A Season of Secrets

Not Just a Seduction

Not Just a Governess

Not Just a Wallflower

Carole Mortimer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Not Just a Seduction

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Not Just a Governess

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

Not Just a Wallflower

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

Copyright

Not Just a Seduction

Carole Mortimer

London, 1817

The Earl of Chambourne’s scandalous reputation has been well-earned, but he has never forgotten the only woman he has ever loved—nor forgiven her for marrying another man while he was off fighting in France. When Christian discovers she is a widow, he hungers to possess her once again—as his mistress.

Lady Sylviana Moorland, Countess of Ampthill, knows it is only a matter of time before she comes face to face with Christian again. No longer an innocent, she sees no reason not to take the sensual pleasure he offers. But can Sylvie resist falling for the seductive rake?

Part of Carole Mortimer’s A Season of Secrets series.

CAROLE MORTIMER was born and lives in the UK. She is married to Peter and they have six sons. She has been writing for Mills & Boon since 1978 and is the author of almost 200 books. She writes for both the Mills & Boon Historical and Modern lines. Carole is a USA Today bestselling author and in 2012 was recognised by Queen Elizabeth II for her ‘outstanding contribution to literature’.

Visit Carole at carolemortimer.co.uk or on Facebook.

Chapter One

April, 1817

The London home of Lady Cicely Hawthorne.

“I trust, ladies, that you have not begun to discuss the matter of our grandsons’ future wives without me...?” Edith St. Just, Dowager Duchess of Royston, frowned down the length of her aristocratic nose as she entered the salon where her two closest friends sat on the sofa in cozy conversation together.

“We would not think of doing such a thing, Edith.” Her hostess stood up to cross the room and greet her with a warm kiss on both of her powdered cheeks.

“Of course we would not.” A smiling Lady Jocelyn Ambrose, Dowager Countess of Chambourne, also rose to her feet.

The three women had been firm friends since some fifty years ago when, at the age of eighteen, they had shared a coming-out Season, their friendship continuing after they had all married. After becoming mothers and then grandmothers in the same years, the ladies continued to meet at least once a week while their respective husbands were still alive and sometimes two or three times a week since being widowed.

The dowager duchess nodded her satisfaction with her friends’ replies before turning to the young lady who had accompanied her into the salon. “You may join Miss Thompson and Mrs. Spencer at their sewing, Ellie.”

* * *

Eleanor Rosewood gave a brief curtsy to the lady who was not only her step-great-aunt by marriage but also her benefactress before stepping lightly across the room to join the other companions quietly sewing in the window alcove. The ladies, much older than her nineteen years, nevertheless smiled at her in welcome. As they had for this past year.

If not for the dowager duchess’s kindness, Ellie feared that she might have been forced to offer herself up to the tender mercies of becoming one of the demimonde after the death of her mother and stepfather had revealed she had not only been left penniless but seriously in debt. Edith St. Just, hearing of her nephew’s profligacy, had wasted no time in sweeping into his stepdaughter’s heavily mortgaged home and paying off those debts before gathering Ellie up to her ample bosom and making a place for her in her own household as her companion. This past year in that lady’s employ had revealed to Ellie that Edith St. Just’s outward appearance of stern severity hid a heart of gold.

Unfortunately the same could not be said of her grandson, the arrogant and ruthless Justin St. Just, Duke of Royston, the haughtiness of his own demeanor a reflection of the steel within...

“Are you sure this is altogether wise?” Lady Cicely ventured uncertainly. “Thorne is sure to be most displeased with me if he should discover I have plotted behind his back to secure him a wife.”

“Humph.” The dowager duchess snorted down the length of her aristocratic nose as she took a seat beside the unlit fireplace. “We may plot all we like, Cicely, but it will be our grandsons’ decisions as to whether or not they are equally as enamored of our choices of brides for them. Besides, our grandsons are all past the age of eight and twenty, two of them never having married, the third long a widower, and none of them giving so much as a glance in the direction of the sweet young things paraded before them with the advent of each new Season.”

“And can you blame them?” Lady Cicely frowned. “When those young girls seem to get sillier and sillier each year?”

“That silliness is not exclusive to the present.” The dowager duchess frowned. “My own daughter-in-law, but eighteen when Robert married her, was herself evidence of that very silliness when a year later she chose to name my only grandson Justin—to be coupled with St. Just! Which is why it is our duty to seek out more sensible women to be the future brides of our respective grandsons, and mothers of the future heirs.”

Lady Cicely did not look convinced. “It is only that Thorne has such an icy demeanor when angry...”

Lady Jocelyn gave her friend a consoling grimace. “I am afraid Edith is, as usual, perfectly correct. If we are to see our grandsons suitably married, then I fear we shall have to be the ones to arrange matters. No doubts they will all thank us for it one day. Besides,” she added coyly, “with the advent of my ball tomorrow evening, I do believe that I have already set things in motion regarding Christian’s future.”

“Indeed?” The dowager duchess raised steely brows.

“Oh, do tell!” Lady Cicely encouraged excitedly.

Ellie, listening attentively to the conversation while giving the outward appearance of concentrating upon her own sewing, was also curious to hear how Lady Jocelyn believed she had managed to arrange the securing of a wife for her grandson, the cynical and jaded—frighteningly so, in Ellie’s opinion!—Lord Christian Ambrose, Earl of Chambourne...

Chapter Two

“Tell me, how did you explain your...loss of innocence to your elderly husband on your wedding night?”

Sylvie’s spine stiffened upon hearing that soft and cruelly mocking voice just behind her as she stood alone in the candlelit ballroom in the Dowager Countess of Chambourne’s London home. A voice, and man, standing so near to her that the warmth of his breath slightly ruffled the loose curls at her temple and beside her pearl-adorned earlobe. So near that she could feel the heat of that gentleman’s body through the silk of her gown...

She would have been foolish not to have expected some response from Lord Christian Ambrose, Earl of Chambourne, after arriving at his grandmother’s ball some half an hour earlier and finding the countess’s coldly arrogant grandson at that lady’s side as he acted as host to her hostess.

Yes, Sylvie had known, and expected, when she had accepted the invitation to this ball, some sort of acknowledgment of their previous acquaintance from Christian, but she had not expected it to be quite so cruelly pointed in nature!

She stiffened her spine and drew in a slow and controlled breath before turning to face him, her outward expression one of calm disdain. At the same time, her pulse gave an alarmed leap as she had to look up at least a foot in order to meet familiar moss-green eyes set in a face of such stark male beauty it might have been carved by Michelangelo. Arrogant dark brows above those moss-green eyes, high cheekbones either side of a long and aristocratic nose, chiseled lips above a square and determined jaw, raven-dark locks falling rakishly across the wide and intelligent brow.

She did not need to lower her gaze to know that Christian’s black evening jacket had been tailored to fit like a glove over the wide expanse of his shoulders and muscled chest. His linen snowy white beneath a pale-silver waistcoat, black satin breeches encasing the long and muscled length of his thighs.

No, Sylvie did not need to look to know all of those things, having taken in Christian Ambrose’s appearance fully upon her arrival earlier. And cursed herself for noticing that Christian had only grown more handsome—disturbingly so—rather than less, in the years since she had last seen him.

Four years, to be precise. Years that had seen Sylvie change to the coolly composed woman she presented to Society this evening, rather than that young girl of eighteen summers who had been totally besotted with this gentleman’s rakish good looks.

That same young girl who had so trustingly given this man the innocence which he now dismissed so contemptuously...

* * *

To say that Christian had been disarmed to discover that Lady Sylviana Moorland, widowed Countess of Ampthill, was one of the guests at his grandmother’s ball this evening would have been deeply understating the matter. He could not have been more surprised if that upstart Napoleon, presently and hopefully forever incarcerated on St. Helena, had arrived on his grandmother’s doorstep brandishing an invitation!

Not that he had not been fully aware of Sylviana Moorland’s

return to Society, now that her year of mourning her husband was well and truly over—indeed, it was closer to two years since Colonel Lord Gerald Moorland had been struck down at the battle of Waterloo. And having heard that gentleman’s widow had returned to town at the start of the Season, Christian had taken the steps necessary to ensure that they were never in attendance at the same social function.

Steps that had been shattered this evening by his own grandmother, of all people!

Unintentionally, of course, for surely his grandmother was as much in ignorance of Christian’s previous acquaintance with Sylviana as was the rest of Society.

If anything Sylvie was more beautiful than Christian remembered, no longer that young girl on the brink of womanhood but now fully matured into a beautiful woman. The gold of her hair was arranged in artful curls upon her crown, with several loose tendrils at her temples and nape. Brown eyes surrounded by long dark lashes, and as deep and impenetrable as the golden molasses they resembled in her heart-shaped face; a small and delicate nose, with full and pouting lips above a small and determined chin. Her body was no longer coltishly slender, either, but lush and sensual, the fullness of her creamy breasts spilling over the low neckline of her green silk gown.

A gown of the same moss-green color as Christian’s eyes...Deliberately so?

The challenge in her dark gaze as she gazed up at him so

disdainfully would seem to imply so. “How unfortunate, my lord, that the passing of the years appears to have done nothing to improve your manners!”

Christian gave a hard and derisive smile. “Did you expect them to have done so?”

She eyed him coolly. “One might have hoped so, yes...”

“Why did you come here this evening, Sylvie?” He snapped his impatience with that coolness. “Or perhaps you prefer the grander Sylviana now that you are become a countess?” he added contemptuously as he saw the way she stiffened at his familiarity.

“I believe ‘my lady’ and ‘my lord’ are a more fitting address between two people of equal rank.” She had drawn herself up to her full height of just over five feet. “And I am here this evening because your grandmother invited me.”

Christian gave a derisive snort. “And are your invitations into Society so few and far between that you must needs accept this one?”

“On the contrary.” That golden gaze raked over him contemptuously. “Perhaps you have not heard, my lord, but I believe I am considered to be something of a matrimonial catch this Season, and as such in receipt of more invitations than I could ever hope to accept.”

His mouth twisted with disgust. “I had heard that your elderly husband left you a rich widow, yes. Which, no doubt, was your intention when you married a man so much older than yourself.”

Her eyes widened. “How dare you—”

“Oh, I believe, Sylvie, that you will find I dare much where you are concerned!” His eyes glittered dangerously. “A first lover’s privilege, shall we say?”

“No, we will not say!” All the color had now faded from her cheeks.

Christian gave a humorless smile. “What reason did you give your ancient husband when he discovered that there was no maidenhead for him to breach on your wedding night?”

It took every effort of will on Sylvie’s part not to flinch at the

unmistakable disdain in Christian Ambrose’s tone, and the hard censor of his moss-green gaze as it raked over her with slow contempt, from her blond curls down to her green-slippered feet, before shifting, deliberately lingering, on the firm swell of her breasts.

As if she were nothing more than a slab of meat on a butcher’s block that he was considering the merits of purchasing!

As if this man had no recollection of once upon a time slowly removing every article of clothing from her body—much more than once!—before making love to her as if she were the most delicate, precious thing upon this earth...

Once upon a time?

For Sylvie it was a different lifetime!

Certainly she was no longer that innocent young miss who had believed, in her naïveté, that Christian Ambrose, a gentleman six years her senior—in experience as well as years—returned the deep love she had felt for him. That trusting young girl had disappeared long, long ago, upon the realization that she had been nothing more than yet another female conquest to the rakish Christian Ambrose.

In her place was Sylviana Moorland, wealthy widow of Colonel Lord Gerald Moorland, a coolly composed woman of two and twenty, who felt as cynical toward love as the gentleman now standing before her gazing down at her so disdainfully.

Sylvie drew in a deep, controlling breath. “I—”

“I believe it would be best if we were to finish this conversation outside on the terrace,” Christian Ambrose grated harshly even as he grasped Sylvie’s arm and pulled her toward one of the sets of open French doors.

She resisted that painful hold upon her arm. “Unhand me at once, sir—” She broke off her protest abruptly as Christian turned to focus the full fierceness of his icy-cold moss-green eyes upon her, eyes that had once caused her to melt with passion but which she now knew only too well to be wary of. “People are staring at us...” she substituted lamely.

“Let them,” he grated unconcernedly as he continued to pull her effortlessly across the candlelit room, through the open doorway and out onto the dark seclusion of the terrace.

Chapter Three

No sooner had they stepped outside into that shadowed darkness than Sylvie felt the steely strength of Christian’s arms as he pulled her hard against him, the lowering of his head blocking out the brightness of the moon overhead as his lips claimed hers.

Not a gentle or exploratory kiss, but that of an experienced lover, demanding she return that same heat of passion. An experienced lover who knew exactly how to kiss and caress the woman in his arms until she was weak with arousal...

Try as Sylvie might to resist that seduction, and her determination never to fall for this man’s rakish charms ever again, she found she had no defenses against the onslaught. Christian’s tongue parted her lips before plunging possessively inside, his hands moving in a restless caress down the length of her spine before cupping beneath her bottom to pull her in so tight against him Sylvie could feel the hard ridge of his arousal.

Betraying heat flooded between her thighs, her nipples aching beneath the bodice of her gown as Christian deliberately rubbed his chest rhythmically against them, eliciting a want, an unwanted hunger deep inside her—

Christian wrenched his mouth from hers to lower his lips to the swell of her breasts, his tongue rasping, lapping, across that sensitized flesh before he tugged down on the bodice of her gown. One of those swollen orbs spilled out of its confinement to allow him to place his lips about her nipple.

Arousing a heat that none of Sylvie’s late-night imaginings had even come close to replicating as she stroked the nubbin between her thighs, faster and harder until she reached a shuddering climax.

Sylvie felt that same climax rapidly building within her now as Christian continued to caress her nipple, harder, deeper, teeth biting, tongue laving as her back arched to press her breast deeper into that sensual delight.

She had no intention of ever falling in love with this man again, but that was no reason why she should not take the sexual gratification he now offered, in the same way he had once taken sexual gratification from her.

Sylvie parted her thighs and moved up on her toes so that she might rub herself against the hard ridge of Christian’s arousal, perfectly positioning that hardness against herself as she stroked herself against him in a rapidly increasing rhythm—

She gave a groan of protest as Christian wrenched his mouth away from her breast even as he grasped her shoulders to steady her before he stepped back and away from her, his eyes a hard and glittering green. “I do not in the least mind paying for a woman’s...services, but I prefer to know the price of those services before I bed her rather than be apprised of it afterward,” he drawled contemptuously as he straightened the lace at his cuffs.

“Price...?” she repeated sharply.

He gave a mocking inclination of his head. “I have no doubts that a man of Ampthill’s advanced years thought himself truly blessed when he took such a young beauty as his wife. I, however, am in no hurry to contemplate marriage,” Christian drawled contemptuously, at the same time feeling a moment’s regret as Sylvie set the front of her gown to rights. “Especially when I have already sampled your goods—”

He got no further in his insult as the palm of Sylvie’s left hand made loud and painful contact with his right cheek. “I will allow you that one small lapse,” he bit out harshly, a nerve now pulsing in that no doubt rapidly reddening cheek. “But be warned, Sylvie, that the next time I will retaliate in kind.”

“You are as much a bastard as you ever were, I see!” Her eyes flashed.

Christian raised mocking brows. “Because I gladly took what you offered four years ago?”

Her eyes glittered darkly. “Because you took what you wanted before departing to enjoy the licentiousness of London and then returning to your regiment with not a thought for what might become of me!”

Christian studied her flushed face between narrowed lids. “Unless I am mistaken, you became the Countess of Moorland.”

Her hands had clenched into fists at her sides, her breasts quickly rising and falling as she breathed deeply. “And you returned to your life of debauchery with not a thought to the fact that I was ruined. Used goods.”

“Not so ‘used’ you did not marry within months of our parting. And to another earl, no less,” he added. “Although well beyond the flush of youth.” Christian’s mouth twisted derisively at the thought of the gentleman who had been old enough to be Sylvie’s grandfather rather than her husband. “But perhaps he was so grateful to have you in his bed that he chose not to question your lack of virginity?”

There appeared a look of such chilly contempt upon Sylvie’s face that it took every effort on Christian’s part not to flinch from that coldness. “You may insult me all you wish,” she bit out. “But you will never talk of Gerald again in that tone. He was a gentleman. A man of honor. Of integrity. And you—you are not even fit to so much as lick one of his boots!”

Christian scowled his displeasure. Not because Sylvie had just roundly insulted him, but because her words made it very clear that even if she had not loved her aged husband, she had deeply respected and liked him. A respect and liking she made it equally clear she did not feel for Christian...

Did he want Sylvie’s liking and respect?

Before this evening his answer would have been a resounding no. Before he had kissed her again, caressed her, suckled the fullness of her breast and felt the heat of her response to him, he would have said no. But now? How did Christian feel now that he had done all of those things?

Four years ago Sylvie had been the only daughter of the family living on the small estate neighboring his own in Berkshire. A young girl he had seen about the village for most of his life, even if his years away at school, university and latterly the army had meant he had never known her well.

But he had come home on leave from his regiment the summer of 1813, battle-worn and inwardly scarred and sickened from seeing too much blood and the death of many of his friends. And the young and beautiful Sylvie Buchanan, with her ready smile and innocently eager body, had been exactly the distraction Christian had needed to help him forget, if only for a few weeks, that he must soon return to that bloodbath.

Their first meeting had been completely accidental. Christian, strolling about the countryside several days after his arrival, had come upon Sylvie swimming in a curve of the local river.

Even now Christian could remember the warmth of that day and how the sun had turned Sylvie’s long hair to rippling gold as it flowed out to float loosely in the water behind her after she had given a surprised shriek at espying him on the grassy riverbank and dipped below the water to just below her chin.

Far from leaving, as she had begged him to do, Christian had instead made himself comfortable on that grassy riverbank and laughingly dared her to come out of the water. A dare Sylvie had protested, her beautiful face burning hotly with embarrassment. Christian had persisted in his request at the same time as he informed her he was in no hurry to leave, his breath catching in his throat when, almost an hour later, she finally stood up in the water to reveal she wore only a wet and clinging chemise.

The water had rendered that chemise almost completely see-through, revealing all of her charms as she stepped fully from the water—pale and satiny skin, those high and tilting breasts tipped by rosy nipples, the slightly darker-blond curls nestled between her thighs, her legs long and slender—and all causing Christian’s manhood to harden in a way it had not done in the last months of bloody battle, and which he had secretly feared it might never do again.

The relief of knowing that his lack of desire had only been a temporary aberration had allowed Christian to rein in his own needs and only kiss Sylvie lightly that first day, not wanting to frighten her with the depth of the desire he felt for her.

He had so enjoyed her company, her innocence of passion, that he had arranged to meet her at the same place the following day. And the day following that one. And the one after that. And as each day passed, their kisses deepened, became more passionate, needy, quickly advancing to caresses, and then finally the two of them had made love on that grassy knoll beside the river, the sunshine continuing to shine down on them as Christian made love to Sylvie a second time, and then a third, his hunger to possess her, to claim her, seeming never ending.

A hunger that Christian’s response to kissing Sylvie again this evening had now shown him, no matter how he might wish it otherwise, had never completely gone away...

Chapter Four

His mouth twisted disdainfully. “I believe I would far rather lick the honey from between your silken thighs than I would your husband’s boots,” he drawled suggestively. “Something, if my memory serves me correctly, that you would also enjoy?” He quirked one mocking brow.

Her breath caught in her throat. “You are disgusting!”

“Have a care, Sylvie.” His eyes narrowed dangerously.

“And if I choose not to do so?” she dared.

