He saw only her

A slender figure in lilac, her pale oval face framed by dusky curls above full, petal-pink lips. When she raised inquiring violet eyes to meet his mesmerized gaze, a frisson of pure energy flashed between them, rocking him to his toes and riveting him, speechless, to the spot.

A faint scent of lavender teased his nose. His heartbeat stopped, then stampeded. Aftershocks darted to every nerve. “Perfection!” he whispered, his voice unsteady.

As if compelled, Evan walked toward her, only dimly aware of shouldering aside a heavyset matron who appeared to be conversing with the Vision. “Lord Cheverley, Madame Emilie.” Seizing her hand, he brought it to his lips.

He felt it again, that…current, passing between them. By the faint pinking of her porcelain cheeks, Evan knew she must have felt it as well….

MILLS & BOON

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Praise for Julia Justiss’s debut historical romance title

THE WEDDING GAMBLE

“The setting and dialogue of Julia Justiss’s novel of manners are top of the type…scintillating, thoroughly engaging…”

—Romantic Times Magazine

“I truly enjoyed this new author’s debut novel.”

—Old Book Barn Gazette

A SCANDALOUS PROPOSAL

Harlequin Historical

DON’T MISS THESE OTHER

TITLES AVAILABLE NOW:

#531 ONE CHRISTMAS WISH

Carolyn Davidson, Judith Stacy & Theresa Michaels

#533 MY LORD DE BURGH

Deborah Simmons

#534 THE RELUCTANT TUTOR

Paula Hampton

A Scandalous Proposal
Julia Justiss

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Available from Harlequin Historicals and JULIA JUSTISS

The Wedding Gamble #464

A Scandalous Proposal #532

To critique partners

Theresa Scardina, Louise Harper and Kathy Cowan,

for their exceptional advice and even more

exceptional friendship.

To the published authors of RWA-ETC, who have

given unstinting assistance and support, particularly

RWA Lifetime Achievement Award winner

Roz Alsobrook, Sheli Nelson (Rachelle Morgan),

Eve Gaddy and the best conference roomie ever,

Lenora Nazworth (Lenora Worth).

With deepest thanks and gratitude.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Prologue

Emily Spenser crept along the shrub-shadowed edge of the garden at the center of St. James Square. After years of fierce Portuguese sun, the damp morning chill seeped into her bones, and she shivered despite her woolen shawl. Halting at the corner, she pressed herself deeper into the overhang of branches and scrutinized the town house opposite.

Was the knocker off the door? Given the distance and the swirling mist, she couldn’t be sure. The windows overlooking the square were certainly shuttered, but as it was barely past dawn, that didn’t necessarily indicate the owner was out of town.

Cautiously she retraced her steps, crossed the square behind the shelter of garden, and slipped to the mews beyond. Heart hammering at her ribs, she made herself enter the back gate. Surely at a great house like this, where vendors and suppliers came and went constantly, in her shop girl’s apron and mobcap she would attract no special notice.

A soft lull of voices emanated from behind the half-open door of the kitchen wing. Gathering her courage, she hurried across the deserted stable yard, knocked once and entered.

A knot of workers gathered around the glowing hearth, mugs of steaming brew in hand. Picking out an older woman with keys hanging at her waist, Emily dipped a curtsey.

“I’ve a parcel for his lordship,” she announced, mimicking the broad accent of the Hampshire peasantry among whom she’d grown up. “Mistress says as how I was to deliver it personal.”

“Lawks, missy, you’ve a far piece to walk, then,” the woman replied with a laugh. “He ain’t in Lunnon now.”

Damping down a rush of relief, Emily made herself utter instead a dismayed squeak. “But Mistress’ll box my ears iff’n I don’t get this to ’im. He be back today, ma’am?”

“Not likely. Seein’s how he sent half the staff on holiday, tellin’ ’em he’d fetch ’em back later, we don’t expect ’im anytime soon.”

Emily couldn’t believe her luck. “He be gone that long?” she asked faintly.

“Aye. Last week, you mighta caught ’im, but he left out suddenlike, and Mr. Daryrumple—that’s the butler, lass—told us he’d not be returnin’ afore Easter, ’n likely not afore summer.”

Emily hid her excitement behind a woebegone look. “Mistress’ll be that unhappy.”

“Nay, don’t fret yourself. She canna expect you to make here what’s gone by wishin’ it. A reg’lar dragon, is she?” The woman clucked. “Have a mug o’tea and rest your bones, then, afore you go back to face ’er.”

“Thank ’ee kindly, ma’am, but I daren’t. Mistress’ll rap my knuckles iff’n I’m not back by seven.”

