Randall tapped the cards into a neat rectangle.

‘Like it benefited Lord Westbrook?’

The cards stopped. ‘He was a fool to risk so much.’

‘And what would I risk?’

‘Catching the attention of Lady Thornton and who knows how many others, perhaps even the mother of some young gentleman looking to marry an heiress like your cousin.’

Cecelia fingered the back of the chair in front of her, remembering the hard looks of the women in the curricle. They had not been impressed when Cecelia had forgotten herself with Randall. No doubt they’d snatch up their marriage-minded sons and run in the opposite direction if they saw her playing cards with him now.

He leaned forward on his elbows, the same annoying smirk he’d worn while teasing her in Sir Thomas’s studio dancing on his lips. ‘They aren’t even looking.’

She turned to the door. The ladies were gone, drawn into the sitting room to listen to a singer with a tall feather in her hair perform a surprisingly good aria. In fact, very few people remained in the card room except for a handful of men huddled around the far table, so engrossed in their play, they barely noticed the footman setting down glasses of Madeira at their elbows.

There was opportunity in the absence of people, but not the kind Randall thought.

‘Now, sit and play,’ he invited. ‘I promise not to bankrupt you.’

She pulled out the chair and sat down, not sure if it was bravery or foolishness urging her on. However, if she wanted to be free of Randall, this might be her only chance.

He took his seat and began to shuffle the deck. ‘I knew you couldn’t resist playing me.’

‘I can’t, but I don’t want to play for money.’

He maintained the steady rhythm of shuffling, the cards moving fast between his hands. ‘Then what do you wish to wager?’

She traced a triangle inlay in the table, debating her next words. She should throw down her shillings and take her chances with the money and nothing else, but there was so much more at stake tonight. ‘If I win, you leave me in peace. No more innuendoes, no more suggestions. We see each other in a room and nod our greetings, but nothing more.’

He placed the deck on the table in front of her. ‘And when I win?’

‘If you win,’ she corrected, cutting the deck.

‘If I win...’ he stacked the cards, then swept his hand over them, fanning them out in a row across the table ‘...I continue my pursuit until you relent.’

Beneath the table, her fingers found her bracelet before she steadied herself. She’d begun this game, she couldn’t withdraw now. ‘I hope you don’t think I’ll marry you because you win a hand of cards.’

He placed his fingers beneath the last card and, in one quick motion, slid them all together again. ‘I never mentioned marriage.’

She stiffened, her daring twisting into an old anger tinged with humiliation. She wanted to sweep the cards off the table and rage at him for what he’d said to her ten years ago, chastise him for the callous way he’d treated her and the way it echoed through those four words. Instead, she fixed him with the same smile she used to flash the insolent Belle View foreman when she gave directions for planting and he sneered at her—sweet but with an edge of poison. ‘No, I don’t suppose there’s a woman in England who can snare the illustrious Marquess of Falconbridge.’

The small muscles beneath his eyes pulled tight. ‘Shall I deal?’

‘Please.’ Her anger eased at having registered a blow and some of her former daring returned. ‘I can’t wait to give you a good thrashing like I used to in your uncle’s drawing room.’

‘Don’t be so confident. I let you win back then.’

‘Liar.’ She picked up the cards, careful to keep her disappointment from showing. With a hand like this, he’d be trailing her through the entire Season.

Over the repeating notes of the singer’s aria and the loud laugh of a gentleman from the table behind her, she heard Randal flick the edge of his cards. He used to do this when they played before. Did it mean he held a good hand or a poor one? She struggled to remember and sneaked a glance at him, her ire rising at the sight of him sitting back in the chair, self-assured and cocky.

He must have a poor hand. Or maybe not. Why couldn’t she remember what the flicking meant? She laid down a card and chose another from the deck, taking her time, trying to match his calm and confidence while wishing she knew some way to knock his down a peg or two. She looked at her new card, the queen of hearts, struggling to suppress a smile as a wicked idea came to mind.

She waited until he reached for the deck, then opened her cards like a fan and peered over the tops, tilting her head to one side and looking up at him through her lashes.

His hand paused, the selected card dangling from his fingers. In the piercing hold of his gaze, she saw the hungry boy who used to sit across from her in the Falconbridge drawing room, every emotion registering on his smooth face. Only he wasn’t a boy any more, but a man capable of doing to her all the things she’d known nothing about as a girl and now missed. Beneath the table, her toes curled in her slippers, eager to shake off the satin and slide up the hard length of his leg to tease him out of sight of the room. She flicked her top teeth with her tongue and watched with glee as his chest rose with a deep breath, his fingers so tight on the card, they creased the stiff paper. Her skin grew moist as she continued to hold his desiring look, fearing she might be burned by the heat of it, but unwilling to turn away. This was a reckless, dangerous game for a woman in her position to play, but his reaction was too exquisite for her to stop.

‘You have a good card, good enough to beat me?’ Randall asked, sitting back, his tight voice an encouragement when it should have been a warning.

‘Perhaps I don’t or perhaps I do.’ She lowered her eyes, trying not to gloat at the small victory as she slid the queen of hearts from her hand and laid it on the table.

‘I think not.’ He laid his card on top of hers. The ace of spades.

The heat in her went cold, the worried widow rushing in to replace the daring coquette.

‘You cheated,’ she blurted without thinking.

‘Careful, Cecelia, or I’ll demand satisfaction.’ The dark suggestion deepened the shadows of his eyes and played on the desire still smouldering in her body. He looked like a wolf ready to pounce and she felt the tide of power turn, trapping her.

‘You have the humour of a schoolboy,’ she hissed.

‘And the skills of a man.’ He reached across the table, took her hand and turned it over.

His thumb slid slowly across her palm, the movement subtle but strong as it made small circles on her hot skin. She struggled to breathe, barely noticing how he plucked the cards one by one from her fingers with his other hand. All she could sense was the gentle sweep of his skin against hers, his touch reaching to her very core.

Her fingers tightened over his thumb, covering and capturing it within the hollow of her palm, willing it to be still and to stop the aching tease. With a sly wink, he slid his hand out from beneath hers, his fingernails raking the skin on the back of her hand, his thumb caressing her fingers as he withdrew.

She laid her palms on the cool table, easing the heat which still burned her skin. Pushing against the solid top to steady herself, she rose. He matched her movement, towering over her as she struggled to maintain her dignity against the butterflies warring inside her. ‘Thank you for a spirited game, Lord Falconbridge.’

He leaned towards her with a bow more predatory than polite. ‘We have not yet begun to play.’