Christian gave an unconcerned shrug. “Then you will suffer the consequences of deliberately challenging me.”

Sylvie gave an involuntary shiver as she heard the steely edge beneath Christian’s tone, knowing she should not have attended the Dowager Countess of Chambourne’s ball this evening.

Recently returned to Society, and having only seen Christian Ambrose occasionally from a great distance, Sylvie had known that it was only a matter of time before the two of them were introduced by a hostesses at one function or another. That being so, Sylvie had decided that she would prefer to be in control of when and how that meeting took place, her years of being married to the gentlemanly Gerald having led her to believe she was now immune to Christian Ambrose’s dangerous brand of sensuality.

Instead she had found herself in his arms within minutes of their having met again, telling her that if anything, her response to Christian’s lovemaking was even more intense, more immediate, than it had been four years ago.

Because she was also four years older? And as such her physical desires had become that much more mature too?

Whatever the reason, Sylvie knew she should not have come here this evening. Should never have risked drawing Christian’s attention to her. And she most certainly should never have allowed herself to respond to him on even a physical level! He—

“Why did you not wait for me, as I asked you to?”

Sylvie blinked up at him. “I beg your pardon?”

Christian’s jaw tightened. “Four years ago. I told you I loved you and asked you to wait for me.” And only thoughts of this woman waiting for him in England had kept him alive.

Her chin rose defensively as she recalled how his own household in the country, unaware of Sylvie’s previous involvement with Christian, had been indulgently abuzz with the rumors of his return to his rakish behavior during his week’s stay in London prior to returning to his regiment. Rumors that had put Sylvie’s own importance in his life in its proper context.

She lifted her chin. “And when, after two months, you had not so much as written me a single letter, I had no choice but to accept that our affair was over.”

He scowled. “There was a reason I did not write to you—”

“None that are acceptable to me, I assure you.” Sylvie gave him a contemptuous smile.

Christian’s jaw tightened as he remembered those weeks he lay suffering, when only thoughts of Sylvie, waiting for him at home, had prevented him from succumbing to the fatality of his infected wound. “And how long after I left did you wait before accepting Ampthill’s offer of marriage?” His top lip curled back in disgust. “A week? Two? On the basis, no doubt, that an earl ‘in the hand’ was better than the uncertainty of the return of the one who had so recently gone back to the war!”

Sylvie gave a rueful shake of her head. “How dare you stand there and accuse me of inconstancy when you were the one who left without so much as a single glance back at the girl you had used to fill your hours of boredom whilst in the country!”

“I told you I loved you and asked you to wait for me, damn it!” His eyes glittered.

Sylvie forced herself not to wilt under the barrage of Christian’s accusing tone, distrustful of that anger as she had good reason to be distrustful of the man himself. “I was eighteen years old, Christian, with all of the impatience of youth.”

“So impatient you could not even have waited a few months?” Christian frowned as he recalled finally returning to England three months after he and Sylvie had last seen each other, only to be informed by her proud parents, when he rode over to their estate to pay his respects, that Sylviana no longer lived on their estate with them, but was now residing in Bedfordshire with her husband, Colonel Lord Gerald Moorland, Earl of Ampthill.

Christian had no recollection of the rest of his conversation that day with Henry and Jessica Buchanan, or of taking his leave some half an hour or so later. He had felt as if someone had punched him in the chest, rendering him both speechless and numb. He’d had no choice but to accept that Sylvie was now another man’s wife, and as such, was far beyond his reach.

That numbness had lasted for several days, only to be replaced by anger and disillusionment. He had believed Sylvie was different from all those other marriage-minded chits he so frequently met in Society, that she actually cared about him, Christian the man, rather than his title. The fact that she had married an ancient earl in the few months of his absence showed Christian that had not been the case, that the title was everything to her.

And so had begun the months and years of debauchery he had embarked upon following his disillusionment. Those same years that had quickly earned him the reputation for being a rake and a dissolute, a man who cared naught for the softer emotions and everything for the pleasure of the moment.

“Obviously you could not,” Christian answered his own question contemptuously. “And as luck would have it, you only had to suffer an old man’s pawing for a year or two before you were conveniently left his widow and in possession of all his fortune.”

Sylvie felt the color leech from her cheeks at Christian’s deliberately insulting tone. An insult she did not deserve from this particular man. Not now, and certainly not four years ago.

She had been deeply in love with Christian. Even when she had been told of his behavior in London after he left her, she had tried to dismiss it as just rumors, malicious gossip that could not possibly be true. The months of silence that had followed those rumors had left her with no choice but to accept she had merely been a diversion for him during the weeks he spent in the country attending to estate matters.

“You know absolutely nothing of my marriage to Gerald—”

“I know enough to realize that an old man of sixty could not possibly have hoped to satisfy the physical demands of a young girl of eighteen!” His top lip curled back with distaste. “I know you, Sylvie,” he added softly. “How to touch and arouse every silken inch of your body.” He reached out to run his fingers lightly across the firm swell of her breasts revealed by the low neckline of her gown. “I have watched you, enjoyed you, time and time again, as you experienced climax after shattering climax. Did Moorland do that for you, Sylvie? Did he touch you in all the intimate places that I know give you such pleasure—”

“Stop it!” she protested, knowing and regretting that the heated flush to her cheeks and breasts revealed how much Christian’s words had aroused her. Aroused her, but never again would she allow her heart to be broken by this man. “All this talk of the past achieves nothing—”

“And if it does not have to be the past?” Those long and caressing fingers dipped beneath the bodice of her gown to pluck unerringly at one roused nipple. “It so happens I am currently without a mistress—”

“And I am not so desperate for a man’s intimate touch that I would ever consider accepting such an offer from you!” Sylvie glared up at him. Not on his terms, at least. Not on any terms that would endanger her heart or the independent life she now lived.

Those sculpted lips curved into a humorless smile. “All evidence to the contrary, my dear.” He squeezed that roused nipple between thumb and finger, looking down at her dispassionately as she drew her breath in sharply. “Are you damp and ready for me between your thighs, Sylvie? Perhaps I should touch you there too and see for myself—”

“Leave me be!” Sylvie could stand it no more, slapping his hand away before stepping back.

“You are,” Christian murmured with quiet satisfaction as he continued to regard her flushed cheeks dispassionately. “You will give me the name of the gentleman—or gentlemen?—currently sharing the pleasure of your body and your bed,” he said.

“And why would I wish to do that...?” She eyed him contemptuously.

“So that I may dispense with his, or their, services, of course.” He shrugged those broad shoulders. “I may be considered an out-and-out rake by all of Society, but I draw the line at sharing my woman with another man!”

Sylvie gave an indignant gasp. “I have no intention of ever

becoming your woman!”

“Oh, but you will, Sylvie,” Christian assured her confidently. “In fact, I intend calling upon you tomorrow so that we might...discuss the terms of that agreement.”

Sylvie stared up at him for several long moments, knowing by the cold implacability of Christian’s pale-green gaze that he meant exactly what he said. “I do believe that your arrogance has now become as large as your overinflated ego!” she finally snapped dismissively. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have a headache, and wish to go and make my excuses to your grandmother before taking my leave.” She turned briskly on one satin slipper before marching away.

Christian watched between narrowed lids as Sylvie walked the length of the terrace before stepping lightly back into the ballroom, knowing he needed to delay his own return several more minutes if he was not to appear before his grandmother with an indecent erection tenting the front of his silk breeches.

And despite her protests to the contrary, he had every intention of having Sylvie satisfied on the morrow...

* * *

Once safely returned to her home in Berkeley Square, Sylvie went straight up the stairs, moving quietly into the candlelit bedchamber before nodding dismissal of the nurse and taking that lady’s place in the chair beside the small bed, the tension leaving her expression as she gazed down at her sleeping daughter.

Sylvie felt a deep outpouring of love as she reached out to gently touch the abundance of dark curls framing those baby cheeks and small rosebud of a mouth, and knowing that if Christianna’s eyes were open, they would be a beautiful, warm, moss green.

The exact same shade as her father’s...

Chapter Five

“What are you doing here?” Christian scowled darkly at Sylvie when he entered the drawing room of his London home the morning following his grandmother’s ball, accepting that he owed his butler an apology for disbelieving him when that gentleman had entered Christian’s darkened bedchamber a few minutes ago and informed him that Lady Sylviana Moorland, Countess of Ampthill, was waiting downstairs to speak with him.

Christian’s mood was taciturn at best this morning, after the hours he had necessarily spent at his grandmother’s ball following Sylvie’s early departure, most of that time spent in fending off his grandmother’s less-than-subtle determination to see him in the company of Lady Vanessa Styles, a young lady of one and twenty whom his grandmother had obviously decided would make him a suitable countess.

Having finally managed to escape those machinations shortly after midnight, Christian had spent the hours until daybreak at one of the more disreputable clubs, rebuffing the obvious attentions of the willing ladies there in favor of drinking copious amounts of brandy and winning at the gaming tables.

As a consequence he had not been best pleased to be awakened, only hours after falling fully clothed into his bed, and informed by his butler of Sylvie’s presence downstairs in his drawing room. So certain had Christian been of the butler’s error that he had not even bothered to tidy his appearance before coming downstairs, let alone change his clothes.

An oversight he deeply regretted as he saw the way Sylvie’s tiny nose wrinkled with distaste as she took in his disreputable appearance—the crumpled clothes he had been wearing the evening before, the darkness of his curls in disarray, a growth of beard darkening his jaw. That jaw now tightened. “I asked—”

“I heard you,” Sylvie spoke quietly, her own appearance immaculate as she perched, ladylike, upon the edge of her chair, several loose gold curls peeking out from beneath the yellow silk bonnet that was an exact match in color for her gown, her hands and arms covered by cream lace gloves.

Christian gave a wince as the brightness of those colors hurt his eyes. “And yet you did not answer,” he bit out.

In truth, Sylvie regretted the need for her having to come here at all, let alone finding herself faced with Christian’s disreputable appearance. His evening clothes were crumpled, as if he had slept in them. At the same time, the dark shadows below his eyes and the stubble on his arrogant chin gave the impression he had not been to bed at all. To sleep, at least...

She stiffened her spine. “Perhaps you would like to return upstairs and...see to your appearance before we commence our conversation...?”

He raised mocking brows as he threw himself down in the chair facing her own. “I am perfectly comfortable as I am, thank you,” he drawled dismissively as he leaned his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers in front of him. “And I believe we are already in conversation...?”

Sylvie drew her breath in sharply, having known the moment she saw Christian’s rumpled appearance that she should not have come here today without first making an appointment. She had thought to put Christian at a disadvantage by doing so, and instead she once again found herself the one who was wrong-footed. “You put forward a suggestion to me yesterday evening—”

“If you are referring to becoming my mistress, that was not a suggestion but a statement of intent,” he cut in, eyes gleaming through narrowed lids as he looked at her above those long, steepled fingers.

Sylvie was well aware of that. Just as she knew she had no intention of allowing this man to call at her home. The home where Christianna also resided...

“Perhaps your...other activities last night have now rendered that conversation obsolete?”

Those chiseled lips tilted in a humorless smile. “If you wish to know if I bedded another woman last night then just ask, Sylvie,” he mocked. “I promise I will not lie to you.”

“That will certainly be a novelty!”

Christian’s eyes narrowed in warning. “To my knowledge I have never lied to you. Nor will I lie to you now.”

Sylvie’s cheeks warmed even as she berated herself for caring one way or the other whether or not Christian had gone to another woman’s bed last night. In truth, it would be preferable if he had done so, would give her the perfect excuse to turn down his scandalous offer to her the previous evening. “Very well. Did you bed another woman last night?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Do not look so disappointed, Sylvie.” He gave a hard laugh. “Why would I even consider the idea of bedding another woman after making love to you earlier in the evening?”

Her mouth firmed at his mockery. “You must know that you are not known for your constancy in regard to any particular woman.”

He raised dark brows. “And is that to be a condition of our own arrangement? That, for the time of our...affair, I will occupy only your bed?”

“We do not have an arrangement—”

“As yet,” Christian bit out decisively. “But that is your reason for being here today, is it not? So that we might thrash out the terms and conditions of such a relationship between the two of us?” The alcoholic fog and lack of sleep had now cleared enough from Christian’s head for him to have considered all of the reasons Sylvie had chosen to call on him this morning.

She wished to reiterate that there would be no affair between them, now, or in the future? Something she could far more easily have told him in a note, or when he called upon her later in the day.

That she had decided to take another man as her lover? He was sure Sylvie knew him well enough to know that he would never accept such a decision.

Which only left the more obvious reason: that Sylvie had decided to accept his offer after all, but on her own terms.

And Christian was very interested in knowing what those terms might be.

“Well?” he prompted at her continued silence. “Is that not the reason you are here, Sylvie?”

Chapter Six

Damn him!

Damn, damn, damn Lord Christian Matthew Faulkner Ambrose, the Earl of Chambourne, to the hell he deserved!

Because, having considered all of the options during the long and sleepless night, and out of a need to protect Christianna, that was precisely the reason Sylvie had called upon him this morning.

Christian had made it abundantly clear the evening before that, the two of them now having met again, he had no intention of quietly absenting himself from her life a second time. Not, at least, until he had taken what he wanted from her. As clear as he had made it that what he wanted was her, in his bed, for as long as it took him to tire of her again. None of which would have—should have—mattered in the least to Sylvie after Christian’s despicable treatment of her four years ago.

And it would not have done.

If not for Christianna.

The man Sylvie had met yesterday evening was even less the man she had thought him to be four years ago, the Christian from the past having at least given the appearance of warmth and caring. Last night he had been every inch the cold and arrogant Lord Christian Ambrose, the Earl of Chambourne, a known rake and a man who cared for no one—except a possible affection for his grandmother?—and neither expected nor wanted anyone to care for him. Even so, Sylvie had no doubts that he would care about his daughter if he ever learned of her existence. As he must surely do, if he were ever to actually see Christianna.

Which was precisely the reason Sylvie had decided to accept, and put her own limitations—some control—on the...relationship, Christian stated, no, demanded, there now be between the two of them.

That, and the fact that—despite everything that had once passed between them—Sylvie still responded physically to this man. Her heart, she was sure, was in no further danger from this man; how could it be when he had used her so shamefully in the past?

She rose briskly to her feet. “Being a young and wealthy widow, I have received several such offers as yours these past few months—”

“A young, wealthy and beautiful widow,” Christian corrected softly.

Sylvie refused to allow herself to be moved by his compliment; Christian Ambrose was a silver-tongued devil bent on seduction, nothing more. A seduction that would take place under Sylvie’s rules or not at all. “I obviously cannot vouch as to that—”

“I can,” he bit out tersely. “If anything, Sylvie, you are more beautiful now than you were four years ago.” And it was true, Christian acknowledged with a frown. There was a confidence to Sylvie now that had not been present four years earlier, an elegance in her carriage and demeanor that implied a coolness to her nature that Christian knew to be only skin deep; her responses to him yesterday evening had been every bit as fiery as he remembered from the past.

“Yes. Well.” She gave him a scathing glance. “Several of these gentleman have been...pressing, in their attentions—”

Christian’s eyes were narrowed. “Tell me the names of these other gentlemen and I will consign them to the devil.”

She gave a shake of her head. “I only mentioned them at all in order to explain why I have decided to accept an offer of...protection, from one gentleman, a gentleman of my own choice, rather than continue to be plagued by many.”

“And I am to be that gentleman...?”

Sylvie looked at him coolly. “Only if you are willing to accept the relationship under my terms.”

His eyes narrowed. “And those terms are...?”

She drew in a deep breath. “One—there will be no other lovers in your life for as long as this...arrangement between us lasts, the arrangement becoming null and void if that should ever be the case.”

“I believe I have already stated there will be no other women.”

“No, you stated I should not be allowed other lovers but you,” she recalled dryly.

He frowned grimly. “I give you my word there will be no other women for me, either, for the time of our own affair.”

Her mouth thinned. “Two—we will meet a maximum of two nights a week—”

“Two?” Christian repeated, astounded. “I had it more in mind to spend every night together until we had sated our desire for each other.”

“A maximum of two,” Sylvie repeated firmly.

“Three,” he stated stubbornly. “And let us hope that you will succeed in so satiating my appetite during those times that I have no strength left to so much as think of bedding another woman the other four nights of the week!”

Sylvie looked at him searchingly for several long minutes before nodding slowly. “Very well, three.”

“Beginning with this one,” he added softly.

Sylvie’s eyes widened in alarm. Tonight? Christian wished to start bedding her this very night?

Somehow, in all her thinking the evening before, Sylvie had avoided actually dwelling on when Christian would require her to start sharing his bed. Just the thought of it being this night, in several hours’ time, was enough to make her tremble. In trepidation, she hoped...

“Very well,” she agreed. “Three—our times together will be spent here rather than in my own home—”

“Why?”

Sylvie avoided directly meeting that piercing green gaze. “It is enough that I prefer it should be so.”

Christian’s lids narrowed as he looked at her searchingly for several long seconds before murmuring. “It is not the usual way of things...”

“I am aware of that.”

“The fact that you are here this morning, calling at the home of a single gentleman without so much as your maid in attendance, would be cause for gossip among the ton if any were to learn of it, let alone the knowledge that you are spending three nights a week here in my bed.”

“Then we will have to endeavor to ensure that none of the ton learn the terms of our arrangement,” Sylvie dismissed. “And I will not be spending the whole night here, merely a few hours.”

His brow rose. “You intend sneaking out of my house like a thief in the middle of the night?”

Her jaw tensed. “Gentlemen do it all the time, so why should I not do the same!”

“Why would you even risk such a thing?” Christian pondered.

Sylvie’s eyes flashed darkly as she looked at him with contempt. “Perhaps because I have no intention of sharing a bed with you in the home I shared with my husband until his death?”

Christian felt a harsh shard of jealousy rip through him at the thought of Sylvie sharing the home—and the bed—of another man. Especially that of the husband she had thrown him over for four years ago.

He rose slowly to his feet, his mouth curving into a hard smile as he saw the way Sylvie instantly took a step back and away from him. “Did you love him after all, then?”

She looked startled for a moment, and then that coolness settled on her face once more. “As I told you yesterday evening, Gerald was a man it was all too easy to respect and admire.”

“I asked if you loved him!” Christian reached out to grasp the tops of her arms, his glittering gaze easily holding her own captive.

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I have already told you—”

“That you respected and admired Gerald Moorland.” A nerve pulsed in Christian’s clenched jaw as he continued to glare down at her. “They are the emotions one feels for a favorite uncle, not a husband!”

Possibly because that was how Sylvie had always regarded Gerald, who had been a friend of her father’s. That affection had grown exponentially when Gerald, finding her alone and sobbing in the garden during one of his visits, had demanded she tell him what ailed her, only to then offer her the respectability of marriage to him and legitimacy for her unborn babe rather than scandal for her whole family.

Sylvie had initially refused Gerald’s offer, of course, claiming that a marriage between the two of them would be unfair to him, when she was still in love with the father of her baby, when a part of her had still hoped—prayed—that the rumors she had heard about Christian were untrue, and that he would either write to her or appear in person and that the two of them would then marry.

But Gerald had been tenacious, repeating his offer several more times during the next few weeks until, tired and heartsick at Christian’s continued silence, Sylvie knew she had no choice but to acknowledge she had merely been a passing fancy for him, someone for him to make love to and with during the weeks of his leave from the army.

She looked up to meet Christian’s gaze unflinchingly. “Any discussion of my feelings for my husband will not be a part of our arrangement.”