Amid sympathetic murmurs from the staff and a general grumble about the unreasonableness of employers, Emily bobbed another curtsey and made her way out.

Once outside the back gate, she tore off her servant’s mobcap, threw it in the air and hugged herself fiercely.

He was not in London. She could begin.

Chapter One

“Fetch a bonnet for your mother? My, what a dutiful son!”

Evan Mansfield, Earl of Cheverley, widened the swinging arc of his walking stick just enough to whack the speaker behind his ankle. Over the ensuing yelp, he replied, “Since your own mother had the good sense to expire when you were an infant, you have no idea how to care for a lady.”

Grinning as his friend Brent Blakesly shot him a baleful glance, he continued, “Actually, Mama intended to collect the bonnet herself, but I wouldn’t hear of it. She’s not yet fully recovered from that putrid cold. There’s no need for you to come, though. Why not hie on to White’s, and order us wine? Charge it to my account.” Evan directed a look at Brent’s ankle. “’Twill ease the pain.”

Brent’s frown smoothed. “Feel better already. Mind you hurry. I should hate to drink all your wine before you arrive.” Tipping his hat, Blakesly set off.

“I’ll not be long,” Evan called after him. “Madame Emilie’s shop is just off Bond Street.”

Brent halted in midstep. “Madame Emilie?”

When Evan nodded, his friend strode back. “On second thought, I’ll accompany you. Let’s be off, shall we?”

Evan raised his eyebrows. “What possible reason could you have for visiting a bonnet shop?”

“Let’s just say I might find it…interesting.”

As they strolled, Evan pressed him again, but Brent would vouchsafe nothing further, only shaking his head and saying Evan must see for himself.

After a few minutes, they reached the neat shop front. Entering to the tinkle of a warning bell, Evan murmured to Brent, “Shall I now discover what great myster—”

A tall woman in the shop’s shadowed interior turned toward them. As Evan’s eyes adjusted to the relative darkness, the rest of his sentence dissolved on his lips.

Shapes and colours blurred; the mutter of voices faded to a distant hum. He saw only Her: a slender figure in lilac, her pale oval face framed by dusky curls above full, petal-pink lips. When she raised inquiring violet eyes to meet his mesmerized gaze, a frisson of pure energy flashed between them, rocking him to his toes and riveting him, speechless, to the spot.

A faint scent of lavender teased his nose. His heartbeat stopped, then stampeded.

“Damme, Ev, she’s as enchanting as Willoughby claimed!”

At his friend’s awed undertone, Evan shook his gaze free. Aftershocks darted to every nerve. “She’s perfection,” he agreed, his voice unsteady.

“Fortunate sod, to have a perfectly unexceptional reason to speak with her,” Brent murmured. “Well, get on with it!” He gave the earl a shove.

In truth, Evan could not have stayed away. As if compelled, he walked toward her, only dimly aware of shouldering aside a heavyset matron who appeared to be conversing with the Vision. “Lord Cheverley, Madame Emilie.” Seizing her hand, he brought it to his lips.

He felt it again, that…current, passing between them. By the faint pinking of her porcelain cheeks, Evan knew Madame must have felt it as well.

Amazingly, she gave no other sign, her pansy eyes expressionless now as she fixed a cool gaze upon him. After a moment, she frowned and tugged at her gloved hand, which he continued to retain in rather too tight a grip.

With a mumbled apology, he released it.

“Lord Cheverley?” she repeated in cultured tones. Then her forehead smoothed. “Ah, yes. I received the note from your lady mother, and her bonnet is ready. A moment only, my lord.”

With a nod to him, she turned to the stout woman beside her, who was regarding Evan with a frosty air of outrage. “Lady Stanhope, I’m honored the bonnet pleases you, and grateful for your patronage. Now, if you will excuse me?” She made a deep curtsey. With a disdainful sniff in Evan’s direction, the client stalked off.

“This way, my lord.”

He followed Madame closely toward a small office, his eyes glued on her graceful sway of hip. When she halted inside the door, he nearly ran into her.

She turned to him with a quizzical look, her long, alabaster fingers holding out something. “Is the bonnet acceptable, my lord? Shall I box it?”

The fullness of her moving lips, the tantalizing glimpse of tongue fascinated him. Her subtle lavender scent, stronger now, clouded his brain. A nearly overpowering urge filled him to touch that ivory cheek, to feel those lips yielding under his own. He would pursue her elusive tongue into its warm wet haven, trace his fingers toward that swell of bosom…. His body hardened and moisture broke out on his brow.

“Yes, well. Mama…I’m sure,” he murmured from within a suddenly too tight neckcloth, trying to yank his thoughts back to conversational channels. “’Tis fine—exquisite. The, ah, bonnet.”