She grasped her reticule as she backed away, moving as slowly as she had the morning she’d stumbled on the copperhead snake coiled in the sun behind the brew house. Only when she was a safe distance did she turn her back on him, feeling more vulnerable than when she’d faced him.

He’d be relentless in his pursuit now.

She froze, her panic taking off like a pheasant scared out of the grass, the Season spreading out before her as one constant effort to dodge his advances, her time and energy devoted to keeping him away instead of encouraging any man who took an interest in her or Theresa.

This was how it had started with General LaFette.

She flicked open her fan, waving it furiously in front of her face, trying to calm her racing heart. Would Randall be as cruel as the General when she spurned him, spreading vicious lies and ruining all her and Theresa’s chances at happiness?

‘Are you all right, Mrs Thompson?’ Lord Strathmore’s voice made her jump and she whirled to find him behind her.

‘Yes, I’m fine.’ Her glance flicked over his shoulder to the table where Randall sat, only to find it empty. ‘I’m just very hot.’

‘Then let me fetch you a glass of punch.’

She didn’t have the stomach for Lady Thornton’s tart punch, but if it kept the Earl away until she could calm herself, she’d gladly drink a cup. ‘Thank you.’

He made for the refreshment table and she bolted for the open balcony doors, trying not to run, yet eager to reach the cool of the darkness where she could be alone and think.

Her fingers tapped an uneven beat on the stone as she stood at the railing, drawing in deep breaths of the cool night air. Staring at the tendrils of smoke rising over the London roofs and illuminated by the low moon, she felt her panic settle and with it her thoughts. Whatever happened between her and Randall, she knew he wouldn’t be as cruel as General LaFette. Despite all the scandals attached to his name, not one ever accused him of spreading vicious rumours. He might have ruined Lord Westbrook, but Randall was right, the young man should have stopped the game before betting his estate.

Just as I should have stopped the game before it began. She hadn’t, she couldn’t, not with her ego pushing her to get the better of him, not with his wicked smile tempting her. Beneath the desire to best him lingered another truth, one she was loath to admit, even to herself. She’d enjoyed playing him more than anything else in London, and for the length of the game, she’d felt like a young woman in love again, the possibility of happiness as real as Randall’s thumb against her palm.

She turned over her hand, the skin cold from the stone. Opening and closing her fingers, she wished she were rich enough to accept everything hinted at in Randall’s touch. Even if his adoration proved fleeting, for a while she could enjoy the long-forgotten feeling of being wanted.

Footsteps sounded behind her and her fingers tightened into a fist. She turned, expecting to see Lord Strathmore, and gasped.

‘Randall.’

He stood in the doorway, the angles of his shoulders silhouetted by the light from the room behind him. Without a word, he slid one arm around her waist and drew her into the shadows next to the door, out of sight of the drawing room.

In the faint light, his eyes held hers, the desire smouldering in their depths burning away the cold loneliness which gripped her. Need and fear pulled her in opposite directions and she didn’t know which urge to follow. He wanted her and, for the moment, it was the only thing that mattered.

She tilted her face to his and he kissed her, his mouth demanding she relent and she did, all reasons against it fading as his tongue swept over her lips. She opened her mouth, accepting the penetrating caress, and his arms tightened around her, his body steady against the tremors racking hers. This was the Randall she remembered, his soft touch strong enough to make all the troubles of her life fade like the far-off voice of the singer. If he sought to possess her now, she’d gladly surrender, if only for the chance to know again something more tender and beautiful than heartache and loss.

‘Mrs Thompson?’ A male voice sounded from somewhere in the distance.

Randall’s hands tightened on her back and she clung to him, refusing to relinquish this moment of happiness to the reality beyond the balcony doors.

‘Mrs Thompson?’ Lord Strathmore’s voice rang out again like some clanking dinner gong and she felt her bliss slipping away.

‘Randall.’ She turned her head and his lips brushed her cheek. ‘Please, I must go.’

‘No, not to him,’ Randall growled, his teeth taking in one sensitive earlobe, his heavy breath in her ear making her nearly forget herself and Lord Strathmore.

‘Mrs Thompson?’ The Earl called again, shattering the illusion of peace created by Randall’s embrace.

‘Yes, I must.’ She pushed against Randall and he let go.

Cold surged in where his warmth used to be, bringing with it all the reality of her position and his, the truths she’d allowed herself to forget under the sweet pressure of his lips.

‘Why? What is he to you?’ Randall hissed.

‘And what am I to you? Nothing more than a plaything to tease with all your suggestions and—’ She flapped one hand at him, lost for words, more flustered by her own actions than his. ‘I’m not one of your society ladies, someone to amuse yourself with until the shooting season begins, nor will I let you treat me as such.’

‘But you’ll let him treat you like that?’ Randall jabbed one finger at the door.

She clenched her hands at her sides. ‘Whatever you think of him, at least his intentions are more honourable than yours.’

She fled back into the light of the drawing room, pausing just inside to compose herself, afraid Randall’s kiss still lingered on her lips for all to see. Thankfully, the singer and the cards held almost everyone’s attention, except Lord Strathmore’s. He stood in the centre of the room, a glass of punch in each hand, lighting up at her appearance. ‘There you are.’

He made for her, his eyes focused on her décolletage. She covered her chest with her hand, wanting to pull the dress up to her chin and walk away from his crass appraisal. It felt too much like the day General LaFette had first leered at her from across the lawn at the Governor’s picnic.

‘What were you doing out there?’ he asked as he handed her the punch.

She took the glass, careful to avoid his round fingers. ‘It’s so warm in here. I had to step outside for a moment.’

‘On the balcony?’ His eyes flicked with suspicion to the darkened doorway and her hand tightened on the crystal.

‘Where else is one to go for fresh air?’ She struggled to keep her voice steady as she moved to his side, looking at the dim outline of London. Randall was still out there, waiting in the shadows. He could step from them at any moment and make his presence on the balcony with her known. She held her breath, expecting him to reveal her indiscretion and ruin all her chances with the Earl. Time seemed to stretch out as she waited, but only a light breeze drifted in through the open door, ruffling the lace curtains hanging on either side.

Her hand eased on the glass. He hadn’t revealed himself. He could have, but he didn’t. She sensed the effort to protect her in his choice and the realisation proved more startling than his appearance on the balcony and nearly as touching as his kiss.

‘Shall we listen to the singer?’ Lord Strathmore asked.