Christian frowned down at her in frustration for several minutes, annoyed with Sylvie’s stubbornness, but even more annoyed with himself for still desiring her so much he was willing to allow her to dictate the terms of their future relationship. Up to a point!

“I believe it is usual for gentlemen to shake hands at the successful conclusion of a deal,” he murmured gruffly. “And for men and women to kiss,” he added before his head swooped down and he claimed her lips with his own.

She tasted of honey, and smelt of violets, the fullness of her curves fitting perfectly against Christian as his arms tightened about her and he deepened the kiss, his erection rising to press against her as his tongue swept between the parted softness of her lips—

Sylvie wrenched her mouth from his, her cheeks flushed as she pushed away from him, her eyes bright as she looked up at him, her nose wrinkling with distaste. “You smell of cheap liquor and even cheaper perfume!”

Christian scowled his frustration. At eighteen Sylvie had seemed like an open book to him, her brightness and enthusiasm for life attracting him as nothing else could have done after so many months of battle and death. A brightness and innocence that had been deliberately designed to entice, Christian had realized after he returned to England and learned that she had married another man, another earl, in the three short months of his absence.

He found the confident woman who now stood before him, her every thought a mystery to him, totally frustrating and yet no less intriguing.

His mouth firmed. “What time will you come to me tonight?”

Her throat moved as she swallowed before answering. “Does eleven o’clock suit?”

Christian’s brows rose. “You do not intend to join me for dinner first?”

She eyed him coolly. “For what purpose?”

He scowled. “So that we might engage in conversation before the bedding.”

“Again, for what purpose?” She eyed him disdainfully. “The rakish life you have led these past four years holds no more interest for me than I am sure my own more sedate one does for you.”

“Very well.” Christian breathed his irritation with her coolness. “I will expect you here at eleven o’clock this evening. And I will endeavor to ensure there is no lingering odor of ‘cheap liquor or even cheaper perfume’!” he taunted as she straightened her appearance in preparation for leaving.

Christian remained where he was for several more minutes after Sylvie’s departure, knowing there was something about her acquiescence to becoming his mistress that was...not quite right. Oh, there was no denying her physical response to him the previous evening, or his own determination that Sylvie would become his mistress. But she had fought her own attraction to him last night, been determined that she would not give in to him, that she had no intention of ever becoming ‘his woman’. Even under her own terms.

Something had happened to change her mind in those intervening hours, and despite what Sylvie said to the contrary, Christian did not believe for one moment that it had anything to do with those other gentlemen ‘pressing’ for her attention.

Chapter Seven

“Would you care to join me in a glass of port?” Christian indicated the decanter on the table beside him as he remained seated in an armchair beside the unlit fireplace, looking across the room to where Sylvie stood hesitantly beside the door Smith had recently closed behind her, and looking ethereally beautiful in a gown of deep gold. “Or perhaps you would prefer a glass of wine?”

Sylvie was more than a little disconcerted to find herself in a room that was so obviously Christian Ambrose’s private domain, serving as both a library and his study, if the book-lined walls and the cluttered desk in front of the window were any indication.

She was even more disturbed by Christian, his appearance impeccable and stylish this evening, in a dark-green superfine worn over a paler-green waistcoat and snowy-white linen, buff pantaloons outlining the muscled strength of his legs above shiny black Hessians. His dark curls looked slightly damp, as if he had recently bathed, the squareness of his jaw showing no evidence of this morning’s stubble.

A pity his manners did not match that gentlemanly appearance. But no doubt his neglecting to stand up when she had entered the room was an indication of their arrangement.

“Sylvie?” he prompted softly at her continued silence.

Her spine stiffened. “Thank you, but no, I do not require any refreshment. I would much prefer that we just retire to your bedchamber and get this business over and done with.”

Christian’s eyes widened before narrowing. “You earlier refused conversation, and now you are also refusing to share a glass of wine with me?”

She nodded. “Because I do not believe either of those things to be a requirement of our arrangement.”

Christian frowned. “You would prefer, perhaps, that I dispense with the niceties altogether and simply toss your skirts up now and take you where you stand?”

She gasped. “There is no need for crudeness!”

Christian sighed as he placed his glass of port down on the table beside him. “I freely admit I do not quite know what to make of the woman you are now, Sylvie...”

He had been angry with Sylvie four years ago for not waiting for him as he had asked her to do, but he’d had every intention of her enjoying their lovemaking tonight. Of perhaps realizing all she had given up in her youthful eagerness to become Gerald Moorland’s countess...But he found her continued coolness, despite having agreed to become his mistress, completely baffling.

“There is nothing to know,” she dismissed flatly. “We have an arrangement, I am simply making it clear that I am...willing to begin that arrangement.”

Christian looked at her through narrowed lids for several moments before giving a rueful shake of his head. “I am used to receiving a little more enthusiasm from my lovers.”

“No doubt. But I should perhaps tell you—warn you—that there have only been two men in my life, Christian.” Her cheeks were flushed. “You. And my husband. I am not—I ask that you not expect me to have the physical expertise of your previous mistresses.”

Christian drew his breath in sharply at her hesitant admission. “I do not believe I found you in the least wanting four years ago, Sylvie.” The opposite, in fact—Sylvie’s enthusiasm for enjoying all things physical had been its own aphrodisiac to his battle-numbed senses. “And it pleases me to know you have taken no other lovers since your husband died,” he added.

She blinked. “It does?”

“Yes.” Christian nodded. “Whatever thoughts you may have of this arrangement, Sylvie, I assure you it is not my intention to ever hurt you. On the contrary, it is my hope that we both enjoy our times together.”

Sylvie’s fear was that she might enjoy Christian’s lovemaking too much, that she might fall in love with him all over again.

If she had ever stopped loving him...

She might only have been eighteen when the two of them were last together, but her love for Christian had been that of a woman, deep and true. Much as she had liked and respected Gerald, she had never felt a romantic love for him. Or for any other man. Mere hours after meeting Christian again, being in his company, she found herself here in his home, having agreed to become his mistress.

Oh, she had told herself earlier today that she acted out of a need to protect Christianna, to ensure that Christian never learned of the existence of his daughter, with all the accompanying complications that knowledge was sure to create.

But that excuse did not explain the excitement that had thrummed through Sylvie’s veins earlier this evening—that still thrummed through her veins!—as she had dressed to meet her lover, deliberately choosing a gold gown that she knew flattered her fair coloring, its low neckline revealing the full swell of her breasts. Breasts which Christian had caressed and suckled the evening before...

And which Sylvie knew she had longed, ached, for him to caress again ever since.

“Will you join me here, Sylvie?” Christian held his hand out to her invitingly.

Her cheeks felt flushed, her heart beating wildly in her chest as she took a step toward him, and then another, and another, until she placed her gloved hand in his as she now stood beside his chair. “I—Should we not go upstairs to your bedchamber...?” Her heart skipped a beat as Christian instead pulled her in to stand between his thighs, holding her gaze with his as he slowly began to peel her lace glove down the length of her arm.

He smiled slightly as he glanced up at her. “There is no need for us to rush, Sylvie.” He slowly, leisurely, pulled the lace from each of her fingers before pulling the glove off completely and allowing it to drift softly to the carpeted floor as he raised her hand to his lips, his gaze holding hers captive as his tongue became a silky-soft caress against her fingertips before he sucked the length of one of those fingers into the heat of his mouth.

Sylvie’s breath caught in her throat as she watched that steady and erotic in and out pull on the dampness of her finger, her breasts full and aching beneath her gown, her body aching.

“I have waited too long for this to be in any hurry,” Christian murmured softly as he reached back and unfastened the buttons at the back of her gown before allowing it to fall down the slender length of her arms to the carpeted floor, revealing that she wore only a thin chemise beneath, golden curls visible between her thighs, swollen nipples tipping the fullness of her breasts. Christian slipped the ribbon strap of her chemise down her arms and allowed that to fall too.

“Christian...!”

“Let me look, love,” he groaned as he caught both her hands in one of his as she would have covered those bared breasts. “You are bigger here than I remember, Sylvie.” He watched as his fingertips skimmed her rounded breasts. “And your nipples are darker.” He ran the soft pad of his thumb across her before lowering his head to suck first one, and then the other, into the moistness of his mouth, laving those tight buds with his tongue, gently biting with his teeth as he continued to caress, causing her nipples to swell and elongate in the heat of his mouth.

He ran his hand along the silky length of Sylvie’s thigh, feeling the throb of her hidden nubbin against his palm as he cupped those silky gold curls to stroke her before entering her with first one finger and then two. He heard the catch in Sylvie’s ragged breathing. She cried out in pleasure as she exploded in climax before collapsing against him weakly.

Christian rested his head against the fullness of Sylvie’s breasts, feeling completely at peace as he enjoyed the feel of her fingers lightly caressing his hair. She continued to tremble and cling to him in the aftershocks of that climax.

A peace and completion he had not felt since last making love to Sylvie four years ago...

Chapter Eight

“Where are you taking me?” Sylvie gasped as Christian stood up and swung her up into his arms to carry her over to the door, the darkness of his hair tousled from her caressing fingers.

“Upstairs to my bedchamber—”

“But my clothes...? The servants...?” she protested weakly.

“We can collect your clothes later, and I instructed Smith to dismiss the household for the rest of the night once you arrived,” Christian assured her with satisfaction. “Open the door, Sylvie,” he encouraged.

Sylvie knew that Christian did not love her, that he had never loved her, but she appreciated that he had made love to her just now with tenderness as well as passion rather than the disrespect she had expected. A tenderness and passion that were irresistible to her...

“Good girl.” He murmured his approval as she bent to open the door to allow him to step out into the deserted, candlelit hallway before striding purposefully toward the stairs, carrying her in his arms as if she weighed nothing at all.

A single candle burned in his bedchamber, the green-and-cream brocade curtains at the windows and about the four-poster bed suiting him perfectly, as did the heavy oak furniture.

Not that Sylvie spared too much time in appreciation of her surroundings once Christian had placed her in the middle of the bed, a mute shaking of his head halting her as she would have pulled the bedcovers over her nakedness, the steadiness of his gaze holding hers as he straightened to begin removing his own clothes.

Sylvie forgot her own nakedness as he peeled off his fashionably tight jacket and waistcoat. Followed by his neck cloth, and then he unfastened the four buttons at his throat before pulling his shirt over his head, leaving the darkness of his hair even more tousled as he sat facing her on the stool before the dressing table in order to remove his boots.

Sylvie’s breath caught in her throat as his hands moved to his pantaloons, the unfastening of those six buttons revealing that he wore no undergarments. Christian removed his pantaloons completely to stand before her completely naked.

Sylvie’s fingers curled into the bedcovers beneath her, her throat moving convulsively as she swallowed. She had forgotten just how beautiful he was, shoulders and chest wide and muscled, waist tapered above that proudly thrusting erection, his legs all long and muscled elegance.

“Do I still meet with your approval, Sylvie?” he prompted.

“Oh, yes,” she breathed as she finally managed to uncurl her fingers from the bedcovers before moving up onto her knees and moving to the side of the bed where he stood, gaze heated as she gazed down at his proudly jutting manhood before reaching out to curl her fingers about that hardness encased in velvet. “Oh, yes,” she repeated achingly.

Christian groaned low in his throat as he thrust slowly into her caresses. “Sylvie...!” he gasped achingly, his hands moving up to cradle each side of her face as her head lowered and her little pink tongue darted out to continue the seduction.

Satisfaction gleamed in her eyes as she glanced up at him briefly before parting her lips wide and taking him fully into the heat of her mouth. Christian caressed and plucked at her breasts even as he thrust into that moist heat, until he knew he was about to explode as the pleasure became too much even for his rigid self-control.

“No more!” he groaned before reluctantly pulling free of her, his cock a throbbing ache. “I want to be inside you when I come, Sylvie,” he breathed raggedly. “But not quite yet,” he murmured as he laid her back against the bedcovers before kneeling between her parted her thighs to gaze down in appreciation at those moist and swollen lips. He lowered his head, fingers lightly caressing her opening as his tongue rasped moistly around that pulsing nubbin without ever quite touching it.

“Christian!” Sylvie cried out, back arching restlessly even as her hands moved up to grip his shoulders tightly.

“Tell me, Sylvie. Tell me what you want.” His hands cupped beneath the globes of her bottom as he breathed lightly on that throbbing nubbin, eyes gleaming with satisfaction as her nether lips pulsed and parted against the caress of his fingers.

“I need you to touch me there—” She broke off with a gasp as Christian gave her the lightest of caresses with his tongue. “More, Christian. Oh please, more...!” She raised her hips in restless invitation.

His hands tightened on her bottom as he lifted her into the rasping stroke of his tongue, holding her captive as he stroked time and time again until he felt her exploding beneath him in a trembling, shuddering climax.

Christian reared up onto his knees, taking his weight onto his elbows as he positioned his erection at her entrance before thrusting deeply into that hot and welcoming channel, paying great attention to one nipple to prolong Sylvie’s orgasm even as the rhythmic convulsing of her inner muscles took him crashing over the edge of his own pleasure and he released, long and satisfying, inside her.

* * *

“Christian...?”

“Am I too heavy for you?” he murmured against the warmth of her throat, his body stretched out above hers.

He was a little heavy, but Sylvie was loath to relinquish their closeness just yet. “No,” she denied even as she reached up to caress the heat of his shoulders, fingers lightly caressing down his muscled back. “I merely wondered—Christian?” Her voice sharpened in alarm as she felt and then traced the hard ridge of a scar running from his left shoulder across his back and down to his right side. “What happened to your back...?” she gasped as she attempted to sit up so that she might see his back for herself, only to find that Christian’s weight pressing down on her made that impossible. “Christian?”

“It is an old scar,” he dismissed lightly as his lips skimmed across her collarbone.

“But—” She stilled suddenly, eyes wide. “How old...?”

“Do we have to discuss this now, Sylvie?” he murmured indulgently as his lips continued that caressing assault on the creaminess of her throat. “I do not recall your having this need for conversation after our lovemaking in the past,” he added teasingly.

“Christian, please...!” she pressed, needing to know—exactly—when he had received the wound that had left such a terrible and lasting scar upon his back.

A scar that she knew had not been there four years ago...

Chapter Nine

Christian moved up onto his elbow to withdraw gently from Sylvie before moving to lie down beside her, satiated and satisfied in a way he had not been since they had last made love together. “Does the thought of my scar repulse you?”

“Of course it does not,” she dismissed impatiently, her face pale as she sat up and turned him slightly so that she might look at the scar for herself. “How—how did this happen?”

Christian shrugged. “A French saber.”

Her face became paler. “When?”

Christian fell back onto the pillows. “What does it matter—”

“It matters to me!” she assured him fiercely. “Tell me, Christian. Please!”

He frowned. “It happened four years ago, two weeks after I left you and two days after I returned to my regiment.” He smiled bitterly. “The wound incapacitated me, became infected, and I was out of my head with a fever for almost a week, and then weakened for many more.” He shrugged. “It is the reason I was unable to write to you. The reason for my delay in returning to you.”

That is what Sylvie had thought he might say. What she had dreaded hearing. “You were coming back to me?”

“Of course I was coming back to you!” He frowned. “How many times do I have to tell you that before you believe me? I had told you that I loved you and that I would come back to you as soon as I was able!”

Yes, he had. And, despite the rumors of his behavior in London after he had left her, Sylvie had waited and waited for his return, until the babe she carried meant she could wait no longer and she had accepted the offer of marriage made to her by another man.

And all the time she waited, Christian had been ill and fevered, cut down by a French saber. It was the reason he had not returned to England until it was too late; Sylvie had already been another man’s wife, and the babe she carried accepted as a child of that marriage.

What had she done?

* * *

Christian frowned as Sylvie moved abruptly away to sit on the side of the bed, before standing up to cross the room and pull on his black brocade bathrobe he had draped across the chair beside the window.

“Are you leaving already?” He kept his tone deliberately neutral as he sat up, knowing he had agreed, accepted, Sylvie’s decree that she would only stay with him for a few hours, but he had hoped, after the enjoyment of their lovemaking—Whatever he might have hoped, it was obviously not to be. “When will I see you again?”

She finished fastening the belt of the robe before looking up at him with dark and guarded eyes. “I—I will send you a note tomorrow.”

His brows rose. “A note...?”

“Yes.” She turned away. “I will leave your robe downstairs in the library after I have dressed, and then let myself out—”

“Give me a minute and I will come down with you.” Christian swung his legs to the side of the bed.

“No! No,” she repeated more calmly, the dullness of her eyes appearing like dark bruises in the pallor of her face as she refused to so much as look at him. “I—We will talk again tomorrow.”

“Talk?” he repeated sharply.

“Yes,” she sighed. “We will talk. I—There is something—I must

go!” She hurried to the door, wrenching it open before turning back to him briefly, her expression anguished. “Please believe that I—that I am sorry.”

Christian tensed, stomach churning. “You are not ending our association already?”

“No! I—” She gave a shake of her head, tears now glistening in the darkness of her eyes.

Relief flooded him. “Then what are you sorry for?”

“For everything!” she choked. “I am sorry for everything,” she repeated shakily.

“I do not understand, Sylvie...” He gave a pained frown. “You are not ending our association and yet you are sorry. What—”

“Tomorrow, Christian. I will explain all tomorrow,” she assured him dully. “Do not follow me now. I—It is for the best—Tomorrow,” she repeated before stepping out into the hallway, the door to the bedchamber closing quietly behind her.

Christian had no idea what had just happened. One minute he and Sylvie had been lying satiated in each other’s arms after the most satisfying lovemaking Christian had ever known, and the next she had run from him as if the hounds of hell were at her heels.

Tomorrow.

Sylvie had said she would explain all tomorrow.

And he hoped that explanation did not include the ending of their relationship, because having now made love with Sylvie again, that possibility was even less acceptable to Christian than it had been four years ago...

“The Earl of Chambourne to see you, my lady,” Sylvie’s butler announced from the doorway of her private parlor.

Sylvie ceased her restless pacing as she turned to him, the deep-brown gown she wore only emphasizing the pallor of her face. “Please show him in, Bellows.”

After a sleepless and troubled night, Sylvie had written a note and had it delivered to Christian only an hour ago, requesting that he call upon her at his earliest convenience. She should have known, after the manner in which she had fled his home the night before, that Christian’s ‘earliest convenience’ would be almost immediately.

Quite what she was to say to him, how to explain, was still not exactly clear to her. She only knew that she owed Christian an explanation. For her behavior both the previous night and four years ago...

* * *

Christian gave the standing and unsmiling Sylvie a searching glance after the butler left the two of them alone. Her golden curls were fashionably styled, her brown silk gown also the height of fashion, and yet—and yet there was an air of fragility about her, a translucence to the creaminess of her skin, and a haunted look in the dark depths of her eyes. “Tell me,” he demanded without preamble.

She gave a shake of her head, not of denial, but as if she was at a loss to know quite how to proceed. She closed her lids briefly before opening them again, her chin rising as if for a blow. “There is something that I wish—no, something I must tell you.” She moistened her rosy-pink lips. “I have thought about this for most of the night, have considered all the consequences of—of my admission, but I can see no other way. No other honorable way,” she added huskily.

Christian frowned darkly. “You are making me nervous, Sylvie.”

She swallowed. “I assure you, that is not my intention. I—You see—”

“Mama? Mama, Nurse says I may not visit with you just yet, that you are too busy this morning!”