Madame arched a dark eyebrow and studied him. Evan gazed back, thinking he could stare forever into the depths of those wood-violet eyes. No, more like sweet violets, or the pure blue-tinted petals of an unfolding Dutch iris.

Then the tempting lips curved into a half smile, and he realized with a jolt what a perfect idiot he must appear. Before he could try to make a recovery, Madame Emilie handed him a hatbox. “Please convey to Lady Cheverley my gratitude for the great honor of her patronage. Good day, my lord.”

She curtseyed, then nudged him toward the door. The touch of her gloved hand seemed to sizzle through the layers of cloth, leaving him once again speechless.

When coherency returned, he found himself standing beside Brent on the street outside the shop. An elaborately painted iron hat with the words Madame Emilie swung gently from its bracket above him.

“Bouleversé, were you?” Blakesly looked him up and down and chuckled. “Can’t recall seeing you so thrown off your stride by a woman since that ballet dancer years ago, when we first came down from Oxford.”

Evan shook his head, not sure himself what had just transpired. His hands and feet tingled, as if he’d been in the proximity of lightning. “The dancer couldn’t hold a candle.”

“No, indeed.” Brent gave a wistful sigh. “But come. To recover, I recommend a strong liquid restorative.”

Though his feet moved in the direction of St. James, Evan’s glance kept straying back to the shop. “What does Willoughby know of her? Tell me!”

“Aye, your lordship!” Brent snapped a mock salute. “But ’tis little enough. She’s a fairly recent widow, to judge by the half-mourning she wears.”

“Half-mourning?”

“You didn’t notice?” Brent laughed. “I expect you were too busy envisioning her undressed. Though I must warn you, based on the bit Willoughby knew, if you’ve seduction in mind, you’re likely to be disappointed. Seems St. Clair discovered her first, and his whole set of bucks started dropping by her shop on the slenderest of pretexts.”

“St. Clair?” Evan sniffed derisively.

“Indeed. Knowing St. Clair, the hints were probably none too subtle, but she apparently turned down every invitation to tea or dinner or the theater. In fact, Willoughby says, no one got more from her than civil words about ordering bonnets for their womenfolk. He concluded she must be middle-class and hopelessly virtuous.”

Evan gave him a sharp glance. “You seem to have listened closely. Rather unusual for you to display so much interest in a woman.”

Brent returned a hard stare. “And you? Surely you’re not considering setting up a new flirt, after just ridding yourself of La Tempestina. Besides, I thought when Richard left to rejoin Wellington you promised to drag Andrea to town. Didn’t you two have some sort of…understanding?”

“Nothing formal. You know how shy she’s grown since her accident. I just assured her that if she didn’t find anyone else to her fancy by the end of the Season, she could always marry me. But—” he waved a hand dismissively “—that’s a long way off. Have you an interest in Madame?”

“I’d hardly have much of a chance.” Brent twisted his lips into a wry smile. “If she wouldn’t consider St. Clair and all his blunt, she’s not likely to grant her favors to an untitled younger son with a modest competence. Now you, on the other hand—” he made a sweeping gesture “—might breach the citadel. Rich, handsome, society’s darling—”

“Stubble it,” Evan growled. “I must find some reason to return—oh, blazes, what a sapskull!” He halted abruptly.

“What is it?”

“I was supposed to tell her Mama wanted to commission another bonnet, but I was so busy making a cloth-headed cake of myself, I forgot. Nor did I settle the account.” His irritation dissolved in a grin. “Well, I’ll just have to go back immediately to rectify that. And redeem myself as well. At the moment, she must think me a mutton-headed idiot. I’ll meet you at White’s.”

He paced off so swiftly, Blakesly had to run to catch up. “Wait, Ev! The shop’s probably closed by now.”

Evan shrugged off his friend’s hand. Not even to himself could he explain his irresistible compulsion to see Madame Emilie again, now, immediately. “She can’t have left yet. We’ve only just departed, and she had other customers. Go on—I’ll see you shortly.”

Brent fell behind, chuckling. “Don’t need to tell me when I’m de trop. All right, I’ll see you later,” he called after Evan. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you if you encounter nothing more amorous than a bolted shop door!”

Emily Spenser sighed after the figure of her last departing customer. Mrs. Wiggins might be a nouveau riche, name-dropping mushroom, but at least her closeness to her middle-class roots led her to pay her bills on time. Unlike most of the Upper Ten Thousand who frequented her shop.