‘Yes.’ She accompanied him into the drawing room, struggling to put Randall out of her mind, but his warmth still lingered on her lips. He wanted her and for a moment, she’d wanted him enough to risk a very public indiscretion. She shouldn’t have trifled with him, it only added fuel to his fiery pursuit, threatening to burn her and all her carefully laid plans. She rubbed the bracelet, wondering why he was so determined to claim her when a relationship with her would bring him nothing. Whatever Randall’s motives, she sensed they were more for his benefit than hers. In the future, she must be more careful when dealing with the Marquess.

The singer’s voice crawled up Randall’s spine. He stood in the darkness of the balcony, feeling as if he’d been cut. He tugged his wrinkled coat straight. She’d even had the audacity to rail at him as if he’d attacked her in an alley when all he’d done was answer the challenge she’d tossed at him from across the table. The image of her alluring eyes, more green than brown, the dark lashes curling above the wide pupils, seized him, twisting his frustration.

The singer’s shrieking ceased and the guests applauded. Randall clasped his hands behind his back and strode inside, not about to linger in the darkness like some weeping girl left out of a dance.

At the edge of the audience, Strathmore clapped like a trained monkey. Cecelia stood next to him, the roundness of her buttocks hinted at beneath the wide skirt of her pale yellow dress. The alluring blush along the sweep of her exposed shoulders didn’t escape his notice. Neither did the flutter of her pearl earrings as she leaned away from Strathmore when he moved closer to speak. Her distaste for the man was obvious in the weakness of her smile, yet the moment the fool had caterwauled for her, she’d wrenched herself away from Randall, the passionate woman receding once again into the frigid widow.

I should have followed her and killed Strathmore’s interest. But he hadn’t. He wasn’t about to lower her opinion of him just to best a fool, not after he’d felt such wanting when his tongue swept the sweet line of her mouth. She craved his touch, no matter what she believed about his intentions, or Strathmore’s. He cringed to think about the Earl’s intentions, yet Cecelia believed Strathmore more worthy of her affection than him.

You’re not worthy. His fists tightened before he crushed the memory down like he had the first day of his first Season when he’d stepped out of the carriage and on to the London street, refusing to let it control him.

Then Madame de Badeau stepped between him and Cecelia, jostling him from his thoughts. The Frenchwoman looked at Cecelia, then Randall, condescending amusement dancing in her brown eyes.

Only then did he realise how he stood in the centre of the room, mooning at Cecelia like some sad puppy. He scrutinised each face near him as people moved to fill the empty tables, wondering who else had noticed his moment of weakness. No eyes met his, but it didn’t lessen his unease. The art of observing without being observed was well practised in society.

He turned and, without so much as an answering nod to Madame de Badeau, strode from the room, refusing to let the Frenchwoman or even Cecelia make a fool of him. He more than any other man in London was worthy of Cecelia and he’d be damned if he let her or anyone else make him think otherwise.

Madame de Badeau stood with Cecelia and Lord Strathmore on Lady Thornton’s front portico, watching as her carriage pulled to a stop before the house, ready to convey the widow home before returning for her.

‘I would be more than happy to escort you home,’ Lord Strathmore offered to Cecelia as he handed her into the vehicle. ‘It worries me to know you’re not feeling well.’

‘You’re very kind, but I can’t impose or ruin your evening,’ the little widow answered, more play-acting in her simpering smile than in half the performances in the Theatre Royal.

‘Indeed, you cannot.’ Madame de Badeau laughed, stepping forward, eager to see the slut off. ‘Lord Strathmore has promised me a game of piquet and I’m eager to win back the five shillings I lost to him last week.’

‘Quite right.’ Lord Strathmore bent over Cecelia’s knuckles and Madame de Badeau caught the flicker of disgust in Cecelia’s eyes. Apparently, Strathmore saw only what he wanted for he closed the carriage door, waving it and Cecelia off with a self-satisfied grin.

‘I think I’m making great strides with her.’ Lord Strathmore hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat, trilling his fingers over the silk. ‘I can count on you to keep recommending me to the lovely, wealthy woman?’

‘Of course. Nothing would bring me greater pleasure than to see the two of you together.’ And the whore suffering under your depravity while you both sink into poverty.

Suspicion darkened his brow. ‘I’m surprised you’re being so helpful, considering what happened before.’

‘My dear, you know I care nothing for the past, or revenge.’ She fought to keep from laughing at her own lie. No, she hadn’t forgotten the horrid way he’d treated her the night he’d thrown her over for that actress. She touched her cheek where the bruise had formed after he’d struck her. The bruise might have faded, but not her hate, nor her craving for revenge. It burned as bright as her desire to bring low the daughter of the woman who’d stolen away her first love. Losing him had forced her at sixteen into the protection of old Chevalier de Badeau and years of vile treatment at the Frenchman’s gnarled hands before the Terror took off his head.

She touched her neck, shivering at how close she’d almost come to losing hers. Robespierre’s execution had saved her from the blade, but not the destitution afterwards, or everything she’d been forced to do to survive.

‘Shall we return?’ He held out his arm, and she took it, dismissing the past as he led her back into Lady Thornton’s.

She’d waited a long time for the perfect revenge to reveal itself and her patience was about to be rewarded. She caressed the diamonds against her breasts, thinking how delightful it would be to see both Lord Strathmore and Cecelia brought low. Cecelia might be innocent of her mother’s sins, but there were debts to be repaid and if the mother wasn’t alive to pay them, then it fell to the daughter to suffer.

Innocent, Madame de Badeau sneered behind one gloved hand. The tart was hardly innocent, throwing herself at Randall, playing him with a talent she might admire if it didn’t made her sick. To see a man of Randall’s reputation humbled by a nobody was more than she could stomach.

She shrugged off her disgust, knowing his infatuation wouldn’t last. When it ended, he’d see once again how she alone among all the others continued to stand beside him. Some day, her loyalty would be rewarded, but for the moment she concentrated on the other matter, waiting for the right moment to strike. She smiled up at Lord Strathmore, smirking as his eyes fixed on her breasts. After all these years, she would finally see her enemies crushed.

Chapter Seven

Randall raised his arm as Mr Joshua fastened the cufflink, shaking his head at the selection of bracelets the jeweller held up for his inspection. ‘No, none of these.’

‘Perhaps you’d like to see something with sapphires?’ the jeweller suggested, returning the velvet-lined tray to the wood case, then withdrawing another and holding it up.

‘I have no interest in rings,’ Randall snapped. ‘I wish to show the lady the seriousness of my intentions, not give her ideas about marriage.’

‘Of course, my lord. I have another collection which I think might suit your needs.’ He fiddled with the trays in the case.

Mr Joshua finished with the cufflink and Randall dropped his arm, opening and closing his hand, the feel of Cecelia’s back against his palm as vibrant this morning as it had been last night. He could still hear her sighing as her sweet lips opened to him, the weight of her body soft against his, surrendering until he’d thought his conquest complete.