Christian had turned at the first sound of that trilling little voice as it preceded the opening of the door and the entrance of a little green whirlwind that launched itself into Sylvie’s arms before turning to look at him curiously.

His eyes narrowed as he found himself looking down at a beautiful little girl of possibly three years old, dressed in a green gown, with dark curls and—and moss-green eyes...

His own dark curls and moss-green eyes?

Chapter Ten

“Please say something, Christian,” Sylvie choked, having just returned from taking a reluctant Christianna back to the nursery and her flustered and scolding nurse. The tears streamed unchecked down Sylvie’s cheeks as she saw that Christian’s face still bore an expression of shocked disbelief. “Anything!”

His throat moved convulsively as he swallowed. “What do you call her...?”

Sylvie gave a pained frown. “I—Her name is Christianna.”

His breath left him in a hiss. “You named her for me?”

“Yes. Christian—”

“Dear God, Sylvie, she is so beautiful!” The tension leached from his body and he dropped down into one of the armchairs, his face pale, his expression tortured as he stared up at her. “Is she—Can she be the reason you accepted Gerald Moorland’s offer of marriage four years ago?”

“Yes.”

Christian gave a pained wince. “And did he know—”

“Yes, he knew. Oh, not who the father of my babe was, but I never tried to deceive him into believing the child was his,” Sylvie assured huskily. “Please believe—I did not know what to do when I realized I carried your child, and although Gerald’s life had been dedicated to the army, and he had never shown any inclination to marry, he nevertheless offered—Gerald was a friend of my father’s—”

Christian looked at her sharply. “Your parents know—”

“No.” She gave a sad shake of her head. “They have always believed that Christianna was a seven-month babe.” Sylvie twisted her fingers together in her agitation. “Only Gerald knew she was not. And he was too much of a gentleman to ever reveal the truth to anyone.”

“And—and did you grow to love him...?”

She gave a slow shake of her head. “Not in a romantic way. But he became my closest friend.”

“You were not—It was not a physical marriage?” Christian prompted sharply.

Sylvie smiled slightly. “Gerald did not think of me in that way. He did not think of anyone in that way,” she added softly as she saw Christian’s incredulous expression. “He really was married to the army. Although I never had any doubts that he cared for both Christianna and me. For the short time he was alive after Christianna’s birth, he was a wonderful father to her.”

“I am glad of it.” Christian nodded.

“You do not really mean that!” Sylvie groaned.

“Of course I do.”

“How could you? Because of my lack of faith in you, in myself, I have denied you the first three years of your daughter’s life!” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “And I am so sorry for that, Christian.”

“Why did you not write to me?”

Sylvie closed her eyes briefly. “After you left me, there were rumors on your estate of the women you had been seen with in London before you rejoined your regiment—”

“They were untrue.” He looked at her bleakly. “I did not so much as look at another woman. Why would I, when it was you I wanted? You I intended to return to? You whom I loved?”

Sylvie looked at him searchingly, seeing the truth in the bleakness of his expression. As she heard the past tense in his last statement. “I am so sorry, Christian. So very sorry that I ever doubted you.” She turned away to stare sightlessly out of the window overlooking the garden. “I cannot bear to think of how much you must now hate and despise me!”

Christian rose abruptly to his feet to cross the room in three long strides before grasping Sylvie’s shoulders and turning her to face him. “I could never hate or despise you, Sylvie,” he assured her gruffly as he cupped either side of her face to brush his thumbs across her cheek and erase the tears. “How could I when I fell in love with you the moment I saw you swimming half-naked in that river four years ago? And it is a love that never died, Sylvie. Never,” he assured her fiercely as her eyes widened incredulously, hopefully. “Yes, I felt angry and betrayed when I returned to England and found you had married another man. And I behaved abominably for the next four years—”

“So I believe.” She smiled sadly.

“I am not proud of those years, Sylvie,” he acknowledged. “How could I be? But I did not know how else to get through the pain of loving you and knowing you were so far out of my reach, that you belonged with another man. And all this time!” He gave a self-disgusted shake of his head. “Was the reason you agreed to become my mistress, but with that proviso that we meet in my home and not yours, because you wished to protect Christianna from me?”

“Partly,” she acknowledged.

Christian looked at her closely. “And the other part?”

Sylvie released her breath in a sigh. “The other part was that I only had to see you again, to be with you again, to know, despite denying it to myself, wishing it to be the contrary, that I still had feelings for you.”

He stilled. “As I only had to see you again the night of my grandmother’s ball to know that I have never stopped loving you.”

She gasped. “You believed I had married Gerald for his money and title—”

“And it made no difference to the love I still feel for you!” he admitted fiercely. “I knew that night that I wanted you back in my life—that I had to have you back in my life, in any way that you would allow!” He drew in a ragged breath. “How you must now hate and despise me because I tried to force you into my bed!”

Sylvie huskily gave a self-derisive laugh. “Did it seem last night as if I felt forced into responding to your lovemaking?”

“No...” Christian looked down at her searchingly. “And it was lovemaking, Sylvie. No matter how I might have behaved the night of my grandmother’s ball, how much I tried to continue to despise you for believing you had married an old man for his title and fortune, once I held you in my arms again, kissed you, I could never do less than make love with you.”

Yes, for all of those things, Sylvie knew that Christian’s lovemaking the previous night had been every bit as tender and caring for her own needs as it had ever been in the past. “You did not know of Christianna’s existence then...”

His hands moved to tightly grip her shoulders. “If anything, that only makes me love you more,” he assured her fiercely. “You did what you believed you had to do to in order to protect our daughter when you accepted Ampthill’s offer, what was necessary to protect both Christianna and yourself!”

“And by my doing so, you have missed the first three years of your daughter’s life,” she repeated sadly.

“But God willing I will not miss any more. Or that of any other children we might be blessed with?” He looked down at her uncertainly.

Sylvie gazed up at him searchingly, seeing only love burning in Christian’s beautiful moss-green eyes. “What are you saying?”

“Asking,” he corrected huskily. “I am asking what I should have asked you before I left four years ago. What, in my arrogance, I believed could wait until the next time I returned to England.” He gave a self-disgusted shake of his head.

Sylvie swallowed. “And what is that?”

“That you do me the honor of marrying me,” Christian pressed softly. “I had never loved until I met you that summer, Sylvie. Nor have I loved again since. I loved you then, and I love you still, and if you will consent to become my wife, I swear to you that I will tell you, show you, every day for the rest of our lives together how very much I love and cherish you!”

Tears welled in her eyes once more, but this time they were tears of happiness. “I realized last night that I have never stopped loving you either, Christian. I loved you then, I love you now. I will always love and cherish you.”

He looked down at her searchingly for several long, disbelieving seconds, his expression turning to one of wonder as he saw that love shining in the darkness of her eyes. He fell to his knees in front of her. “Sylviana Moorland, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? Allow me to love and cherish you for the rest of your life?”

“Oh, yes, Christian!” She threw herself into his arms. “Oh, yes, yes, and a thousand times yes!”

“You have made me the happiest of men,” Christian choked as he stood up to take her gently in his arms and kiss her with all of the tenderness of a man deeply in and forever in love.

And ensuring that Sylvie became the happiest of women.

At last...

Chapter Eleven

The London home of Lady Jocelyn Ambrose, Dowager Countess of Chambourne.

* * *

“—and the wedding is to be next month,” Lady Jocelyn concluded gleefully to her two closest friends.

“But Chambourne is not marrying the woman you had chosen to become his future wife?” Lady Cicely Hawthorne said doubtfully.

“Well. No.” Some of Lady Jocelyn’s glee abated. “He did not care for Lady Vanessa at all. But he is to marry. Which, after all, is what we had all decided upon, is it not?” Both ladies turned to the silent Dowager Duchess of Royston for confirmation.

“Yes. Yes,” Edith St. Just acknowledged briskly. “Although I agree with Cicely, in that it would be more of a triumph if Chambourne had decided upon the lady you had chosen for him.”

Lady Jocelyn looked suitably deflated. “Perhaps one of you will be more success in that regard than I.”

“I am not at all sure of any degree of success in regard to Thorne,” Lady Cicely admitted heavily. “Since his first wife died four years ago, he has shown a decided aversion to the very idea of remarrying.”

“And yet he must, for he is in need of an heir, the same as our own two grandsons,” the dowager duchess dismissed briskly.

Lady Jocelyn looked at her curiously. “How go your own efforts in regard to Royston?”

“Nicely, thank you.” Edith St. Just nodded regally.

“You believe he will marry the woman of your choice?” Lady Cicely looked suitably impressed.

“I am sure of it, yes.”

“How confident are you of that?” Lady Jocelyn challenged daringly, still feeling slightly stung in regard to her friends’ reaction to her news of Chambourne’s forthcoming marriage to Lady Sylviana Moorland, the Countess of Ampthill.

“So confident,” the dowager duchess assured haughtily, “that I am willing to write that lady’s name on a piece of paper this very minute and leave it in the safekeeping of your butler, only to be returned and read by all of us when Royston announces his intention of marrying.”

“Is that not rather presumptuous of you, Edith?” Lady Cicely raised skeptical brows.

“Not in the least,” the dowager duchess dismissed briskly. “In fact, call for Edwards and we shall do it now. This very minute.”

Ellie, sitting in her usual place in the window beside Miss Thompson and Mrs. Spencer, could only watch with a sinking heart as Edith St. Just did exactly as she had said she would.

Could only wonder as to the name of the lady—and secretly envy her—written on that innocuous piece of paper, which was taken away by Lady Jocelyn’s butler some minutes later...

As she knew beyond a doubt that it would not be her own name.

Despite the fact she had fallen in love with the arrogantly disdainful Justin St. Just several months ago...

* * * * *

Not Just a Governess

To my very special Dad, Eric Haworth Faulkner, 6/2/1923–6/12/2012. A true and everlasting hero!

The dedication of this book says it all for me. My Dad was a man who was and always will be a true hero to me, in every sense of the word. He was always very proud of my writing, but I am even prouder to have enjoyed the absolute privilege of being his daughter. I hope you will all continue to enjoy reading my books as much as I enjoy writing them!

Chapter One

Late April, 1817—the London home of Lady Cicely Hawthorne

‘I, for one, am disappointed that you do not seem to be any further along with finding a bride for Hawthorne, Cicely,’ Edith St Just, Dowager Duchess of Royston, gave her friend a reproving frown.

‘Perhaps we were all being a trifle ambitious, at the start of the Season, in deciding to acquire suitable wives for our three grandsons?’ Lady Jocelyn Ambrose put in softly.

The three ladies talking now had been aged only eighteen when they had shared a coming-out Season fifty years ago and had become fast friends, a state of affairs that had seen them all through marriage and their children’s marriages. They now had their sights firmly set on the nuptials of their errant grandchildren.

‘Nonsense,’ the dowager duchess dismissed that claim firmly. ‘You had no trouble whatsoever in seeing Chambourne settled—’

‘But not to the bride I had chosen for him,’ Lady Jocelyn pointed out fairly.

‘Nevertheless, he is to marry,’ the dowager duchess dismissed airily. ‘And if we do not see to the marriage of our respective grandsons, then who will? My own daughter-in-law is of absolutely no help whatsoever in that enterprise, since she retired to the country following my son Robert’s demise three years ago. And Royston certainly shows no inclination himself to give up his habit of acquiring a mistress for several weeks before swiftly growing bored with her and moving on to the next.’ She gave loud sniff.

Miss Eleanor Rosewood—Ellie—stepniece and companion to the dowager duchess, glanced across from where she sat quietly by the window with the two companions of Lady Cicely and Lady Jocelyn, knowing that sniff only too well: it conveyed the dowager duchess’s disapproval on every occasion.

But Ellie could not help but feel a certain amount of sympathy towards Lady Cicely’s dilemma; Lord Adam Hawthorne was known by all, including the numerous servants employed on his many estates, for being both cold and haughty, as well as totally unapproachable.

So much so that it must be far from easy for Lady Cicely to even broach the subject of her grandson remarrying, despite his first marriage having only produced a daughter and no heir, let alone finding a woman who was agreeable to becoming the second wife of such an icily sarcastic gentleman.

Oh, it would have its compensations, no doubt; his lordship was a wealthy gentleman—very wealthy indeed—and more handsome than any single gentleman had a right to be, with glossy black hair and eyes of deep impenetrable grey set in a hard and arrogantly aristocratic face, his shoulders and chest muscled, waist tapered, legs long and strong.

Unfortunately, his character was also icy enough to chill the blood in any woman’s veins, hence the reason he was known amongst the ton as simply Thorne!

Hawthorne’s cold nature aside, Ellie was far more interested in the dowager duchess’s efforts to find a bride for her own grandson, Justin St Just, Duke of Royston…

‘Adam is proving most unhelpful, I am afraid.’ Lady Cicely sighed. ‘He has refused each and every one of my invitations for him to dine here with me one evening.’

The dowager duchess raised iron-grey brows. ‘On what basis?’

Lady Cicely grimaced. ‘He claims he is too busy…’

Edith St Just snorted. ‘The man has to eat like other mortals, does he not?’

‘One would presume so, yes…’ Lady Cicely gave another sigh.

‘Well, you must not give up trying, Cicely,’ the dowager duchess advised most strongly. ‘If Hawthorne will not come to you, then you must go to him.’

Lady Cicely looked alarmed. ‘Go to him?’

‘Call upon him at Hawthorne House.’ The dowager duchess urged. ‘And insist that he join you here for dinner that same evening.’

‘I will try, Edith.’ Lady Cicely looked far from convinced of her likely success. ‘But do tell us, how goes your own efforts in regard to Royston’s future bride? Well, I hope?’ She brightened. ‘Let us not forget that a week ago you wrote that lady’s name down on a piece of paper and gave it to Jocelyn’s butler for safekeeping!’

The dowager duchess gave a haughty inclination of her head. ‘And, as you will see, that is the young lady he will marry, when the time comes.’

‘I do so envy you, when I have to deal with Adam’s complete lack of co-operation in that regard…’ Lady Cicely looked totally miserable.

‘Hawthorne will come around, you will see.’ Lady Jocelyn gave her friend’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

Ellie, easily recalling the forbidding countenance of the man, remained as unconvinced of that as did the poor, obviously beleaguered Lady Cicely…

‘Oh, do let’s talk of other things!’ Lady Jocelyn encouraged brightly. ‘For instance, have either of you heard the latest rumour concerning the Duke of Sheffield’s missing granddaughter?’

‘Oh, do tell!’ Lady Cicely encouraged avidly.

Ellie added her own, silent, urging to Lady Cicely’s; the tale of the missing granddaughter of the recently deceased Duke of Sheffield had been the talk both below and above stairs for most of the Season, the duke having died very suddenly two months ago, to be succeeded by his nephew. The previous duke’s granddaughter and ward had disappeared on the day following his funeral, at the same time as the Sheffield family jewels and several thousand pounds had also gone missing.

‘I try never to listen to idle gossip.’ The dowager duchess gave another of her famous sniffs.

‘Oh, but this is not in the least idle, Edith,’ Lady Jocelyn assured. ‘Miss Matthews has been seen on the Continent, in the company of a gentleman, and living a life of luxury. Further igniting the rumour that she may have had something to do with the Duke’s untimely death, as well as the theft of the Sheffield jewels and money.’

‘I cannot believe that any granddaughter of Jane Matthews would ever behave so reprehensively,’ Edith St Just stated firmly.

‘But the gel’s mother was Spanish, remember.’ Lady Cicely gave her two friends a pointed glance.

‘Hmm, there is that to consider, Edith.’ Lady Jocelyn mused.

‘Stuff and nonsense,’ the dowager duchess dismissed briskly. ‘Maria Matthews was the daughter of a grandee and I refuse to believe her daughter guilty of anything unless proven otherwise.’

Which, as Ellie knew only too well, was now the end of that particular subject.

Although she knew that many in society, and below stairs, speculated as to why, if she truly were innocent, Miss Magdelena Matthews had disappeared, along with the Sheffield jewels and money, the day of her grandfather’s funeral…

Chapter Two

One day later—Hawthorne House, May-

fair, London

‘Do not scowl so, Adam, else I will think you are not at all pleased to see me!’

That displeasure glinted in Lord Hawthorne’s narrowed grey eyes and showed in his harshly patrician face, as he heard the rebuke in his grandmother’s quiet tone. Nor was she wrong about his current displeasure being caused by her unexpected arrival; he had neither the time nor the patience for the twittering of Lady Cicely this afternoon. Or any afternoon, come to that! ‘I am only surprised you are visiting me now, Grandmother, when I know you are fully aware this is the time of day that I retire to the nursery in order to spend half an hour with Amanda.’

His grandmother arched silver brows beneath her pale-green bonnet as the two faced each across the blue salon of Adam’s Mayfair home. ‘And may I not also wish to visit with my great-granddaughter?’

‘Well, yes, of course you may.’ Adam belatedly strode across the room to bestow a kiss upon one of his grandmother’s powdered cheeks. ‘It is only that I would have appreciated prior notice of your visit.’

‘Why?’

He scowled darkly. ‘My time is at a premium, Grandmother, nor do I care to have my routine interrupted.’

‘And I have just stated that I have no wish to interrupt anything,’ she reminded him quietly.

‘Nevertheless, you are—’ Adam broke off his impatient outburst, aware that his grandmother’s unexpected arrival had already made him four minutes late arriving at the nursery. ‘Well, you are here now, so by all means accompany me, if you wish to.’ He nodded abruptly as he wrenched open the salon door—much to Barnes’s surprise, as the butler stood attentively on the other side of that door—for his grandmother to precede him from the room.

‘You really are the most impatient of men, Adam.’ Lady Cicely swept past him into the grand hallway, indicating with a nod that her paid companion should wait there for her return. ‘I do not believe even your grandfather and father were ever as irritable as you.’

Adam placed a gentlemanly hand beneath his grandmother’s elbow as he escorted her up the wide staircase, in the full knowledge that Lady Cicely’s overly fussy nature—to put it kindly!—had irked his grandfather and father as much, if not more, as it now did him. Nevertheless, his grandfather and father were no longer with them, leaving Lady Cicely alone in the world but for himself and Amanda, and so it fell to Adam, as the patriarch of the family, to at least attempt kindness towards his elderly relative. ‘I apologise if my abruptness of manner has offended you,’ he said.

His grandmother released her elbow from his grasp to instead tuck her hand more cosily into the crook of his arm. ‘Perhaps as recompense you might consider dining with me this evening…?’

Adam stiffened as he easily recognised Lady Cicely’s less-than-subtle attempt at coercion; he hesitated to call it actual blackmail, although he could not help but be aware of his grandmother’s recent attempts to introduce him to suitably marriageable ladies—suitable according to Lady Cicely, that was. Adam was having none of it. The ladies. Or the marriage. ‘I have to attend a vote in the House tonight, Grandmother.’ After which he fully intended to retire to his club for the rest of the evening, where he hoped to enjoy a few quiet games of cards and several glasses of fine brandy.

‘Then perhaps tomorrow evening?’ Lady Cicely pressed. ‘It is so long since the two of us spent any time together…’

Deliberately so, on Adam’s part, since he had realised what his grandmother was about. He had absolutely no interest in marrying again and his life really was now such that he had little time for anything other than his responsibilities to the House of Lords and his many estates. The dinners and balls, and all the other nonsense of the Season, held no interest for him whatsoever.

‘We are together now, Grandmother,’ he pointed out practically.

‘But not in any way that—never mind.’ Lady Cicely sighed her impatience. ‘It is obvious to me that you have become even more intransigent than you ever were!’