How wrong he’d been.

He smoothed the crease out of one cuff, another long night without sleep, the hours of darkness consumed by thoughts of Cecelia, dragging on him. In the early hours of morning, when he’d paced the halls chewing over last night, he’d come to realise she was right. Cecelia wasn’t like all his other conquests and it was a mistake to treat her like one. He’d approached her with all the finesse of a battering ram, expecting her defences to collapse simply because he knocked at her gates. The same tactics might have worked with women like Lady Weatherly, but with Cecelia they only strengthened the wall keeping him out. It was time for the softer, more delicate approach.

‘Here you are, my lord. A selection of necklaces from Italy.’ The jeweller held up another tray with gold pendants arranged on the velvet. ‘Perhaps one of these will suit.’

A square pendant in the middle caught his attention. He picked it up, admiring the fine etching of ivy leaves covering an exposed brick wall. It reminded him of the old mill at Falconbridge Manor where the stucco had fallen away from the stone. The mill was gone now, damaged in a storm five years ago and rebuilt in stone. In the gold, he could almost see again the old one and the way the bricks used to glow in the late afternoon sun while he and Cecelia had floated over the pond in the miller’s boat, her hem wet, the red highlights in her hair sparkling in the low sunlight.

He met the jeweller’s eager eyes over the tray and, turning, carried the pendant to the window. It weighed nothing, but felt as heavy in his hand as the solid end of the oars had when he’d rowed, choking out his secret to Cecelia, the truth of his father’s death too heavy for him to carry alone.

He swept the fine lines of the design with his thumb, the gold glinting like the fish had done as they swam beneath the boat. He’d watched them flitting over the rocks, too ashamed to look at Cecelia, too afraid of seeing in her sweet face the same hate and disgust that used to fill his father’s eyes. Then she’d touched his cheek with an understanding he’d never known before and certainly not since.

His fingers closed over the pendant, filled again with the same desolation he’d felt every time he stood at the pond after she’d left.

She knew his secret. Perhaps it was the real reason she continued to push him away.

He forced down the loneliness as he strode back to the jeweller. No, that wasn’t the reason. She’d told him why last night when she’d accused him of being insincere. He was about to show her depth of his sincerity. ‘This one will suit.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’ The salesman produced a velvet box from the case and arranged the pendant inside. He handed it back to Randall, then packed up the case and followed Mr Joshua out of the room.

Randall took a seat at the wide writing desk, laying the case on the blotter as he withdrew a sheet of paper. He dipped the silver pen in the inkwell and began a note to Cecelia to accompany the gift. The words tangled together as he wrote, nothing making sense. Frustrated, he scrapped the paper from the blotter, wadded it up and tossed it in the fire. He pulled another sheet from the pile, laying it down next to the box and tapping his fingers on the leather before returning the pen to its stand.

Let the pendant speak for him.

Mr Joshua returned and Randall rose, sweeping the box from the desk and holding it out to him.

‘Take this to Mrs Thompson. Tell her it’s a token of my friendship and ask permission for me to call to see how well it fits her. Wait for an answer.’

Cecelia opened the slim box and drew in a sharp breath.

‘Lord Falconbridge hopes you find the gift acceptable,’ the valet announced.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she murmured breathily in spite of herself. Removing the necklace from the velvet, she held it up, letting the light from the windows play off the gold. The image of the Falconbridge mill where the plaster had fallen away from the bricks came to mind. The hours she and Randall had spent floating in the miller’s boat were some of her fondest. More than once during her time at Belle View, she’d passed the small lake between the fields in the late afternoon and thought of Randall, wondering if he ever thought of those days, too.

Perhaps he did.

She laid the pendant in her palm, the cool metal warming like his cheek had when she’d laid her hand aside his face all those years ago. Sitting across from him, the water lapping at the rough sides of the boat, the pain and loss in his eyes had mirrored her own. They’d shared so much then, the small space protecting them from all the problems and heartache waiting on the shore.

Or so she’d once believed.

She lowered the necklace back into the box, her excitement tarnished by both the past and the present. Even if the gift was a reminder of their time together, she knew he didn’t send it for any emotional reasons. She’d rebuked him last night and this was his attempt to flatter his way back into her good graces. It’d almost worked.

‘Lord Falconbridge asks permission to call, to see how well you wear the necklace.’ The valet’s voice jostled her out of her thoughts.

She looked at the lean young man in the fine coat, his hands laced behind his back, his stance betraying nothing, but she sensed this wasn’t the first time he’d watched a woman open one of Randall’s tokens.

She looked at the pendant again and considered keeping it, wearing it once in front of Randall and then pawning it, but changed her mind. No matter how misguided his intention, she couldn’t take advantage of Randall’s generosity.

‘Lord Falconbridge is very kind.’ She closed the box and, with a surprising tug of regret, handed it back to the young man. ‘But I can’t accept such a gift. Please return it to him with my thanks and my apologies.’

The valet’s mouth dropped open before he snapped it shut and she guessed this was the first time he’d witnessed a woman refuse a gift.

‘I’ll convey your message. May I also tell Lord Falconbridge he has your permission to call?’

After last night, the idea of being alone in her house with Randall didn’t sit well and for more reasons than she cared to ponder. However, if he came to tea, it would save her the trouble of explaining her refusal in public. Also, for all her chastising of Randall, he was as much a fixture of society as Lord Strathmore or Lady Weatherly. To alienate him completely might cause more harm than good, though she wasn’t sure to whom. ‘Yes, Lord Falconbridge has my permission to call.’

The valet bowed, then left.

Cecelia returned to her desk and dropped into the chair. Opening the account book, she snatched up the pen, trying to remember where she was in her calculations and which bills in the pile above the ledger could be paid and which could be left until she sold something else.

She opened the brass ink jar, moving the metal lid back and forth on its hinges. Even in the sunlight, it didn’t gleam like the pendant. She dropped the pen and closed the book, Randall’s persistence more irritating than Lord Strathmore’s, and far more flattering.

No wonder Randall enjoyed great success with women like Lady Weatherly.

Jealousy flared inside her and she wondered if his gifts to other ladies were as personal. No, of course not, and she was a fool to think Randall chose the pendant for sentimental reasons. His motives, as well as his request to call, were only a part of his silly game to capture her attention. Last night on the balcony, and again today, he’d almost succeeded.

Flipping open the account book, she returned to her sums, determined to put him from her mind. In time, he’d tire of this game and move on to a more willing woman. The thought should have comforted her, but it didn’t.