Adam’s mouth tightened at the criticism. Well-deserved criticism. But his grandmother knew the reason for his intransigence as well as he did; having been married for over two years, and so been dragged along as his adulterous wife’s escort to every ball, dinner, and other society function during the Season, and to summer house parties when it was not, Adam now chose, as a widower these past four years, not to attend any of them. There was no reason for him to do so. Most, if not all, of society bored him, so why would he ever choose to voluntarily put himself through those days and evenings of irritation and boredom?

Even so, he instantly felt a guilty need to make amends for the tears he now saw glistening in his grandmother’s faded grey eyes. ‘I may be able to spare an hour or two to join you for dinner tomorrow evening—’

‘Oh, that is wonderful, Adam!’ His grandmother’s tears disappeared as if they had never been as she now beamed up at him. ‘I shall make sure to serve all of your favourite dishes.’

‘I said an hour or two, Grandmother,’ Adam repeated sternly.

‘Yes, yes,’ she acknowledged distractedly, obviously already mentally planning her menu for tomorrow evening. And her guest list. Some of which would no doubt be several of those eligible females Adam wished to avoid! ‘How is the new girl working out?’

‘New girl?’ Adam’s mind had gone a complete blank at this sudden change of subject, not altogether sure he understood the meaning of his grandmother’s question; surely Lady Cicely could not be referring to the woman he had briefly taken an interest in the previous month, before deciding that she bored him in bed as well as out of it?

‘Amanda’s nursemaid.’ Lady Cicely clarified.

Adam’s brow cleared at this explanation. ‘Mrs Leighton is not a girl, Grandmother. Nor is she Amanda’s nursemaid, but her governess.’

‘Is Amanda not a little young as yet for a governess? Especially when you know as well as I that society does not appreciate a bluestocking—’

‘I will not have Amanda growing up to be an ignoramus, with nothing in her head other than balls and parties and the latest fashions.’ Like her mother before her, Adam could have stated, but chose not to do so; the less thought he gave to Fanny, and her adulterous ways, the better as far as he was concerned!

‘—and you never did explain fully why it was that you felt the need to dispense with Dorkins’s services after all these years?’

Lady Cicely was slightly out of breath as they ascended the stairs to the third floor of the house where the nursery was situated.

Nor did Adam intend explaining himself now. Having the nursemaid of his six-year-old daughter make it obvious to him that she was available to share his bed, if he so wished, had not only been unpleasant but beyond acceptable. Especially as he had never, by word or deed, ever expressed a carnal interest in the pretty but overly plump Clara Dorkins.

Now, if it had been Elena Leighton, Amanda’s new governess, then he might not have found the notion of sharing her bed for a night or two quite so unpalatable—

And where, pray, had that particular thought come from?

Since the death of his wife Adam had kept the satisfying of his carnal desires to a minimum, considering them a weakness he could ill afford. And, whenever those desires did become too demanding, even for his now legendary self-control, he only ever indulged with those ladies of the demi-monde whose company he considered he could stand for longer than an hour, possibly two. Less-than-respectable ladies, who expected nothing more than to be handsomely paid for the parting of their thighs.

Adam had certainly never so much as thought of forming an alliance with one of his own employees, hence his hasty dismissal of Clara Dorkins two weeks ago.

Admittedly Elena Leighton, Dorkins’ replacement, was quite beautiful in an austere way; she always wore her silky black hair secured in a neat bun at the slenderness of her nape, the severity of her black widow’s weeds emphasising the pale beauty of her face rather than detracting from it. Her eyes were a strange light colour, somewhere between blue and green in her heart-shaped face, and surrounded by thick dark lashes, her tiny nose perfectly straight above bow-shaped lips, her jaw delicately lovely, neck and throat slender. Nor did those severe black gowns in the least detract from the willowy attractiveness of her figure: firm breasts above a slender waist and gently swaying hips—

Dear God, he thought, appalled with himself. When had he noticed so much about the looks and attraction of the widow he had recently employed to tutor his young daughter?

‘Mrs Leighton…?’ his grandmother prompted curiously.

‘I believe she was widowed at Waterloo,’ Adam said distractedly, still slightly nonplussed by the realisation he had actually noted Elena Leighton’s physical attributes. The woman was his employee, for heaven’s sake, not some lightskirt he could take to his bed for a night and then dismiss. Moreover, she was a widow, her husband having died a hero’s death during that last bloody battle with Napoleon.

‘Old or young…?’

Adam raised dark brows. ‘I have no information whatsoever on the deceased Mr Leighton—’

‘I was referring to his widow,’ Lady Cicely chided with a small sigh.

Until this moment Adam had given no particular thought to Mrs Leighton’s age, but had assumed her to be in her late twenties or early thirties.

He scowled now as he realised, when he thought about it carefully, that it was the lady’s widow’s weeds which gave her the impression of age and maturity, that, in fact, she was probably considerably much younger than that…‘As long as Mrs Leighton carries out her employment to my satisfaction then I consider her age to be completely immaterial,’ he dismissed as he stepped forwards to push open the door to the nursery before indicating that his grandmother should precede him into the room.

Elena looked up from where she had been studying a book of simple poetry with her small charge, her expression one of cool politeness at the entrance of her employer and his paternal grandmother.

A cool politeness, which she hoped masked the fact that she had heard herself become the subject under discussion by grandson and grandmother before they entered the nursery. And that she had tensed warily at that knowledge…

She had hoped the fact that she was the widowed Mrs Elena Leighton, employed by the cold and unapproachable Lord Adam Hawthorne as governess to his young daughter, would be enough to ensure that she escaped such curiosities. But she could see by the assessing way in which Lady Cicely now viewed her that, in that lady’s regard at least, this was not to be the case.

Elena resisted the instinct to straighten the severity of her bun, or check the fall of her black gown, instead straightening to her just over five feet in height as she stood up to make a curtsy. ‘My lord.’

‘Mrs Leighton.’ Lady Cicely was the one to smoothly respond to her greeting, his lordship’s expression remaining coldly unapproachable as he stood remotely at his grandmother’s side.

Elena had already ascertained, before deciding to accept her current employment, that the chillingly austere aristocrat was a man who chose not to involve himself, or his young daughter, in London society, preferring instead to utilise his time in politics or in the running of his country estates. An arrangement that suited Elena’s desire—need—for anonymity perfectly.

She had to admit to having been a little startled by this gentleman’s dark, almost satanic handsomeness at their initial interview, having had no idea until that moment that Adam Hawthorne bore the dark good looks and muscled physique of a Greek god: fashionably styled dark hair, equally black brows over those dark-grey eyes, high cheekbones either side of a long patrician nose, sculptured and sensual lips, his jaw square and uncompromising, with not an ounce of excess flesh on his tall and muscular frame—as evidence, surely, that he did not spend all of his time seated in the House of Lords or behind the mahogany desk in his study…

But after only five minutes in his company that day Elena had also realised—thankfully!—that not only was he the most haughtily cold and unapproachable man she had ever met, but that he did not even see her as being female, let alone have any of the lewder thoughts and intentions towards her that another male employer might have shown to the woman he was to employ as his young daughter’s governess.

Elena now clasped her trembling hands tightly together in front of her, as the warmth currently engulfing her body forced her to realise that was no longer the case, as Lord Hawthorne’s narrowed grey gaze slowly perused her from head to toe in what was obviously a totally male assessment. ‘Lady Cicely.’ She nodded a polite greeting to the elderly lady. ‘Stand up and greet your greatgrandmother, Amanda,’ she instructed as she realised her young charge was still seated at her desk.

Elena had found it strange at first to realise that there was none of the spontaneity of affection in this household that she had been used to during her own childhood, Lord Hawthorne spending only half an hour of each day with his daughter, and even that was usually spent in discussing and questioning what Amanda had learnt during her lessons.

Consequently, Amanda became a quietly reserved child whenever she was in her father’s company, the perfect curtsy she now bestowed upon Lady Cicely also reflective of that reserve.

‘Great-Grandmama.’

Which was not to say that Elena did not see a different side of Amanda when the two of them were alone together in the nursery, Amanda as full of fun then as any other six-year-old.

Tall for her age, Amanda’s face already showed the signs of the great beauty she would become in later years, her eyes a deep blue, her cheeks creamy pink, her little mouth as perfect as a rose in bud, her hair the colour and softness of spun gold. Amanda looked especially enchanting today in a deep-pink gown that perfectly complemented the fairness of her colouring.

A look of enchantment totally wasted upon her father as he stood across the room, his attention focused on Elena rather than his daughter. The same gentleman whom Elena, after only a week spent in his employment, considered to be utterly without any of the softer emotions.

Which was why she now found the intensity of his regard more than slightly unnerving, as if those deep-grey eyes were seeing her as a woman for the first time…

And Elena had no wish for any man, least of all Adam Hawthorne, to see her as anything other than his mousy and widowed employee. Any more than she wished to acknowledge him as being anything more than her employer, even if he was devilishly handsome…

She straightened determinedly. ‘I will leave the three of you alone to talk whilst I go and tidy Amanda’s bedchamber. If you will all excuse me…’ She did not wait for a response before hurrying from the schoolroom.

Only to find that she was shaking so much by the time she had reached the safety of Amanda’s bedchamber that she had necessarily to sit down for a moment in order to attempt to regain her senses, pressing a trembling hand against her rapidly beating heart as she fought the rising panic at the thought of Hawthorne seeing her as a woman rather than an employee.

Circumstances had conspired to leave Elena completely alone in the world, and necessitating that she go out to work in order to support herself, and so surely making her life already desperate enough, precarious enough, without the added burden of the sudden interest of the forbidding and forbidden Lord Adam Hawthorne?

Elena was only too well aware that many gentlemen took advantage of the charms of the unprotected females in their household. Indeed, her own cousin—

She would not…could not think about it. Even to think of what that worm—for she could never think of him as a gentleman!—had done to her was enough to make her feel ill, the nausea rising even now inside her—

‘Are you quite well, Mrs Leighton…?’

Elena stood up so swiftly at the unexpected sound of Hawthorne’s voice that all of the blood seemed to rush from her head, rendering her slightly dizzy and causing her to sway precariously on her ankle-booted feet as she reached out blindly for the back of the chair in order to stop herself from falling.

But not quickly enough, it seemed, as he crossed the room in three long strides to take a firm grasp of her arm, allowing her to feel the warmth of his long and elegant hand through the thin silk of her black gown. ‘My lord?’ Elena looked up at him warily, her breath catching in the back of her throat as she realised how close he was standing to her. A closeness she had not thought she would be able to tolerate from any man. So close that Elena was aware of, and yet not overwhelmed by, how much larger and taller he was than she. So close she could see the circle of black rimming the deep grey of his eyes…

They were, Elena acknowledged as she found herself unable to do any other than continue to stare up at him, the most beautiful eyes she had ever beheld: a deep-smoky grey, with that black rim about the iris, his lashes dark, long and silky.

‘Mrs Leighton?’ Adam returned softly, frowning slightly as he realised he could smell the citrusy perfume of lemons in her silky dark hair.

Just as he had become aware, having studied her closely in the nursery a few minutes ago, that she was far from being in her late twenties or early thirties, as he had originally assumed her to be. Indeed, she looked possibly one and twenty at most now that he was standing so close to her and really looking at her intently; the alabaster skin of her face and throat was absolutely smooth and flawless, those wide blue-green eyes seeming to possess an innocence as she gazed up at him warily, her slender figure also seeming that of a young girl rather than a mature woman.

His mouth tightened along with the hold he had upon her arm.

‘Exactly how old are you?’

She blinked long dark lashes. ‘How old am I?’

Adam’s jaw tensed as he nodded. ‘A simple enough question, I would have thought.’

She moistened rose-coloured lips with the tip of her tongue before answering him. ‘Simple enough, yes,’ she confirmed huskily. ‘But is it not impolite to ask a woman her age? I also fail to see the relevance…?’

Adam’s mouth thinned at her continued delay. ‘You will allow me to be the best judge of that and please answer the question!’ He had little patience at the best of times—and this was far from the best of times; he disliked, above all things, being lied to, and he was very much afraid, that if Elena Leighton had not lied to him outright, that she had at least been economical with the truth.

‘I—Why, I am—I am…’ Elena paused to flex her nape where it ached from staring up at him for so long, as she weighed up the possibility of this man believing her if she were to lie and claim to be five and twenty, an age that surely even he would consider to be sensible. If untrue. ‘I am one and twenty.’ Almost. Well…in eight months’ time, her birthday falling on Christmas Day, her family having always ensured in the past that they were treated as two separate occasions. Not that there would be any celebration of that event this year, for the simple reason Elena had no family left with whom she wished to celebrate…

‘One and twenty,’ he repeated evenly, his long and elegant fingers slipping down her arm until they firmly encircled her wrist. ‘That would place you as being a mere nineteen when you were widowed and began your employment as tutor and companion to the Bambury chit, is that correct?’

Elena gave an inward wince at this reminder of the reference she had presented to the employment agency some weeks ago, when she had gone to them seeking a placement in a respectable household. A reference, having had no previous experience in employment of any kind, Elena had necessarily to write herself…

She met Adam Hawthorne’s scathing gaze unflinchingly. ‘That is correct, yes. If you are not satisfied with my work, then I am sure that—’

‘Have I said that I am not?’

Her chin rose slightly. ‘You implied it.’

Those chiselled lips curled slightly, into what could have been a smile, but was more likely, in this gentleman’s case, to be a sneer. ‘No, my dear Mrs Leighton, I implied nothing of the sort,’ he drawled. ‘Perhaps it is a guilty conscience which now makes you assume so?’

Elena’s heart skipped several of those guilty beats as she looked searchingly up into Lord Hawthorne’s hard and unyielding face; those grey eyes were narrowed to icy slits, the skin stretched tautly over high cheekbones, deep grooves having appeared beside his nose and chiselled lips. It was the face, Elena acknowledged warily, of a gentleman one did not cross. Not unless one wished to experience the full onslaught of what she believed would be his considerable wrath.

She had, she realised with a sinking heart, been lulled into a false sense of security these past twelve days of only seeing her employer for the half an hour or so he spent in the nursery with Amanda each day, occasions when Elena more often than not excused herself and left father and daughter to their privacy. Consequently, to date he had been a remote figure, a haughtily autocratic gentleman who appeared to have more than a little difficulty relating to his young daughter, and as such did not impinge greatly on her own routine and life in the schoolroom.

The gentleman who now regarded her so intently did not appear in the least remote, in regard to her at least. Indeed both he, and his questions, were far too close for comfort. To the point that she felt decidedly overwhelmed by the proximity of that deceptively hard and muscled body. Standing so close to her own as he was, she was able to feel his warmth and smell his deliciously spicy cologne…

She straightened to her own full height, ignoring the fact that she barely reached his broad shoulders as she met that piercing grey gaze unflinchingly. ‘I am sure that if you care to check the reference I supplied from the Bamburys you will find it all completely in order.’

And it would be; Elena may be newly cast out upon on the world, but she knew for a fact that a young and widowed Mrs Leighton had acted as tutor and companion to Fiona Bambury before the family had departed for warmer climes at the start of the year, the doctor having recommended as much for the benefit of Lady Bambury’s weak chest, from which she had suffered greatly during the harsh English winter. Mrs Leighton, having had no wish to move to the Continent with the Bambury family, had chosen to leave their employment and remain in England.

Except Elena was not, in fact, the aforementioned Mrs Leighton…

‘Indeed?’ Adam murmured softly.

‘If you would care to release me…?’

‘Certainly.’ The grip he had maintained about her wrist had not been in the least incidental, or an act of intimacy. Rather, it had allowed him to feel the leap in her pulse when he had questioned her as to whether or not she suffered from a guilty conscience.

Adam was now even further convinced that this woman was indeed hiding something. Quite what that something was, he had no idea as yet. But he had every intention of finding out. At the earliest opportunity. After all, he had entrusted this woman with the day-to-day care of his young and impressionable daughter.

Adam looked at her down the length of his nose. ‘I must return to the schoolroom now, but be aware I do not consider this conversation over.’

She gave a slight nod in acknowledgement. ‘As your employee, I of course await your further instruction.’

Now there was something to contemplate. Having Elena Leighton—the young and extremely beautiful Elena Leighton, the widowed Elena Leighton—awaiting his further instruction…

Adam pondered the dilemma of what he might choose to instruct her to do first. That she take the pins from that unbecoming bun and release that abundance of silky black hair, perhaps? Or that she unfasten those widow’s weeds and reveal the fullness of her breasts to him? Or perhaps he would enjoy something more personal to himself?

His gaze moved to the fullness of her lips. What, he wondered, would it feel like to have Elena Leighton on her knees before him and those lips skilfully wrapped about his engorged length? Teasing him, testing him, satisfying him?

Damn it all! What was he thinking?

He was not a man to be led about by that part of his anatomy. If his ill-fated marriage to Fanny had succeeded in nothing else, then it had served to cure him of that particular folly!

Adam stepped away abruptly, a nerve pulsing in his tightly clenched jaw. ‘We will talk of this further tomorrow.’ He gaze swept over her coldly before he turned on his heel and strode from the room, closing the door forcefully behind him.

Elena staggered back to collapse down on to the chair once more, her breathing fast and shallow, her heart beating erratically in her chest as she endeavoured to calm herself and the panic which had engulfed her, and which she had tried her best to hide, when he had touched her.

She had no idea what had happened to bring about that sudden conversation with him, or the subject of it. Why he had chosen to follow her to Amanda’s bedchamber at all even, let alone take hold of her wrist, albeit gently?

What she did know, from the tenor of his questions, and the merciless coldness in his eyes before he left so abruptly, was that he was not a gentleman who would easily forgive being deceived. As Elena had deceived him from the first…

For not only was her name not Elena Leighton, but she was not a widow either—indeed, she had never been married.

Nor had she ever been tutor and companion to Fiona Bambury, the real Mrs Leighton, after leaving the Bamburys’ employment, having decided to move to Scotland to care for the elderly parents of her deceased husband.

All of which Elena knew because she had been acquainted with the Bamburys, their country estate some twenty miles distant from her own grandfather’s home, the couple occasional guests at his dinner table, as Elena and her grandfather had been occasional dinner guests at theirs’.

Because her name—her true name—was not Elena Leighton, but Miss Magdelena Matthews.

And she was the granddaughter of George Matthews, the previous Duke of Sheffield, and the young woman whose disappearance, so quickly following her grandfather’s funeral, still had all of society agog with speculation…

Chapter Three

‘Thorne? Damn it, Hawthorne, wait up there, man!’

Adam came to a halt in the hollow-sounding hallways of the House of Lords before turning to see who hailed him. A frown appeared between his eyes as he recognised Justin St Just, Duke of Royston, striding purposefully towards him, several other members moving hastily aside to allow him to pass.

A tall, blond-haired Adonis, with eyes of periwinkle blue set in an arrogantly handsome face, and a powerful build that the ladies all swooned over, Royston was also one of the more charismatic members of the House. Although the two men were of a similar age and regularly attended sessions, and their respective grandmothers had been lifelong friends, the two men had never been particularly close. Their views and lifestyles were too different for that, especially so in recent years, when Adam had avoided most of society events, and Royston was known to have the devil’s own luck with the ladies and at the card tables.

Also, Adam had never been sure whether or not Royston had been one of Fanny’s legion of lovers…

‘Royston,’ he greeted the other man coolly.

The duke eyed him with shrewd speculation. ‘You seem in somewhat of a hurry to get away tonight, Hawthorne. Off to see a lady friend?’ He quirked a mocking brow.