‘What’s your interest in Mrs Thompson?’ Madame de Badeau asked, lounging on the silk-covered chaise across from him in her morning room, déshabillé as was her custom during the day. ‘Why are you running after her?’

Randall lay back against the sofa. He should have skipped this weekly engagement, but there was little else to amuse him while he waited for Mr Joshua to return from Cecelia’s. ‘I’m hardly running.’

‘I saw you in Rotten Row. You’ve chased foxes with less enthusiasm.’

He threw one arm over the back of the sofa and fingered the gilded edge. ‘A little chase makes a woman seem more like a conquest and more entertaining than all my past dalliances.’

‘All of them?’ She leaned forward to pick up a teacup from the low table between them, her wrap falling open to reveal the tops of her generous breasts, her eyebrows raised with the slightest hint of invitation. When he was a young lord new to London, the look would have made his blood boil with desire. Not today.

‘All of them.’

She sat back, pulling the robe closed and sliding her feet beneath her. ‘If you want the thrill of the chase, then you need a few more obstacles in your path.’

‘If you’re speaking of Lord Strathmore, don’t trouble yourself. She isn’t interested in him.’

‘Or she’s interested in his title and a manor house in the country.’

Randall’s fingers tightened on the back of the sofa, one fingernail finding the rough edge of a chip in the smooth paint. ‘One mortgaged up to the gables?’

‘Her money for his title. She wouldn’t be the first colonial to make such an exchange.’

Randall picked a slice of paint from the chip, wondering if Cecelia was seeking more than a husband for the cousin. She’d once asked for the protection of his title, just as Uncle Edmund had predicted she’d do, but she’d been desperate back then. She was rich now and there was no reason for her to debase herself with Strathmore just to force people she disliked to bow to her. It was only Madame de Badeau’s wicked tongue seeking to turn him against any woman but her. The Frenchwoman was overestimating his esteem if she thought she could trifle with him. ‘I’d prefer if you didn’t interfere with me and Mrs Thompson.’

‘Oh, but I must. After all, she is my friend.’

‘You don’t have friends.’

‘Nevertheless, I’m already involved and, since nothing else has arisen to amuse me this Season, I have no choice.’ Her narrow eyes met his with a challenge and he wished again he’d skipped this little ritual.

‘But how serious you are this morning.’ She laughed, trying to break the sudden chill between them and not succeeding. The sound of the front door opening caught their attention and, a moment later, Miss Domville attempted to slip past the door. ‘Marianne, come in here and greet Lord Falconbridge.’

With the pursed lips of a petulant child, Miss Domville stepped into the room. Despite her fine features and well-formed figure, she wore a plain grey pelisse lacking decoration and style. It stood in direct contrast to her sister’s lavish ruffles and lace and Randall sensed the girl had deliberately chosen it to irritate her sister.

‘Good day, Lord Falconbridge,’ Miss Domville offered tersely, one foot turned to leave.

‘Whatever are you wearing?’ Madame de Badeau scolded before Randall could return the greeting. ‘Take it off at once.’

‘I like it.’

‘That was an order, not a suggestion. Dalton, come in here.’ The thick-necked butler, smelling faintly of brandy, stepped into the room. ‘Please help Miss Domville out of that awful pelisse and give it to the poor.’

Dalton took the pelisse’s collar and Miss Domville shrugged out of the garment, the walking dress beneath no fancier.

‘I don’t see why you insist on hiding your body beneath such ugly clothes,’ Madame de Badeau chided as Dalton left. ‘No gentleman will look at you if you keep dressing like a nun.’

‘Better a nun than a strumpet,’ Miss Domville sneered.

‘You hate me. Good. Then you’ll marry faster and be gone from the house.’ Madame de Badeau stirred her tea, the silver spoon clinking against the flowery cup. ‘I only hope you aren’t foolish enough to wait for love. Find a rich, accommodating husband, like Lady Weatherly did, one who won’t trouble you too much. After all, with a figure like yours, you might enjoy any number of young men once you’re settled.’

‘May I go?’ Miss Domville seethed.

‘Yes.’ Madame de Badeau waved a dismissive hand. ‘Hurry off and do whatever it is you do all day.’

Miss Domville fled the room.

‘Silly child. One would think she didn’t want her freedom.’

‘She’s young. In time, she’ll see how the world is and adapt,’ Randall said carelessly, covering a yawn with the back of his hand.

‘Perhaps what she needs is someone to introduce her to the finer points of conducting herself in matters of love.’ Madame de Badeau eyed him over the cup.

‘An amusing prospect.’ Randall stood, disgusted and eager to be free of the house. ‘But I’m not about to start ruining young ladies, with or without their guardian’s permission.’

Madame de Badeau set her cup on the table, the effect of Randall’s rebuff evident in the rattle of the china. She stood, fingering the lace of her robe. ‘Are you attending Lady Ilsington’s ball tomorrow night?’

‘I am.’ He was tired of these society rounds, but knew Cecelia would be there. It was the one bright spot in what looked to be a dull evening.

‘Good, then we’ll both be able to play our little games. Until tomorrow night.’

She held out her hand and Randall nodded over it instead of kissing the knuckles. Irritation hardened her eyes and not even her charming smile could hide it. Randall dropped her hand, straightened and left the room, not giving a fig for her mood or her desire to meddle.

In the hall, he expected to see Dalton waiting with his hat and walking stick, but the butler was nowhere to be seen.

Where is the man?

He stormed to the window, flicking aside the curtain to see Mr Joshua pacing back and forth in front of the carriage.

Footsteps sounded behind him and he turned, eager to collect his things and go, only it wasn’t Dalton, but Miss Domville who appeared.

She hurried up to him, carrying his hat and walking stick, shooting a cautious glance at the morning-room door as she approached.

‘I know more than she realises,’ Miss Domville whispered.

‘Yes, I’ve gathered as much from the way you listen at doorways.’ He adjusted his hat over his hair.

She held out the walking stick. ‘You’re a friend of Mrs Thompson?’

‘I am.’ He reached for the stick, but she pulled it back.

‘Then tell her to be careful. My sister does not have her best interests at heart.’

‘She’s never had anyone’s best interests at heart except her own,’ he snorted, wondering what the chit was about. Other than pleasant civilities, he’d never had so much as three words from her.

‘Marianne, are you out there?’ Madame de Badeau called from the morning room. ‘Come in here at once.’

‘Good day, Lord Falconbridge.’ She shoved the stick at him, then trudged into the morning room.

Randall pulled open the front door and stepped outside, Miss Domville’s odd warning nagging at him. Madame de Badeau had been kind enough to introduce Cecelia to society and the woman wasn’t one for kindness, but he couldn’t imagine what she might gain by ruining Cecelia. No doubt Miss Domville’s cryptic words were only an attempt to stir up mischief in order to spite her sister.

Randall twirled his walking stick as he stopped beside the carriage.

‘Well?’ he asked Mr Joshua, eager to hear about Cecelia’s reaction to the necklace.

Mr Joshua held out the box. ‘She sent it back.’

‘What?’ Randall snatched it from him, his fingers crushing the velvet. ‘Why?’

‘She said she couldn’t accept such a gift.’

‘Of course she could. What woman doesn’t accept jewellery?’

‘’Tis a rare one indeed, my lord.’

‘Apparently, I’ve found her.’ Randall shoved the slender box in his coat pocket. ‘Did she at least like it before she sent it back?’

‘I’d say so.’

‘Then why did she send it back?’

‘I don’t know, but you have her permission to call.’

‘How generous of her.’ Randall climbed into the carriage and tossed his hat on the opposite seat. He settled on the squabs, his hands planted on top of his walking stick, his fingers tight on the silver handle. He should have known she’d reject his gift. She’d done nothing but toss him aside since Lady Weatherly’s salon.

Mr Joshua picked up the hat, brushing it off with his hand as he sat down across from Randall.

‘Where to, my lord?’ the groom asked.

‘To Mrs Thompson’s, my lord?’ Mr Joshua hazarded from across the carriage.

‘No.’ If he walked into her sitting room now, she’d know at once the effect she had on him. Most likely it was the real reason she’d refused the necklace. She’d challenged him to a game last night and now they were playing it.

‘My lord?’ the groom pressed.

‘Home,’ Randall commanded.

The groom started to close the door, but Randall stuck his walking stick between it and the jamb.

‘No. To Mrs Thompson’s.’ He would be the one to set the rules, to make the moves, not her.

Mr Joshua’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but he said nothing as the groom closed the door.

The carriage set off and Randall sat up straight, balancing himself with his walking stick. Mr Joshua kept his thoughts to himself and Randall was glad. He was in no mood for the man’s humour.

What the devil was he doing going to Cecelia? Sending the gift back was a message and his visit would be an answer. He should wait a few days, then call upon her without a hint of agitation. He could go to White’s, but after his win against Lord Westbrook, the club and the company were proving tedious. Too many men like Lord Malvern kept hoping to make a name for themselves by challenging him to a game of cards. Though at the moment, the social upstarts’ nagging seemed more preferable than a widow determined to annoy him.

He raised the walking stick, ready to bang it against the roof, but stopped.

‘Is there something you need, my lord?’ Mr Joshua asked as Randall lowered the stick.

‘No, nothing.’ There was no reason to appear agitated and it didn’t matter if she’d refused his gift. He could purchase a hundred such tokens and distribute them throughout London without a second thought.

The carriage turned a corner and the houses became more simple and understated. He settled back against the leather and stretched out one leg across the floor. He was not about to let her see the effect she had on him. This was his game and he would run it.

Cecelia rubbed her forehead with her fingers, unable to write any more. It was the third letter she’d drafted to Paul asking, then demanding, now pleading with him to pay her widow’s portion. The other two letters smouldered in the grate, the heavy scent of smoke echoing her mood. She snatched the letter from the blotter, crumpled it and tossed it in with the others. No, she wouldn’t beg. She might ask and insist, but she would not beg. She took up her fourth sheet and in simple words made her case for the payment, reminding him of Daniel’s desire to see her taken care of and a son’s duty to obey his father’s wishes. She paused at the end of the letter to look at the slanting lines, knowing nothing she wrote would make a difference. Virginia law might demand he pay her, but there was no one in England or Virginia willing to help her press her case. All the people who’d flocked to Belle View after Daniel’s death had closed their doors in her face.

Paul might respond if the crest of Falconbridge were etched on the top of the paper.

She stuck the pen back in its holder, nearly laughing aloud at the thought. She wasn’t likely to get any help from Randall, only more trinkets and the start of a questionable career as a courtesan. Things were not desperate enough to place her feet on such a road. At least not yet.

She sealed the letter, summoned Mary and gave her instructions for its delivery. Mary was not two feet out of the room when the front doorknocker sounded through the hallway.

‘Mary, if that is Lord Strathmore, please tell him I’m out,’ Cecelia called, hearing footsteps in the hallway and assuming they were the maid’s.

‘It’s not Lord Strathmore and I can see very plainly you’re in.’ Randall came around the corner and the room seemed to shrink as he entered, his presence filling the small space. He wore a cinnamon-coloured coat, which added to his size, while the black waistcoat cut close to his stomach emphasised his lean strength. Cecelia braced herself as he strode towards her, waiting for his arms to press her against the firmness of his chest and for his mouth to claim hers as it had last night. She fingered her gold bracelet, her whole being scared tight by his approach, yet ready to melt into his calming embrace.

He stopped before her, sweeping off the hat and handing it and the walking stick to Mary, who hurried up behind him, red faced with embarrassment.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Thompson, he came in as I was leaving to post your letter,’ the flustered girl explained.

‘It’s all right.’ The anticipation drained from her, the lack of his embrace leaving her as unsettled as her strange craving for it. ‘Please see to the letter.’

The maid dipped a curtsy and hurried away.

‘I’m glad to hear you’re putting Strathmore off. I thought you two were becoming quite close.’ Randall laughed, a noticeable edge to his jest.

‘Lord Strathmore and I are not close.’ Despite the initial rush of excitement, she didn’t relish seeing Randall on the heels of her letter to Paul. It only heaped one insult on top of another.

‘Cecelia, have you seen my fan?’ Theresa called out before she stopped at the morning-room door, her lips forming an O as wide as her eyes. ‘Good afternoon, Lord Falconbridge.’

She dipped a curtsy, teetering with barely contained giggles as he answered it with a respectful bow.

‘Good day to you, Miss Fields.’

‘Theresa, your fan is on my dressing table,’ Cecelia answered, eager to send the girl and her giggles away, but Theresa lingered in the doorway.

‘I’ll fetch it at once. I’ll probably be upstairs for a very long time,’ she announced, looking back and forth between them as if helping to plot an elopement.

‘Yes, thank you.’ Cecelia’s terse dismissal did nothing to dampen her cousin’s conspiratorial smile and Theresa floated out of the room, her giggles fading as she hurried up the stairs.

Cecelia turned back to Randall, wishing she could dismiss him as easily as Theresa, especially since he wore the same annoying smile as her cousin.