Adam drew himself up stiffly, the two men of similar height. ‘I trust that, as a gentleman, you do not expect me to confirm or deny that question?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Royston drawled unapologetically. ‘You appear to have become something of a…recluse in recent years, Hawthorne.’

Adam’s gaze became glacial. ‘Did you have something specific you wished to discuss with me, or may I now be on my way?’

‘Damn, but you have become a prickly bastard!’ The duke’s expression turned to one of deep irritation. ‘Join me in a drink at one of the clubs so that we might talk in a less public arena?’ he added impatiently as several people jostled them in their haste to leave and received a legendary St Just scowl for their trouble.

Adam’s demeanour lightened slightly. ‘As it happens I was on my way to White’s.’

The other man grimaced. ‘I had a less…respectable club in mind, but certainly, White’s will do as a start to the evening. I have my carriage outside.’

‘As I have mine.’

The duke regarded him enigmatically for several long seconds before acquiescing. ‘Very well. We shall both travel in your coach and mine will follow. Unless you have it in mind to join me in visiting the other clubs later?’

‘No.’ Adam’s tone was uncompromising.

‘As you wish.’ Royston shrugged.

They did not speak again until they were safely ensconced at a secluded table at White’s and both nursing a large glass of brandy, the duke slumped comfortably in his chair, Adam sitting upright across from him.

The two men had met often in past years at one ton function or another. In truth, Adam had always liked the man’s arrogant disregard for society’s strictures. Indeed, his own reserve towards the man this past few years was caused by his doubts regarding any past involvement between Royston and Fanny; Fanny’s affairs had been so numerous during their marriage that Adam was sure even she had forgotten half her lovers’ names.

That Adam and Fanny had occupied separate bedchambers after the first month of their marriage had not been generally known and made Fanny’s adulterous behaviour, after Amanda was born, all the more of a humiliation. It would have been easier by far if they had occupied separate households, but that Fanny had refused to allow, preferring the shield of the two of them living together to hide her numerous affairs. Unfortunately, she had held the trump card, and had used the excuse of their baby daughter to enforce that decision. For, despite the awkwardness he often felt in being able to relax his emotions and draw close to Amanda as she grew older, Adam loved his young daughter deeply.

‘How does your grandmama seem to you nowadays?’

Adam’s eyes widened at the subject of Royston’s question; Lady Cicely had been the last thing he expected to be discussing this evening, with Royston or anyone else. ‘What do you mean?’

Royston stared down morosely into his brandy glass. ‘Mine’s acting deuced odd and I thought, as the two of them have always been in such cahoots, that I would see if yours was behaving oddly, too?’ He grimaced. ‘I hope to God it has nothing to do with this Sheffield business, because I am heartily sick of the subject! I liked Sheffield well enough, but all these weeks of speculation as to whether his granddaughter bumped him off, then stole the family jewels, has become an utter bore.’

The tension left Adam’s shoulders. ‘No, I do not believe Lady Cicely and the dowager duchess’s…current distraction have anything to do with the Sheffield affair.’

St Just perked up slightly. ‘No?’

‘No.’ Adam found himself smiling tightly. ‘I believe—and I only know this because Lady Cicely is obviously far less subtle in her intentions than the dowager duchess—that they have it in mind to somehow secure our future wives for us!’

The duke sat forwards abruptly. ‘You cannot be serious?’

Adam gave a mocking inclination of his head, enjoying the other’s man’s consternation. ‘They appear to be very serious, yes. Think about it, Royston—they are thick as thieves with the Dowager Countess of Chambourne, whose own grandson has just announced his wedding is to be next month.’

‘And you are saying our grandmothers are now plotting our own downfall?’

Adam could not help but let out a brief bark of laughter at Royston’s horrified expression. ‘The three ladies have always done things together. Their coming-out Season. Marriage. Motherhood. Even widowhood.’ He shrugged. ‘My own grandmother’s less-than-subtle attempts at matchmaking these past few months leads me to believe it is now their intention that their three grandsons shall be married in the same Season.’

‘Is it, by God?’ The duke slowly sank back in his chair. ‘And have you made any decision as to how you intend fending off this attack upon our bachelor state?’

‘I see no need to fend it off when my uninterest is so clear.’ Adam frowned.

Royston eyed him pityingly. ‘You are obviously not as well acquainted with my own grandmama as I!’

‘No,’ Adam stated, ‘but I am well acquainted with my own!’

‘And you agree that marriage for either of us is out of the question?’

His mouth tightened. ‘I can only speak for myself—but, yes, totally out of the question.’ His nostrils flared. ‘I have no intention of ever remarrying.’

‘And I have no intention of marrying at all—or, at least, not for years and years.’ Royston looked at Adam searchingly. ‘Even so, I cannot believe that even the dowager duchess would dare—yes, I can, damn it.’ He scowled darkly. ‘My grandmother would dare anything to ensure the succession of the line!’

Adam gave a slight inclination of his head. ‘My own grandmother has also expressed her concerns as to the fact that I have only a daughter and no son.’ Not that he had taken any heed of those concerns; Adam felt no qualms whatsoever about his third cousin Wilfred inheriting the title once he had shuffled off his own mortal coil.

‘But I take it you do not intend to just sit about waiting for the parson’s mousetrap to snap tight about your ankles?’

‘Certainly not!’ Adam gave a shiver of revulsion.

Royston tapped his chin distractedly. ‘There’s not much happening in the House for the next week, so now would seem to be as good a time as any for me to absent myself from town and go to the country for a while. I have it in mind to view a hunter Sedgewicke has put my way. With any luck the grandmothers will have lost the scent by the time I return.’

‘Highly unlikely,’ Adam drawled derisively.

‘But, as I am genuinely fond of the dowager duchess, and as such have no wish to be at loggerheads with her over this, it is definitely worth pursuing.’ Royston stood up decisively. ‘I advise you to do something similar, for I assure you, once my grandmama gets the bit between her teeth there’s no stopping her. Oh, and, Hawthorne…?’ He paused beside Adam’s chair.

‘Yes?’

‘I make it a point of principle never to dally with married ladies,’ Royston declared.

His meaning was not lost on Adam as he answered cautiously. ‘That is a very good principle to have.’

‘I believe so, yes.’ The other man met Adam’s gaze briefly, meaningfully, before nodding to him in farewell, pausing only to briefly greet several acquaintances as he made his way out of the club.

Leaving Adam to mull over the predicament of how best to avoid his own grandmother’s machinations and to consider his unexpected, and totally inappropriate fantasy earlier regarding Elena Leighton’s sensuously plump lips and the uses they might be put to!

Elena assured herself of the neatness of her appearance one last time before knocking briskly on the door of her employer’s private study, having received the summons in the nursery a short time ago, delivered by Barnes, requesting she join Lord Hawthorne downstairs immediately.

‘Come.’

To say Elena was nervous about the reason for Lord Hawthorne’s summons would be putting it mildly—the sudden tension that had sprung up between them yesterday, and their unfinished conversation, were both still very much in her mind. She had no idea what she would say to him if, as she had suggested, he had decided to check her fake references and somehow found them wanting.

She did not see how he could have done so, when she had been so careful in her choice of an alias, her acquaintance with the Bambury family allowing her to write as accurate a reference as possible, considering she was not really Mrs Leighton. But that did not stop Elena from now chewing worriedly on her bottom lip. If Hawthorne chose to dismiss her—

‘I said come, damn it.’ There was no mistaking the impatient irritation in his lordship’s voice.

Elena’s cheeks felt flushed as she opened the door and stepped gingerly into a room lined with bookcases halfway up the mahogany-panelled walls, with several original paintings above them, and a huge mahogany desk dominating the room.

At least…it would have been the dominating feature of the study if the gentleman seated behind that desk had not so easily taken that honour for himself!

Tall and broad-shouldered in a superfine of the same dark grey as his eyes over a paler-grey waistcoat, his linen snowy white, the neckcloth at his throat arranged meticulously, his stylish hair dark as a raven’s wing above that austerely handsome face, Lord Adam Hawthorne effortlessly filled the room with his overwhelming presence.

But it was a presence that Elena did not find in the least frightening, as she did so many other men following her cousin Neville’s cruelty to her. Indeed, Adam Hawthorne, despite—or because of?—his air of detachment, was a man who inspired trust rather than fear…

His mouth thinned disapprovingly as he leant back his chair. ‘Did you have some difficulty just now in understanding my invitation to enter?’

‘No. I—’ She breathed out softly through her teeth before straightening her shoulders determinedly. ‘No, of course I did not,’ she answered more strongly. ‘I merely paused before entering in order to…to adjust my appearance.’ It took all of her considerable self-will to withstand that critical gaze as it swept over her slowly, from the neat and smoothly styled bun at her nape, the pallor of her face, down over the black of her gown, to the toes of her black ankle boots peeking out from beneath the hem of that gown, before once again returning to her now-flushed and discomforted face.

He observed her coolly. ‘Might I enquire why it is you still choose to wear your widow’s weeds when your husband died almost two years ago?’

Elena was visibly taken aback by the directness of his question. Nor did she intend—or, in the circumstances, was able—to explain that she chose to wear black out of respect for the death two months ago of her beloved grandfather, George Matthews, the previous Duke of Sheffield!

He raised a dark brow. ‘Perhaps it is that you loved your husband so much that you still mourn his loss?’

‘Or perhaps it is that I am simply too poor to be able to replace my mourning gowns with something more frivolous?’ Elena felt stung into replying as she easily heard the underlying scepticism in his derisive tone.

Adam eyed her thoughtfully. ‘If that should indeed be the situation, would it not have been prudent to ask me for an advance on your wages?’

Elena’s eyes widened. ‘I trust you are not about to insult me further by suggesting I might use your money with which to purchase new gowns, my lord?’

Adam frowned his irritation with this young woman’s prickliness. He tried to not remember Royston had accused him of having the very same fault only yesterday evening…

Adam owed his own withdrawal from society to the adulterous behaviour of his deceased wife. His fierce pride would not allow him to relax his guard when in the company of the ton. Elena Leighton’s surliness also appeared to be a matter of pride, but in her case, it was pride over her lack of finances. ‘It would be money you have earned in taking care of Amanda,’ he pointed out calmly.

‘Except, as I suggested might be the case yesterday, I believe you may be dissatisfied with my services…?’

Damn it, Adam wished she would not use such words as that!

The word ‘service’ once again conjured up images of this woman performing all manner of intimacies he would rather not be allowed to distract him at this moment…

Adam found had already been distracted—and aroused—enough already by the pretty pout of her reddened lips when she entered his study a few minutes ago. So much so that the material of his pantaloons was now stretched uncomfortably tight across the throb of his swollen shaft beneath his desk.

He stood up to try to ease that discomfort before realising what he had done and turning away to hide the evidence of his arousal, gazing out of the window into the garden at the back of his London home. ‘I do not recall making any such remark.’

‘You implied it when you questioned my lack of years—’

‘Mrs Leighton!’ Adam turned back sharply, linking his hands in front of him to hide that telltale bulge as he observed her through narrowed lids. ‘I believe we have already discussed my views regarding you making assumptions about any of my comments or actions. If I have something to say, then be assured I will not hesitate to say it. How long will it take you to make ready to leave Hawthorne House?’

Elena stepped back with a gasp, her face paling as she raised her hand in an effort to calm her rapidly beating heart at the mere thought of being cast out alone into the world once again. ‘You are dismissing me…?’

‘For heaven’s sake, woman, will you stop reading meanings into my every word, meanings that are simply not there!’ Adam exploded as he scowled down the length of his aristocratic nose at her. ‘I have several things in need of my attention on my estate in Cambridgeshire, and it is my wish for you and Amanda to accompany me there.’

‘To Cambridgeshire?’

He nodded tersely. ‘That is what I have just said, yes.’

‘Oh…’

He flicked a black brow. ‘There is some problem with that course of action?

It was a county in England that Elena had never visited before, but of course she had no objection to accompanying Lord Hawthorne and his daughter there.

Not as such…

The truth of the matter was that Elena had made a conscious decision to move to London after her grandfather had died so suddenly, and following the terrible scene with her cousin, which had occurred after the funeral.

Her grandfather, once a soldier, had told her that the best way to hide from the enemy was in plain sight, which was the reason Elena had chosen to change her appearance as far as she was able and adopt an assumed name, before accepting the post as governess to Amanda Hawthorne, a post that largely involved staying inside the house with her charge. Even if Neville Matthews, her cousin and abuser, and the new Duke of Sheffield, did decide to come to town, then he was unlikely to accept any but private invitations following the recent death of their grandfather.

She did not believe that she had any acquaintances living in Cambridgeshire, but she nevertheless felt safer in the anonymity of London…

‘Perhaps,’ Adam continued relentlessly as he saw the uncertainty in her expression, ‘it is that you have…acquaintances, here in London, you would be reluctant to be parted from, even for a week or so…?’ Just because the woman had been widowed for almost two years, and she still wore her black clothes as a sign of her continued mourning, did not mean that she had not taken a lover during that time. Several, in fact.

Indeed, Adam had heard it said that physical closeness was one of the things most lamented when one’s husband or wife died. Not true in his case, of course; he and Fanny had not shared so much as a brief kiss from the moment he had learnt of her first infidelity just a month after their wedding.

But Elena Leighton was a young and beautiful woman, and she had already explained that she still wore her widow’s attire for financial reasons rather than emotional ones. It was naïve on Adam’s part to assume that she had not taken a lover. Quite when she met with that lover—perhaps on her one afternoon off a week?—he had no wish to know!

‘We would only be gone for a week?’ Her expression had brightened considerably.

Irritating Adam immensely. Which was in itself ridiculous; the woman’s obvious eagerness not to be parted from her lover for any length of time was of absolutely no consequence or interest to him. ‘Approximately,’ he qualified. ‘At the moment, the exact length of time I will need to stay in Cambridgeshire is undecided.’ Mainly because Adam felt a certain inner discomfort about this departure for Cambridgeshire at all.

It was true that there were several matters there in need of his attention, but he had no doubts they were matters he could have settled by the sending of a letter to his man who managed the estate in his absence. His decision to visit the estate in person had more to do with his conversation with Royston last night, than any real urgency to deal with those matters himself.

Not because Adam was in any real fear of his grandmother being successful in her endeavours to procure him a suitable wife—that, he had vowed long ago, would never happen!—but because, much as his grandmother might irritate him on occasion, he did have a genuine affection for her, and as such he had no wish to hurt her. Like Royston, removing himself from London, far away from his relative’s machinations, seemed the best way for him to avoid doing that.

However, he could not avoid having dinner at Lady Cecily’s home this evening, when no doubt a suitable number of eligible young ladies would be produced for his approval—or otherwise, as he absolutely knew would be the case!—but as it would also give Adam the opportunity of telling his grandmother in person of his imminent departure for Cambridgeshire, he was willing to suffer through that particular inconvenience.

He frowned as he saw the look of consternation on the governess’s face. ‘I repeat, is there some objection to your travelling into Cambridgeshire with myself and Amanda?’

Elena drew herself up stiffly. ‘No, of course there is not. And to answer your earlier question, I can have my own and Amanda’s things packed and ready for departure in a matter of hours.’

Adam gave a tight smile. ‘It is not necessary that you be quite so hasty,’ he drawled. ‘I have a dinner engagement this evening. First thing tomorrow morning will be quite soon enough. I trust that will give you sufficient time in which to…inform any relatives and friends that you are to be absent from Town for the next week?’

‘Approximately.’

‘Indeed,’ he conceded drily.

The only relative Elena had left in the world was Neville and the moment he learnt of her whereabouts he would no doubt call for her immediate arrest!

And Elena had decided at the onset that the less she involved her friends in her current unhappy situation—and she did have several who still believed in her innocence—the better it would be for them.

She necessarily had to accept a small amount of financial help from her closest friend, Lizzie Carlton, after fleeing the duke’s estate in Yorkshire in late February, and she had also informed Lizzie by letter that she had safely reached London and secured suitable lodgings. But Elena could not, in all conscience, allow her friend to become embroiled in this situation any further than that.

Indeed, she had resolved to completely become the widowed Mrs Elena Leighton, a schooled young lady who had fallen on hard times since her husband’s untimely death. As she must, if she were to be successful in her endeavour of hiding in full view of the populace of England’s capital; it was sad, but true, that the ton rarely noticed the existence of the people whom they employed, let alone those employed by the other members of England’s aristocracy.

‘There is no one whom I would wish to inform, my lord,’ she answered her employer coolly. ‘If I might be allowed to return to the schoolroom now?’

‘Of course.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’

Adam tapped his cheek thoughtfully as he watched her quietly exit the study before closing the door behind her, irritated at the realisation that she had once again avoided revealing anything about herself or her connections. As she was perfectly entitled to do, he allowed; her family connections, or even her romantic ones, had been of no significance to him at the commencement of her employment with him, and they should not be of any import now.

Except he could not prevent himself from wondering—despite her denial of the need for her to inform anyone of her imminent departure for Cambridgeshire—as to which gentleman might currently be the lucky recipient of the ministrations of those full and sensuous lips…

Chapter Four

‘She is merely ill from travelling in the carriage.’ Elena looked up at Adam apologetically as he opened the door of the carriage just in time for Amanda to lean out and be violently sick on his black, brown-topped Hessians already covered in dust from where he had ridden on horseback all day beside the carriage. ‘Oh, dear.’ Elena moved forwards on her seat to help her distressed charge down the steps on to the cobbled courtyard of the inn they were to stay in for the night, cuddling Amanda against her before turning her attention to those now ruined boots. ‘Perhaps—’

‘Perhaps if you had informed me of Amanda’s discomfort earlier it would not have come to this.’ Adam glowered down at her.

Elena gasped her incredulity at an accusation she believed completely unfair. ‘Amanda was perfectly all right until a short time ago and has only found this last few bumpy miles something of a trial. Also, my lord, as you had ridden on ahead I could not inform you of anything…’

‘Yes. Yes,’ Adam snapped, waving his hand impatiently. ‘I suggest you take Amanda upstairs to our rooms while I speak to the innkeeper about organising some water to be brought up for her bath.’

Elena kept her arm about the now quietly sobbing Amanda. ‘And some food, my lord. Some dry bread and fresh water will perhaps settle Amanda’s stomach before bedtime.’

‘Of course.’ Adam turned his attention away from his ruined boots to instead look down at his distressed daughter. Amanda’s face was a pasty white, her eyes dark and cloudy smudges of blue in that pallor, her usually lustrous gold hair damp about her face. Nor had her own clothing escaped being spattered, her little shoes and hose in as sorry a state as his boots. ‘There, there, Amanda, it is not the end of the world—You are soiling your clothing now, Mrs Leighton,’ he warned sharply as Elena ignored the results of Amanda’s nausea, moving down on her haunches beside the little girl and gently wiping the tears from her face with her own lace-edged handkerchief.

‘My clothes are of no importance at this moment, sir.’ Her eyes flashed up at him in stormy warning, before she returned her attention to the cleansing of Amanda’s face, murmuring soft assurances to the little girl.

Adam clamped down on his feelings of inadequacy. ‘I was merely pointing out—’

‘If you will excuse us?’ She straightened, obvious indignation rolling off her in waves. ‘I should like to see to Amanda’s needs before considering my own.’

A praiseworthy sentiment, Adam admitted as he stood in the courtyard and watched her walk away, her back ramrod straight as she entered the inn, her arms about Amanda.

Except for the fact that he knew that parting comment had been made as a deliberate set down for what she perceived as his lack of concern for his young daughter…

A totally erroneous assumption for her to have made; Adam knew his behaviour to be yet another example of his own lack of understanding in how to relate to a six-year-old girl, rather than the lack of concern Elena Leighton had assumed it to be. No excuse, of course, but Adam had no idea how to even go about healing the distance which seemed to yawn wider with each passing day between himself and Amanda.

Nor had the governess’s anger towards him abated in the slightest, Adam realised an hour or so later when she joined him for dinner in the private parlour of the inn, as he had requested when the maid went to deliver food and drink to Amanda. her eyes sparkled a deep and fiery green-blue as she swept into the room, with a deep flush to her cheeks and her whole demeanour, in yet another of those dratted black gowns, one of bristly disapproval and resentment—the former no doubt still on Amanda’s behalf, the resentment possibly due to the peremptory instruction to join him for dinner.

‘Would you care for a glass of Madeira, Mrs Leighton…?’ Adam attempted civility. Bathed and dressed in clean clothes and a fresh pair of boots, he felt far more human; he tried not to think about the fact that his man Reynolds was probably upstairs even now, crying as he attempted to salvage the first pair!

‘No, thank you.’

‘Then perhaps you would prefer sherry or wine?’

She looked at him coolly. ‘I do not care for strong liquor at all.’

Adam frowned. ‘I do not believe any of the refreshments I offered can be referred to as “strong liquor”.’

‘Nevertheless…’

‘Then perhaps we should just sit down and eat?’ He could barely restrain his frustration with her frostiness as he moved forwards to politely pull back a chair for her.

‘I had expected to dine in my bedchamber with Amanda,’ she stated.

‘And I would prefer that you dine here with me,’ he countered, looking pointedly towards the chair.

She frowned as she stepped forwards. ‘Thank you.’ She sat rigidly in the chair, her body stiff and unyielding, ensuring that her spine did not come into contact with the back of the chair.

Adam gave a rueful grimace as he moved around the table and took his own seat opposite her, waiting until the innkeeper himself had served their food—a thick steaming stew accompanied by fresh crusty bread—before speaking again. ‘Should I expect to be subjected to this wall of ice throughout the whole of dinner, or would you perhaps prefer to castigate me now and get it over with?’ He quirked one dark brow enquiringly.

‘Castigate you, my lord?’ She kept her head bowed as she studiously arranged her napkin across her knees.

Adam gave a weary sigh. ‘Mrs Leighton, I am a widower in my late twenties, with no previous experience of children, let alone six-year-old females. As such, I admit I know naught of how to deal with the day-to-day upsets of my young daughter.’

Elena slowly looked up to consider him across the table, ignoring his obvious handsomeness for the moment—difficult as that might be when he looked so very smart in a deep-blue superfine over a beige waistcoat—and instead trying to see the man he described. There was no disputing the fact that he was a widower in his late twenties. But Lord Adam Hawthorne was also a man whom senior politicians were reputed to hold in great regard, a man who ran his estates and a London household without so much as blinking an eye; it was impossible to think that such a man could find himself defeated by the needs of a six-year-old girl.

Or was it…?

He was a man who preferred to hold himself aloof from society. From all emotions. Why was it so impossible to believe he found it difficult to relate to his young daughter?

Some of the stiffness left Elena’s spine. ‘I think you will find that six-year-old young ladies have the same need to be loved as the older ones, my lord.’

He frowned. ‘“Older ones”, Mrs Leighton…?’

She became slightly flustered under that icy gaze. ‘I believe most ladies are desirous of that, yes, my lord.’

‘I see.’ His frown deepened. ‘And are you questioning my ability to feel that emotion, Mrs Leighton?’

‘Of course not.’ Elena gasped softly.

‘Then perhaps It is only my affection for my daughter you question…?’

Her cheeks felt warm. ‘It is only the manner in which you choose to show that affection which—well, which—’

‘Yes?’

‘Could you not have hugged Amanda earlier rather than—’ She broke off, suddenly not sure how far to continue with this.

‘“Rather than…?”’ he prompted softly.

She took hold of her courage and looked him straight in the eye. ‘Amanda was upset and in need of comforting—preferably a physical demonstration of affection from her father.’

He looked obviously disconcerted with her candour.

Perhaps she had gone too far? After all, it was really none of her concern how Lord Hawthorne behaved towards his young daughter; she had briefly forgotten that she was no longer Miss Magdelena Matthews, the privileged and beloved granddaughter of a duke who was allowed to speak her mind, but was now an employee. And employees did not castigate their employers!

Elena lowered her gaze demurely. ‘I apologise, my lord. I spoke out of turn.’

Now it was Adam’s turn to feel discomforted. Elena Leighton’s disapproval apart, he was fully aware that he had difficulty in demonstrating the deep affection he felt for Amanda; she had been only two years old when her mother died and had been attended to completely in the nursery until quite recently. Not that Fanny had ever been a particularly attentive mother when she was alive, but she had occasionally taken an interest and showered Amanda with gifts completely inappropriate to her age, whereas, perhaps partly because of his experiences with Fanny, Adam now found it difficult to show that deep affection he felt for his six-year-old daughter. Which he knew was not a fault of Amanda’s, but due to his own emotional reserve as much as his lack of experience as a father.

He looked enquiringly at her. ‘I thought it normal for men in society to spend only an hour or so a day in the company of their female offspring?’

‘You do not strike me as the sort of gentleman who would be concerned as to how others might behave.’

‘Possibly not,’ he allowed slowly. ‘But I am often at a loss as to know how I should behave. Perhaps you might endeavour to help guide me, as to how a father should behave towards his six-year-old daughter?’

Elena blinked. ‘My lord…?’

Adam tried not to feel vexed at her surprise. ‘I am suggesting, as Amanda’s governess, that you might perhaps aid me in how best to take more of an interest in the happenings in my daughter’s life.’

Her lips thinned so that they did not look in the least plump and inviting. ‘Are you laughing at me, my lord?’

His top lip curled back derisively in response to that. ‘I believe you will find, Mrs Leighton, that I rarely find reason to laugh at anything, so I very much doubt I will have made you the exception.’ He eyed her closely, no longer sure he had any appetite for the rich and meaty-smelling stew that had been provided for them.

He had actually been anticipating the evening ahead when he dressed for dinner earlier, could not remember the last time he had dined alone with a beautiful woman—apart from Fanny, whom he had despised utterly, when those rare evenings they had dined at home together had been more a lesson in endurance than something to be enjoyed.

Just as his grandmother’s dinner the evening before had been something to be endured rather than enjoyed!

Lady Cecily had totally outdone herself in that she had provided not one, not two, but four eligible young ladies for his approval. All of them young and beautiful—and all of them as empty-headed as Fanny!

He already knew that Elena Leighton was not of that ilk, that she was educated, learned and that he found her conversation stimulating. As he found her physically stimulating…Except on those occasions when she was determined to rebuke him for what she perceived as his lack of feeling for Amanda!

‘Perhaps we should just eat our dinner before it cools any further.’ He didn’t wait for her response, but turned his attention to eating the food in front of him.

Elena ate her own stew more slowly, aware that she had displeased him. Was he justified to feel that? She was, after all, employed to attend to his daughter, not to comment on his behaviour and attitudes.

Disconcerted at being summoned to join him for dinner, and the two of them sitting down to eat their meal together alone in this private parlour, she had again forgotten the façade of being the widowed Mrs Elena Leighton and instead talked to him as an equal, forgetting that she no longer had the right to do so.

If Adam Hawthorne were ever to discover her true identity, then no doubt he would not hesitate to turn her over to the authorities himself!

She placed her spoon down carefully beside the bowl, her food untouched. ‘I must apologise once again for speaking out of turn, my lord. It is not my place—’

‘And exactly what do you consider to be “your place”, Mrs Leighton?’ he rasped irritably as he looked across at her with stormy-grey eyes.

Elena chewed on her bottom lip before answering, once again disconcerted, this time by the intensity of that deep-grey gaze. ‘Well, it is certainly not to tell you how you should behave towards your own daughter.’

‘And yet you have not hesitated to do so.’ She gave a wince. ‘And for that I—’

‘Do not apologise to me a second time in as many minutes, Mrs Leighton!’ Adam pushed his chair back noisily as he stood up.

Elena looked up at him warily as he stood glowering down at her. ‘I did not mean to displease you…’

‘No…?’ His expression softened. ‘Then what did you mean to do to me, Mrs Leighton?’

Elena’s pulse leapt at the sound of that huskiness, the lacing of sensuality she heard underlying his tone, his piercing grey gaze now appearing to be transfixed upon her mouth. Disturbing her with sensations she was unfamiliar with.

Elena ran the moistness of her tongue nervously across her lips before speaking. ‘I do not believe I had any intent other than to apologise for speaking to you so frankly about what is a private matter.’

‘No…?’ He was far too overpowering in the smallness of the room. Too large. Too intense. Too overwhelmingly male!

She found herself unable to look away from him, her heart seeming to sputter and falter, before commencing to beat a wild tattoo in her chest. A fact he was well aware of, if the shifting of his gaze to the pulse in her throat was any indication. A gaze that slowly moved steadily downwards before then lingering on the ivory swell of her breasts as she continued to breathe shallowly.

As Miss Magdelena Matthews, she had of course attended assemblies and dinner parties in Yorkshire, as she had many other local social occasions. But her mother had unfortunately died shortly before her coming-out Season two years ago, and her grandfather had not been a man who particularly cared for town or London society, and his visits there had been few and far between, usually only on business or with the intention of attending the House of Lords.

As a consequence, even following her year of mourning for her mother, her grandfather’s preference for the country meant that Magdelena had spent no time at all in London, and so had not learnt how to recognise or to deal with a gentleman’s attentions. Indeed, Elena’s only experience with a gentleman of the ton was of such a traumatic nature that she had feared ever becoming the focus of a male ever again.

Except Adam Hawthorne did not incite that same fear within her…

Rather the opposite.

The warmth she detected in the grey softness of his gaze, as he continued to watch the rise and fall of her bosom, filled her with unaccustomed heat. Her heart once again fluttered wildly and caused her pulse to do likewise, and her breasts—those same breasts he continued to regard so intently—seemed to swell and grow, the rose-coloured tips tingling with the same unaccustomed heat, making the fitted bodice of her gown feel uncomfortably tight.

It was an unexpected, and yet exhilarating, sensation, every inch of her skin hot and almost painfully sensitive, and she felt almost light-headed as she continued to shyly meet his gaze through the sweep of her dark lashes.

Adam had no idea what he was about!

The fact that he had anticipated enjoying Elena Leighton’s stimulating presence for a few hours, her obvious intelligence and sensitivity, did not mean he had to take their relationship any further than that. Indeed, he would be foolish to ever think of doing so.

Not only was she a splendid addition to his household, in that she appeared to have already developed a very caring relationship with his young daughter, but she was in his employ. And whilst some of the male members of the ton might feel few qualms in regard to taking advantage of their pretty and young female household staff, Adam had certainly never done so. Not even at the worst moments of his marriage to Fanny had he stooped to seeking comfort or solace from one of the young women working in any of his own households. Nor was it his intention to start now with this one.

He straightened abruptly. ‘I suggest that we eat the rest of our meal before making an early night of it.’ Adam gave a pained wince as her face became a flushed and fiery red. ‘By that, I meant, of course, that we should then retire to our respective bedchambers.’

‘I did not for a moment suppose you meant anything other, my lord,’ she answered sharply.

Adam pulled his chair out noisily and resumed his seat. ‘Good,’ he growled, more than a little unsettled himself, both by their conversation, and the things which had not been said…

Thankfully Amanda seemed to have recovered fully the following day as they resumed the last part of their journey, the weather warm enough that Elena had been able to lower the windows and so allow some air into the carriage, and also making it possible for Amanda to poke her head out of the window when she saw something that interested her.

Lord Hawthorne had been noticeably absent when Elena and Amanda ate their breakfast earlier in the private parlour of the inn and he had again ridden on ahead once they resumed their journey, no doubt anxious to arrive at his estate so that he might begin to deal with whatever business had brought him to Cambridgeshire in the first place.

Elena sincerely hoped that it had nothing to do with his wishing to avoid her own outspoken company.

She had woken early this morning to the sounds of certain other inhabitants of the inn already being awake: the grooms chatting outside in the cobbled yard as they fed the horses prior to travel and the sounds of food being prepared for the guests in the kitchen below.

A quick glance at the neighbouring bed had shown that Amanda was still asleep, thus allowing Elena the luxury of remaining cosily beneath her own bedcovers for a few minutes longer, as she thought of the time she had spent alone with Adam Hawthorne yesterday evening.

It had taken only those few minutes’ contemplation for Elena to convince herself she had imagined the intimate intensity of his gaze, both on her lips and breasts; her employer was not a man known for displaying desire for women of the ton, let alone the woman who was engaged to care for his daughter.

‘Is it your intention to spend the evening, as well as all of the day, seated inside the carriage, Mrs Leighton?’

Elena’s cheeks were flushed as she came back to an awareness of her present surroundings, looking out of the open carriage door to see Lord Hawthorne standing outside on the gravel looking in at her mockingly. While she’d been lost in contemplation, the carriage had come to a halt in the courtyard in front of two curved-stone staircases leading up from either side to the entrance of Hawthorne Hall. Amanda had already stepped down from the carriage and was even now skipping her way up the staircase on the left to where the huge oak door already stood open in readiness to welcome the master of the house and his entourage.

Elena stepped slowly down from the carriage to look up at the four-storeyed house; it was a grand greystone building, with a tall, pillared portico at the top of the two staircases, with two curved wings abutting the main house, dozens of windows gleaming in the late evening sunshine.

It was, Elena noted with some dismay, a house very like the one at her grandfather’s estate in Yorkshire, where she and her mother had moved to live following the death of Elena’s father, and where the late Duke of Sheffield had met his end so unexpectedly two months ago.

‘Mrs Leighton…?’

She smiled politely as she turned to look at Hawthorne. ‘You have a beautiful home, my lord.’

For some inexplicable reason Adam did not believe her praise of Hawthorne Hall to be wholly sincere. Indeed, the strained look to her mouth and those expressive blue-green eyes convinced him of such.

He turned to look at the house with critical eyes, looking for flaws and finding none. All was completely in order. As it should be, considering the wages he paid his estate manager.

He turned back to Elena Leighton. ‘Then do you suppose we might both be allowed to go inside it now?’ he prompted drily.

‘Of course.’ She nodded distractedly, her smile still strained as she preceded him up the stairs, her dark curls hidden beneath another of those unbecoming black bonnets, her black gown reflective of that drabness.

A drabness that suddenly irritated Adam intensely. ‘If I might be allowed to speak frankly, Mrs Leighton?’ He fell into step beside her as they neared the top of the stairs.

She glanced up at him. ‘My lord?’

‘I intend to ask Mrs Standish to arrange for a local seamstress to call upon you at her earliest convenience.’

A frown appeared between the fineness of her eyes as she came to a halt at the top of the staircase. ‘Mrs Standish, my lord?’

Adam had spent all of his adult life answering to that title—but it had never before irked him in the way it did when this woman addressed him so coolly!

Which was utterly ridiculous—what else should she call him? She was not his social equal, but a paid servant, and as such her form of address to him was perfectly correct. Should he expect her to call him Adam, as if the two of them were friends, or possibly more? Of course he should not!

He scowled his irrational annoyance. ‘She is the housekeeper here and as such in charge of all the female staff, and consequently the clothing they are required to wear within the household.’

Elena’s expression became wary. ‘Yes, my lord…?’

Adam sighed. ‘And I am tired of looking at you in these—these widow’s weeds.’ He indicated her appearance with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘I shall instruct Mrs Standish to see to it that you are supplied with more fitting apparel.’

She raised surprised dark brows. ‘More fitting for what, my lord?’

Oh, to the devil with it! Another of those questions this particular woman seemed to ask and which took Adam into the realms of the unacceptable.

As it did now, as he instantly imagined Elena Leighton as his mistress, all of that glorious ebony hair loose about her shoulders, her naked body covered only by one of those delicate silk negligees Fanny had been so fond of parading about in. Not black as with Fanny, but rather white or the palest cream, in order to set off the almost luminous quality to this woman’s ivory skin and allowing the tips of her breasts to poke invitingly and revealingly against that silky material. What colour would her nipples be? he wondered. A fresh peach, perhaps? Or, more likely, considering the colour of her lips, a deep and blushing rose—

His mouth tightened with self-disgust as he realised that he had once again allowed himself thoughts of this woman that were wholly inappropriate to the relationship that existed between the two of them. ‘For spending so many hours a day with a six-year-girl who has already suffered the loss of her mother, without your own clothing reminding her of death on a daily basis,’ he rasped harshly.

‘Oh!’ She gasped. ‘I had not thought of that! And I should have done so. I am so sorry, my—’

‘I believe I have already made clear my feelings regarding this constant and irritating need you feel to apologise to me for one reason or another.’ Adam looked down the long length of his nose at her.

‘But I should have thought—’

‘Mrs Leighton…’ He barely controlled his impatience at her continued self-condemnation. Damn it, he had thought only to get her out of those horrible clothes—Well, not exactly out of them—Oh, damn it to hell! ‘Mrs Leighton, I am tired and I am irritable, furthermore I am in need of a decent glass of brandy, before sitting down to enjoy an even more decent dinner cooked by my excellent chef here, before then spending a night in my own bed!’

She blinked at his vehemence. ‘I—please do not let me delay you any further.’

‘If you will excuse me, then? Jeffries will see to it that you are shown the nursery and schoolroom as well as your own bedchamber.’

‘As you wish, my lord.’ Her lashes lowered with a demureness Adam viewed with suspicion.

‘It is indeed as I wish.’ He scowled, adding, as she made no further comment, ‘Goodnight, Mrs Leighton.’

‘My lord.’ She nodded without so much as glancing up.

Adam gave her one last irritated glance before entering the house, pausing only long enough to hand his hat and cloak to the patiently waiting Jeffries, before striding down the hallway to his study without so much as a second glance.

Where, Adam sincerely hoped, he would not be haunted by any further lascivious thoughts about the widowed Mrs Elena Leighton.

Chapter Five

‘I believe there has been some sort of mistake…’ Elena viewed with consternation the brightly coloured materials the seamstress had laid out on the chaise in the bedchamber for her approval. They were predominantly green and blue, but there was also a cream silk and a lemon, all with matching lace.

Mrs Hepworth was aged perhaps thirty and prettily plump, that plumpness shown to advantage in a gown of sky blue in a highwaisted style that perfectly displayed her excellence as a seamstress. ‘Mrs Standish was quite specific in her instructions concerning which materials I should bring with me for your approval, Mrs Leighton.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh, yes, I am very sure of Mrs Standish’s instructions, Mrs Leighton,’ the seamstress confirmed cheerfully.

And Mrs Standish, as Elena knew, had received her instructions from the infuriating Lord Hawthorne…

‘Come,’ Adam instructed distractedly as he concentrated on the figures laid out in the ledger before him. The study door opened, then was softly closed again, followed by a lengthy silence. So lengthy that Adam was finally forced to look up beneath frowning brows, that frown easing slightly as he saw a flushed and obviously discomforted Elena Leighton standing in front of his wide mahogany desk. ‘Yes…?’

She moistened her lips. ‘I am not disturbing you, my lord?’

‘I believe you have used the wrong tense, Mrs Leighton—you have obviously already interrupted me,’ he drawled pointedly as he leant back in his chair to look across at her.