‘Miss Fields is a charming young lady,’ he complimented. ‘Quit bold and spirited.’

‘I’m afraid I’ve allowed her more freedom than I should have, but it was different in Virginia. I find it difficult to be strict with her now. It’s not our habit.’

‘It’s charming to see. Not everyone I know is as kind or loving with their charges.’ His smile faded into something more serious, like a man watching a child play with a wooden top and wishing he could find the same joy in something so simple.

‘But I suspect you didn’t come here today to discuss my cousin.’

‘No. I didn’t.’

Cecelia motioned to the chairs near the table. He chose the sofa in front of the window instead, dropping on to the cushion at one end. She looked at the other end, empty and inviting, and chose the small chair across from it.

‘Why did you refuse my gift?’ he asked with startling directness.

‘Did you really drive all the way here to ask me that?’

‘I drove here because you said I could.’

‘I didn’t think you’d call so soon.’

‘Are you disappointed?’

‘No. Surprised.’ He’d been so eager to be rid of her ten years ago. Why was he so persistent now?

‘Good, I like to surprise you. It amuses me.’

And there was her answer. ‘Surely there are other people in London to amuse you.’

‘Perhaps, but they aren’t as kind and honest as you.’

She swallowed hard. Honest was the one thing she hadn’t been since coming to London. ‘You are too kind.’

‘And you are determined to avoid answering my question.’

‘Not at all. I shouldn’t have been so bold with you last night. In the spirit of the evening, I forgot myself, which I can ill afford to do, not with Theresa to think about. I must safeguard my reputation as well as hers if she’s to find a husband, and accepting expensive gifts from gentlemen is no way to do it.’ This was as close to the truth as she was willing to venture.

‘What about accepting a gift from a friend?’

‘Are we friends?’

‘I’d very much like it if we could be.’

‘Why?’

Randall shifted on the sofa, looking uncomfortable for the first time since she’d seen him at Lady Weatherly’s. ‘As you’ve discovered, London is full of shallow people and while, on more than one occasion, I’ve sought nothing but to cultivate their respect, I’d be lying if I told you it brings me great joy. It did once, but not any more.’

He pulled the thin box out of his pocket and removed the lid. ‘You’re not like everyone else, you aren’t impressed with my title and you don’t hunger after all the things you think I can give you.’ The chain sparkled as he took out the pendant and laid it in the palm of one hand, cradling it like a delicate seashell. ‘I know I’ve been brusque, if not inappropriate with you, and it was a mistake. Please believe me when I say I wish us to be real friends.’

He held out the pendant and she stared at the warm gold, wanting to believe in the sincerity behind his offer, but too afraid of being disappointed. He’d let her down once before, like almost everyone else in her life, and with so many troubles already plaguing her, there was little room for one more. ‘I’m not sure we can be friends.’

‘If you aren’t ready to accept my friendship, then please do me the honor of accepting the gift and giving me the pleasure of seeing you wear it.’

Before she could object, he was on his feet and behind her chair.

Her skin tingled as he came close, anticipation building with each sweep of his breath over the back of her neck. He lowered the necklace on to her chest, his fingers so close to her cheeks, he only needed to stretch them out to caress her. As the warm pendant touched the tops of her breasts, she drew in a long breath, catching faint traces of almond above the sharp metallic scent of silver from where he’d gripped the walking-stick handle. The chain draped up the length of her chest, feathery against her flesh like his fingers brushing the back of her neck when he fastened the clasp.

Then he laid his hands on her shoulders and one thumb slipped beneath the fabric, his touch as soft and gentle as the weight of the pendant. She closed her eyes, gripping the chair cushion as she waited for him to slide his hands down her arms and lower his face to hers so she might know again the feel of his tender lips.

‘Now, let me see it.’ His deep voice plucked the tension building inside her before his hands slid over the curve of her shoulders as he slowly moved away.

She opened her eyes and allowed herself to breathe again. Pushing against the chair’s sturdy arms to steady herself, she rose and turned, surprised by what she saw.

His eyes were serious and unsure, like the moment before he’d first kissed her at Falconbridge Manor. She felt it, too, the wanting mixed with the fear of risking too much and being rejected. Her heart caught in her chest, the pendant heavy around her neck.

‘Do you like it?’ he asked, all his London airs gone.

She lifted the necklace, running one finger over the finely etched ivy clinging to the brick. ‘Yes, it’s lovely. It reminds me of the old mill at Falconbridge Manor and the way the sun used to strike the bricks in the afternoon.’

‘Yes, I thought so, too.’ His words were so quiet, she almost didn’t hear them. ‘It suits you.’

Her eyes met his and it was as if they were alone again in the little boat, the ripples from the mill wheel pushing them into the centre of the pond, away from everything and every problem waiting for them on the shore.

He reached out and lifted the pendant from her fingers, the metal catching the light behind him and sending a slash of gold across his cheek. In the soft sweep of his hand over hers, she knew there was more to this gift than simple friendship and more to Randall than the jaded Marquess. He was just a man standing before her, hoping she treasured his gift.

‘If only you could be this kind with everyone all the time,’ she offered, trying to draw out more of the considerate man, the person he struggled so hard to hide.

He laid the pendant gently against her chest and she tensed, eager for the soft press of his fingertip against her skin, but he was careful to avoid touching her this time. ‘Not everyone deserves it.’

She glanced at the grate with the letters to Paul smouldering inside, disappointment replacing her anticipation. ‘No, some people don’t.’

‘Do I?’

She wanted to trust him and in this moment she almost did, but the charred papers in the fireplace and the bills littering her desk made her hesitate. ‘I don’t know yet.’

‘Then perhaps some day soon you will.’ He stepped back, clasping his hands behind his back, and the old Randall was gone, leaving the man of London standing before her once again. ‘Now, I have to go.’

‘Must you?’ It surprised her how much she wanted him to stay.

‘I’m afraid I have other business to attend to today.’ He bowed, then made for the door, fleeing more than leaving, and she wondered who he feared more, her or himself.

‘Thank you for the present, Randall.’

He stopped, his stiff shoulders relaxing. ‘It was my pleasure.’

Then he left.

She paced the room, her steps taking her close to the window before she whirled around and walked away, refusing to watch him leave. The carriage equipage jangled and the rhythmic clop of hoofbeats began. She turned to see the dark green carriage pass by outside, nothing inside visible through the leaded glass. He was gone, but his absence didn’t put her at ease, or answer all her lingering questions. One moment he was the rake she detested, the next he was the man she’d first fallen in love with. She wished he’d choose who to be so she might know how to behave. Though it was possible he no longer knew the difference between the real Randall and the fake.