He had seen Amanda only briefly these past two days, and her governess not at all, having been kept busy dealing with the myriad of paperwork involved in running the estate. He frowned now as he saw the governess was still wearing one of those unbecoming black gowns that so infuriated him. ‘Has Mrs Standish not yet engaged the services of a seamstress—?’

‘That is the very reason I am here, my lord,’ she rushed into speech. ‘I fear there has been some sort of mistake. The seamstress brought with her materials that are more suited to—to being worn by a lady than a—a child’s governess.’

Adam arched one dark brow. ‘And is that child’s governess not also a lady?’

‘I—well, I would hope to be considered as such, yes.’ Elena looked more than a little flustered. ‘But the materials are of the finest silks and of such an array of colours, when I had been expecting—I had expected—’

‘Yes?’

She bit her lip. ‘I had thought to be wearing serviceable browns, with possibly a beige gown in which to attend church on Sundays.’

Adam gave a wince at the thought of this woman’s ivory skin against such unbecoming shades. ‘That would not do at all, Mrs Leighton.’ His top lip curled with displeasure. ‘Brighter colours, a deep rose, blues and greens, are more suited to your colouring, with perhaps a cream for Sundays.’

Exactly the colours, Elena realised, that the plump Mrs Hepworth had just laid out for her approval.

‘And I am not a churchgoer,’ Adam continued drily, ‘but you may attend if you feel so inclined.’

‘But is it not your duty to attend as—?’ Elena broke off abruptly, aware she had once again almost been inappropriately outspoken in this man’s presence. Inappropriate for the widowed Mrs Elena Leighton, that was. Which, considering she had not set sight on, nor heard sound of Adam Hawthorne these past two days, she probably should not have done.

‘You were saying, madam?’

‘Nothing, my lord.’ It really was not her place to rebuke him for not attending church, even if she knew her grandfather had made it his habit to always attend the Sunday service. Not because he was particularly religious, but because he maintained that conversation afterwards was the best way to mingle with and learn about the people who lived and worked on his estate.

‘This reticence is not what I have come to expect from you, Mrs Leighton,’ he drawled mockingly.

‘No. Well…’ She pursed her lips as she thought of the past two days, the time that had elapsed since she had last irritated him with her outspokenness. ‘Perhaps I am finally learning to practise long-overdue caution in my conversations with you, my lord.’

Adam stared at her in astonishment for several seconds before he suddenly burst out laughing. A low and rusty sound, he acknowledged self-derisively, but it was, none the less, laughter. ‘Did you tend to be this outspoken when you were employed by the Bamburys?’ He continued to smile ruefully.

‘I do not understand.’

Adam knew Lord Geoffrey Bambury slightly, from their occasional clashes in the House in the past, and knew him as a man who believed totally in the superiority of the hierarchy that made up much of society; as such Adam did not see him as a man who would suffer being rebuked by a servant, which the other man would most certainly have considered Elena Leighton’s role to be in his own household.

He shrugged. ‘I merely wondered if I was the exception to the rule as the recipient of this…honesty of yours, or if it is your usual habit to say exactly what is on your mind?’

‘Oh, I do not believe I would go as far as to say I have done that, my lord—oh.’ She grimaced. ‘I meant, of course—’

‘I believe I may guess what you meant, Mrs Leighton,’ Adam said. ‘And as such, I should probably applaud your efforts at exercising some discretion, at least.’

‘Yes. Well.’ Those blue-green eyes avoided meeting his amused gaze.

‘You were about to tell me my religious duty, I believe?’ he prompted softly.

Too softly, in Elena’s opinion; she really did seem to have adopted the habit of speaking above her present station in life to this particular gentleman! Perhaps, on this occasion because she was still slightly disconcerted by the sound and sight of his laughter a few minutes ago…

He had informed her only three evenings ago that he found very little amusement in anything, and yet just now he had laughed outright. Even more startling was how much more handsome, almost boyish, he appeared when he gave in to that laughter.

She swallowed before speaking. ‘Of course I was not, my lord. I just—I merely wondered if attending the local church would not be of real benefit to you, in terms of meeting and talking with the people living on your estate and the local village?’

‘Indeed?’ The suddenly steely edge to his tone was unmistakable.

Elena felt the colour warming Her cheeks. ‘Yes. I—I only remark upon it because I know it was Lord Bambury’s habit to do so.’ Her grandfather and Lord Bambury had discussed that very subject over dinner one evening at Sheffield Park…

Adam raised dark brows over cold grey eyes. ‘And you are suggesting I might follow his example?’

Her cheeks burned at his icy derision. ‘Perhaps we should return to the subject of the materials for my uniform, my lord?’

‘What uniform?’ He looked at her blankly.

Elena’s eyes widened. ‘Did you not say two days ago that it was your wish for me to wear a uniform whilst I am attending Amanda?’

He gave a slow shake of his head. ‘I do not recall ever using the word “uniform” when I made the request for you to wear less sombre clothing in future.’

‘But—’ Elena frowned, thinking back to that conversation when they had arrived at Hawthorne Hall. ‘I assumed…’

He gave a tight smile. ‘It is never wise to make assumptions, Mrs Leighton.’

When it concerned this gentleman, obviously not. ‘So it was your intention all along to supply me with new, prettier gowns, rather than simply a uniform?’

‘Yes.’ There was no mistaking the challenge in his monosyllabic reply.

Elena drew in a sharp breath. ‘And is this—would this be your way of—of circumventing my earlier objections about this matter?’

‘It would, yes.’

Elena clenched her fists tightly to rein in her frustration as Adam Hawthorne continued to look up at her calmly, one eyebrow raised in mocking—and infuriating!—query. ‘In that case…perhaps I might ask something of you in return?’

That dark brow rose even higher. ‘In return for what, madam?’

‘In return for my making no further objections to the procuring of new gowns for me to wear.’ In truth, Elena’s heart had leapt in excitement earlier just at sight of those wonderful colours and delicious fabrics. True, she should out of respect for the recent death of her grandfather insist upon retaining her mourning clothes, but having already worn black for her mother for half a year, and then greys and dull purple for the rest of the year, with only a matter of months to enjoy wearing brighter colours, her youth and vivacity now chafed at thoughts of having to wear the sombre clothing any longer. Especially when she thought of those beautiful coloured silks and exquisite lace draped on the chaise in her bedchamber…

‘In return for?’ Adam felt incredulous. ‘You make it sound as if you are the one doing me a service rather than the other way about?’

She arched a dark brow. ‘And am I not?’

Adam’s lids narrowed. Could this young woman possibly know how much he wished to see her in something other than those unbecoming black gowns she habitually wore? Or preferably in nothing at all!

He drew in a sharp breath. ‘You are being presumptuous again, madam.’

‘If that is so, then I apologise.’ She looked flustered again. ‘I am merely—I only wished to—’ She broke off to gather herself and tried again, more calmly. ‘Several days ago you asked for my help, for suggestions in how you might deal better with your daughter. It is Amanda’s dearest wish to own her own pony and to learn to ride it, my lord.’

Adam stared at her, not sure that he had heard her correctly. Not sure he had ever met anyone quite like Elena Leighton before. ‘Let me see if I understood your terms correctly?’ he spoke slowly. ‘You are willing to accept the new gowns, without fuss, if I agree to buying Amanda a pony and allowing her to learn to ride?’

‘No.’

‘No?’ Adam looked perplexed as he sat forwards. ‘But did you not just say exactly that?’

Elena’s chin rose determinedly. ‘I did say that it is Amanda’s dearest wish to own her own pony and learn to ride, yes. It is also my suggestion that you should be the one to teach her.’ The idea had come to her after those days of travelling into Cambridgeshire, when she had noticed that Amanda seemed the most attentive to the scenery outside when there were horses to be seen grazing in the fields. Several minutes’ casual conversation with her charge had revealed Amanda’s deep love of equines and her secret yearning to own a horse or pony of her own so that she might learn to ride.

The second part of Elena’s suggestion—an inspired one, she had thought!—arose from her conversation with her employer in which he had asked for her help in finding ways of taking more of an interest in his young daughter’s life. The stunned look on his face now would seem to suggest he had not meant that request to be taken quite so literally as this! ‘Would it not be a perfect way for you to spend more time with Amanda, whilst also doing something she would enjoy?’

Adam was starting to wonder if he had not seriously underestimated this young woman, if he had not been fooled, both by her widow’s weeds and her demur demeanour during those first few days in his employ, into thinking that she was both complacent and obliging.

Their last few conversations together had revealed her as being neither of those things!

He stood up to move around the desk until he was able to lean back against it, knowing a certain inner satisfaction as he noted her discomfort at his proximity. At the same time as he recognised, and appreciated, the way in which she remained standing exactly where she was, despite that discomfort, as testament to her spirited nature. ‘Do you ride yourself, Mrs Leighton?’

She gave him a quick glance before as quickly glancing away again, a blush to her cheeks. ‘Why do you ask?’

The reason Adam asked was because the more time he spent in this woman’s company, the more convinced he became that there was something about her, an inborn ladylike elegance and a certain self-confidence, which did not sit well with her role as paid governess to a young girl.

She had also had no difficulty whatsoever in recognising that the seamstress had brought with her the finest silks for her approval, as Adam had instructed, rather than the inferior ones which might normally have been requested in such circumstances. Adam seriously doubted that most employers would ever buy expensive silks for a woman who was a member of their household staff. Unless that woman was also his mistress…

Of course he knew nothing of Elena Leighton’s life before her employment with the Bamburys, so she could have been the daughter of an aristocrat, who had eloped with her soldier husband, for all Adam knew of that situation; he could certainly more easily believe that to be this elegantly lovely woman’s history than he could see her as having been the daughter of an impoverished vicar or a shopkeeper!

He looked down the length of his nose at her. ‘Do I need to give a reason in order to ask a question of one of my household staff?’

‘No. Of course you do not.’ The colour deepened in her cheeks—as if she had once again briefly forgotten that was now her place in life? he wondered. ‘But to answer your question—yes, I have ridden since I was a child, my lord. I only thought this might be the perfect opportunity in which you might give pleasure to Amanda, whilst at the same time allowing you to spend more time with her.’

Adam’s mouth twisted derisively. There was definitely something about this young woman—her background before she married Private Leighton?—which Adam found himself becoming more and more interested in knowing.

That, in itself, was unexpected…

His brief marriage to Fanny had succeeded in revealing all too clearly the many vagaries of human nature to him—the lies, the greed, the utter selfishness—until his own character, out of self-protection perhaps, had become that of the true cynic, to the extent that Adam rarely saw good in people any more—most especially the female of the species.

For whatever reason, Elena Leighton remained a mystery to him, yet at the same time there was a burning honesty about her, a determination, a desire to right injustice—such as she perceived his own lack of interest in Amanda to be. It was so at odds with the selfishness Adam had come to believe to be the motivation behind every human action—even his own, to a great extent, an example being that he had dragged his daughter and her companion off to the wilds of Cambridgeshire, in the middle of the Season, with the intention of dealing with matters on the estate, but also for the purpose of escaping the matchmaking machinations of his own grandmother!

Yes, he had become both selfish and cynical these past six years. And yet…And yet this little governess had brought something to life in him that was neither of those things, a desire not to act in his own interest, but instead for the pleasure of others. A desire to please her that had nothing to do with the physical attraction he felt towards her…

Adam straightened abruptly before moving back round his desk and sitting down behind it, his tone cool and controlled when at last he spoke. ‘The seamstress will think you have forgotten about her.’

In truth, Elena had forgotten that lady’s presence upstairs in her bedchamber during this past few minutes’ conversation. Indeed, she had forgotten everything but the disturbing gentleman who now looked across the desk at her so disdainfully. A gentleman who suddenly looked so very different to the handsomely boyish one who had burst into spontaneous laughter only minutes earlier…

‘And Amanda’s pony and riding lessons?’

His mouth thinned. ‘I will see what can be arranged.’

Elena’s heart sank in disappointment as she turned to leave, inwardly knowing that any ‘arrangements’ Adam Hawthorne chose to make about Amanda’s riding lessons were unlikely to include him.

‘And, Mrs Leighton…?’

She turned back slowly, her expression wary. ‘Yes?’

He sighed his exasperation. ‘You have a look on your face like that of a beast in fear of being whipped!’

Elena stiffened in outrage. ‘I trust that is not the case?’

‘It was not a personal threat, madam, but a figure of speech!’ Adam scowled, knowing he had once again been wrong-footed by this exasperating woman.

‘Then it was an exceedingly unpleasant one,’ she protested.

Adam gritted his back teeth together so tightly he feared they might snap out of his jaw, knowing he should not have delayed her departure from his study, but let her return upstairs to the attentions of the seamstress. And he would have done so, if not for the look of disappointment on her face after he had dismissed both her and her request that he be the one to teach Amanda to ride.

He took a steadying breath. ‘I believe you take delight in misunderstanding me!’

She raised dark brows. ‘I assure you, I take no delight at all in imagining you—or, indeed, anyone else—whipping an innocent beast of any kind.’

‘I merely said—’ Adam rose to his feet once again to round the desk with a sudden burst of frustrated energy before grasping her by the slenderness of her shoulders and shaking her slightly to emphasise his next words. ‘I have never been a party to whipping a woman, man, nor beast, damn it!’

‘I am glad to hear it.’ Her voice had softened huskily.

Bringing Adam to an awareness of the fact that he still had hold of her by the shoulders, that he could feel the delicacy of her bones through the thin material of her black gown, the soft pads of his thumbs actually touching the silky softness of the flesh just above the ivory swell of her breasts…

And it was very silky skin, so soft and smooth as Adam lowered his gaze to watch as he gave in to the temptation to run the pads of his thumbs caressingly over that delectable flesh, his hands appearing dark and very big against that delicate and unblemished ivory.

Standing this close to Elena, he could once again smell lemons, and something lightly floral, the top of her dark head barely reaching his shoulders, her figure slender in any case, but appearing more so when measured against his own height and breadth. Even the firm swell of her breasts, above the scooped neckline of her gown, was delicately tempting rather than voluptuous.

Damn it, he should have stayed seated behind his desk, safely removed from that temptation! Should never have—His gaze became riveted on the full pout of Elena’s mouth as she ran the moist tip of her tongue nervously across her lips whilst looking up at him from between silky dark lashes.

‘My lord…?’

Adam drew in a deep, controlling breath even as he closed his eyes in an effort not to look at those now moist lips. Moist and utterly kissable lips. ‘Do not—Elena…!’ he groaned huskily in defeat as he opened his eyes and saw she had now caught her bottom lip between tiny, pearly-white teeth.

Her eyes widened slightly, those long, dark lashes framing those blue-green orbs, her throat moving when she swallowed as Adam slowly began to draw her closer towards him. ‘My lord…?’ she whispered again.

‘Adam,’ he encouraged gruffly.

Elena would have protested his request for such informality—if he had not chosen that moment to draw her closer still before lowering his head and she felt the gentle, intimate touch of his lips against the curve of her throat.

Surprisingly warm and sensuous lips, considering how cold and abrupt this man so often was. Instead of the fear and recoil that she might have been expected to feel, after Neville’s harsh treatment of her, Elena relaxed into the safety of Adam Hawthorne’s arms, safe in the knowledge that he was not a man to ever use force on any woman.

It was at once a surprise and yet the most thrilling experience of her lifetime, to be held by and touching Adam so intimately, and to feel the warmth of his breath heating her flesh, even as his lips tasted and caressed the slender column of her throat, the gentle bite of his teeth on her earlobe causing her to tremble as her breath hitched in her throat.

Her breasts became full, the tips full and sensitive, as those warm lips trailed along the line of her jaw before finally claiming her parted mouth in a deep and searching kiss that caused the heat to course through her, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, settling at that secret, intimate place between her thighs. Elena’s head was swirling, thought impossible, denial even more so as Adam’s hands moved down from her shoulders to encircle her waist as he crushed her against him, his lips even more fiercely demanding against her own.

Then, just as suddenly, his mouth was wrenched away as he put her firmly apart from him before releasing her. Elena stumbled slightly as she attempted to regain her balance on legs that seemed to have all the substance of jelly, her lips feeling bruised and swollen, her cheeks flushed, breasts full and aching inside the bodice of her gown.

Elena blinked several times as she attempted to focus on Adam, only to step back in alarm as she found herself looking into the hard grey chips of ice that were his eyes.

‘That was a mistake on more levels than I care to contemplate,’ he rasped harshly, his face all sharp and disapproving angles, the tousled darkness of his hair the only indication that moments ago this man had kissed her, as Elena had kissed him back, and her fingers had become passionately entangled in his thick raven locks.

‘A mistake…?’ She felt a sharp tightening in her chest almost akin to pain, knowing that she felt the opposite, that kissing Adam had been the most wonderful of pleasures, more delicious than she had ever dared to hope a kiss ever could be. A kiss so unlike the ones her cousin had forced upon her—

No!

There were some things Elena could not—would not think about.

‘On so many, many levels,’ Adam repeated grimly as he saw the way in which her face had paled.

No doubt in reaction to the realisation that her employer had just kissed her with an intimacy and passion totally unacceptable to her, or the disparity in their social positions. Not that the raging of his libido cared one way or the other about that, but Adam must!

‘For which you have my heartfelt apology,’ he added, mortified with himself. ‘I do not know—it was not my intention—it will not happen again,’ he vowed.

At least, Adam would do what he could to ensure that it did not happen again! In truth, he was not sure how it had happened a first time…

There had been perhaps a dozen or so women in his life since Fanny died, women he had spent a few hours of intimacy with and never seen again. Beautiful as Elena might be, for him to have stepped over that line, for him to not only have felt desire for one of his own servants, but to have acted upon it, was totally unacceptable to him. Quite how he was going to feel, to react to her, once she had ceased wearing these unbecoming gowns, he dare not think. With decency and restraint, it was to be hoped. But—

‘You were about to say something earlier as I began to leave the room…?’

Adam scowled as he tried to remember what she was referring to, his mind and body both still dominated by only one thought: his desire for her.

Ah, yes…‘I believe I was about to suggest that a riding habit might also be a useful addition to your wardrobe.’

Her eyes widened dubiously. ‘A riding habit, my lord?’

His jaw tightened. ‘Yes. Perhaps in turquoise or blue?’ he found himself adding—before instantly castigating himself for caring what the colour of her riding habit should be.

‘Very well, my lord.’ She looked at him for several seconds longer, before giving a brief curtsy. ‘If you will excuse me, I must return to the schoolroom.’

‘And the seamstress.’

‘Indeed.’ She did not look at him again before leaving.

Adam frowned darkly once Elena had departed his study, knowing that he had made life decidedly uncomfortable for himself just now.

The throbbing ache in his groin spoke of his obvious physical discomfort, but it was the inner dissatisfaction, with his own completely uncharacteristic behaviour of making love to a female servant in his own household, and Elena’s reaction to it once she had found the time and privacy in which to reflect, which caused Adam to continue to soundly castigate himself.

Elena might choose to believe that he did not take enough of an interest in his daughter or her life, but Adam knew enough to know that Amanda had been happier in recent weeks, more contented, since the advent of her new governess into her life.

His unacceptable behaviour just now might have put that in jeopardy if, on reflection, Elena should decide that she could not continue working for a man who attempted to take liberties with her.

There was another aspect to consider, Adam realised with a heavy heart, and that was his loss of control in kissing her at all. A loss of control he certainly did not welcome. Most especially with a woman he was fast beginning to suspect was much more than she seemed.

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