‘I’ve come to settle my debts,’ Lord Westbrook announced. He stood before the wide oak desk in Randall’s office, his appearance as neat as expected for such a meeting. However, heavy circles hung beneath the Baron’s light eyes and Randall tapped the wood, realising how much the debt must be weighing on him.

‘Have you now?’ Randall motioned for him to take a seat, then lowered himself into his own chair, waving at Reverend to lie down on the floor beside him.

‘A gentleman always pays his debts.’

‘Even when they’ll ruin him?’

Lord Westbrook studied the floor. ‘Yes.’

Randall leaned back against the leather, seeing something of his young self in the Baron’s discomfort. He’d taken the same idiotic risks his first year in London, daring the ghost of his father to strike him down for doing everything the old man used to rail against, and more. If Lord Westbrook’s reasons were as shallow as Randall’s, he deserved this punishment. ‘Why did you wager so much?’

Lord Westbrook met Randall’s question with a defiant look. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

Randall laced his hands over his stomach. ‘Try me.’

‘I did it for love.’ Lord Westbrook sat up straight, showing a bit of pluck for the first time since he’d sat down across from Randall at the card table. ‘My income is not substantial and, though my title assures me certain privileges, the family of my intended raised objections to the match. I’d hoped to win enough to allay their fears.’

‘But instead you lost everything.’

‘Everything was already lost.’ Lord Westbrook ran his fingers through his straight hair, his anguish over losing the woman he loved greater than the pain of losing his estate. ‘Now, may we proceed with the formalities? I’ve brought the deed.’

He pulled a yellowed paper from his coat pocket and laid it on the desk. Randall eyed it, but didn’t move.

If only you could be this kind with everyone all the time.

He looked across the polished oak at Lord Westbrook, whose one leg bounced nervously. No, not everyone deserved his kindness, but not everyone deserved to be crushed simply because he could, especially when their motives were more noble than any of his had ever been. ‘Let me offer you another proposition.’

‘You have everything of mine. What more do you want?’ Lord Westbrook cried, jumping to his feet, as panicked as a rabbit caught in a snare.

‘Your time and patience. Please, sit.’ Randall motioned the man back into his seat. ‘Despite a well-cultivated reputation, it’s not my desire to ruin young lords new to London. Therefore, I’ll return your land to you along with your winnings on two conditions.’

Lord Westbrook’s jaw fell open in surprise. Randall could understand his disbelief. He barely believed what he was saying.

‘First, you leave London today and not return for at least three years. That should prove sufficient time to make society forget about you and your losses and believe whatever story you decided to concoct about how you regained your fortune.’

‘And second?’ Lord Westbrook asked, hope colouring his voice.

‘You don’t make public what I’ve done. If you do, I’ll spread such malicious rumours about your ungentlemanly conduct regarding the debt, you’ll never be able to show your face in society again. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, yes, I do. Thank you, Lord Falconbridge.’ Lord Westbrook stood and extended his hand across the desk. Instead of taking it, Randall picked up the deed and laid it in the Baron’s palm.

‘Allow me to suggest, instead of gambling, an investment in the Maryland Trading Company. I have it on good authority it will turn a profit. Go to their offices and speak to a Mr Preston regarding the matter. Tell him I sent you with discretion.’

‘I will indeed, my lord. Thank you. You don’t know how much this means to me.’

Yes, I do. ‘Good day, Lord Westbrook.’

Randall rang the hand bell on his desk and a moment later the butler appeared and escorted Lord Westbrook out of the room.

Randall stared at the closed door, noticing the scratches at the bottom where Reverend had pawed to get out. No doubt the youth was practically singing in the street with joy. As long as he kept his end of the bargain, Randall didn’t care what Lord Westbrook did.

He looked down at Reverend, who stretched, then came to sit beside him. Randall scratched behind the dog’s head, making the dog’s nose point in the air. ‘I suppose you think Cecelia had something to do with my decision.’

The dog’s ears shifted forward.

‘She didn’t. I simply have no desire to maintain a house in Surrey.’

Despite what Cecelia thought of him, this wasn’t the first kindness he’d performed since she’d last known him. There were others, legions of them, but not for the men or women of society. It was the rare one who deserved it.

Including Randall.

He moved to the table near the window. A ceramic jar sat on it next to a decanter of brandy he kept for guests and as a reminder of his strength in refusing it. He ran his hand over the top of the cold crystal stopper, the old unease pushing him to remove it, pour himself a deep draught and savour the burning flavor. It would kill the regrets and confusion churning inside him, just as it’d killed his innocence and his father.

He jerked his hand away and snatched up the lid to the jar. The clink of the porcelain brought Reverend to his side, his wagging tail making the fringe on the carpet flutter. Randall took out a couple of hard biscuits, then replaced the lid.

If Cecelia learned of his kindness to Lord Westbrook, would she consider him worthy of friendship, or search for something more selfish in his motives?

‘Sit.’ The dog obeyed and Randall tossed him the treat. Reverend caught it in midair, then eyed him, waiting for more, and Randall tossed him another.

Cecelia wasn’t going to learn about it. If he told her the story and it got out, every man he’d ever played would be at his door begging for their losses back and people like Madame de Badeau would laugh at his lenience.

He turned the last biscuit over in his palm. At one time, Madame de Badeau’s skill with gossip had added to his reputation, helping him cultivate the image he craved, the one which kept everyone at bay. Now he felt the mistake in letting people like her define him.

He tossed the last biscuit to Reverend, then marched to the French doors and threw them open. The dog shot past him and down the stairs, scaring up the birds picking through the grass.

A breeze shook the pink roses growing along the edge of the portico where Randall stood. The blush of the petals reminded him of Cecelia’s smooth skin beneath his fingers when he’d clasped the pendant around her neck. Her shoulders had teased him as they had in Sir Thomas’s studio, only this time there were no reprimands to keep him from feeling the heat of her skin, despite the risk of her pushing him away.

Then she’d stood and faced him. In her full, parted lips there’d lingered an anticipation he could almost touch, and he’d realised it was no longer his ego driving him to capture her attention. He wanted her friendship, as much as he’d once wanted the adoration of society, and he craved the freedom to take her hand, draw her down on the sofa and reveal how memories of his father sometimes haunted him at night.

She, more than anyone else, would understand.

Reverend bounded up to him with a stick and Randall took it and flung it across the garden, sending the dog running after it. What did it matter if she understood or not? He wasn’t about to throw himself on her sofa and moan over his father like some weak fop. Instead, he’d enjoy the peace and tranquillity of her house and the brief respite it offered from all the machinations of society and people like Madame de Badeau.