Emily dropped into the chair behind her small desk and pulled out a bag, inserting Mrs. Wiggins’s money. She could hear Francesca bustling about overhead, singing softly in Portuguese as she fixed her mistress’s tea. Maybe a warm drink would soothe her jangled nerves.

Not as much as a few dozen more clients with ready cash would, she thought ruefully. She much preferred hard coin to the heated glances of that last titled gentleman. Indeed, she wished fervently that Lady Cheverley herself had collected the purchase. Her ladyship, though of impeccable ton, always paid upon delivery.

He’d surprised her, though, Lady Cheverley’s son. Given the still-youthful beauty of the mother, Emily had been expecting a mere stripling. Certainly not the tall, broad-shouldered gentleman who’d seemed to fill her little office, dwarfing her and his surroundings, while his smoky gaze hinted at far-from-juvenile pleasures.

An altogether arresting man, she admitted, assuming one was susceptible to that sort of thing. Which, of course, she was not. Nonetheless, a sudden vision of the fiery sparkle in a pair of dark blue eyes sent a little chill skittering down her spine. One that was but a faint echo of the…she refused to put a name to the sensation that had seized her when he’d first gazed at her, when she’d casually touched his sleeve.

In any event, she should mistrust such looks. What she required was honest payment for her labors, not another dose of the degrading innuendo she’d already endured from others of Lord Cheverley’s ilk. Though she’d mastered the art of masking her outrage and gracefully turning such remarks aside, the insult of those veiled offers still rankled.

Resolutely she looked back to the ledger. Neat figures recorded the sums demanded for buckram padding, felt stuff, straw and lace, trims of feathers, silk tassels, satin and cording. When she’d calculated the amount necessary to run her millinery business, she’d not envisioned a clientele of fashionables who seemed more willing to wager their blunt on silver loo and faro than to pay their haberdashers.

Well, she’d simply have to retrench. She’d not survived long bitter months in that Portuguese village watching Andrew die by inches, then a year of painting aristocratic portraits across the length and breadth of Spain, only to succumb to despair a few bare months after returning to England.

Somehow they would earn enough to pay Drew’s tutor and save for his eventual tuition at school. Drew, the best and most beautiful reminder of her life with Andrew. The image of her son’s face, mischievous light glowing in green eyes so like his papa’s, warmed her troubled heart and sent the gray tide of grief and worry receding. A bittersweet backwash of longing followed.

With resignation she quelled it. Having him here with her was impossible, she knew. An aristocrat’s son who would one day return to an aristocrat’s life could not live over a shop. Reminding herself of that fact each Sunday as she left after a too-brief visit at the genteel home of his tutor, Father Edmund, did little to ease the ache of loss.

Best, she told herself briskly, that she cast off maudlin thoughts and concentrate on her task: ensuring their survival, stockpiling funds and keeping Drew hidden from the threat that would rip from her even those precious few hours with him.

The tinkling of the entry bell interrupted her. Though she’d neglected to bolt the door, ’twas past regular business hours, and she wondered which tardy customer was paying her a visit. Hopefully one with pockets full of sovereigns, she thought as she summoned a welcoming smile.

Before she could exit her office, a burly figure entered. Her smile faded.

“Mr. Harding,” she said in a chilly voice. “Your employer requires something? The next rent payment isn’t due for a sennight.”

“’Afternoon, ma’am.” Short, stocky, with hulking shoulders and a barrel chest, Josh Harding ambled toward her. She stepped away from his advance across her cramped office, until he had her backed up against her desk.

His insolent leer as he deliberately looked her up and down made her fingers itch to slap his face. “No, it ain’t rent time, but being a business lady—” he gave the word scornful emphasis “—ya musta’ learnt there’s other expenses to keepin’ a shop healthy. Like makin’ sure ya gets protected from the raff ’n scaff what might try to rob honest folk.”

Emily thought of the cash bag on the desk behind her. “Indeed? I was assured ’twas a fine neighborhood. The high rent certainly supports that conclusion. Did your employer dissemble when he assured me ’twas so?”

Mr. Harding grinned, showing a gap between uneven, tobacco-stained teeth. “Even in fine neighborhoods, ya needs protection. My boss means to see ya gets it—for a small fee, a’ course. He figures annuder ten pounds a month should do the trick.”

“Ten pounds a—!” Emily gasped. “’Tis preposterous! Rather than pay such a price, if protection is truly needed, I shall unearth my late husband’s pistol and provide it myself! Thank your employer for his kind offer, but I couldn’t possibly afford it.”

“Mayhap ya can’t afford to be without.” Harding stepped to her worktable, reaching out to stroke the satin and velvet of an incomplete hat. She bit back the command that he keep his grimy hands off it.

“Things…happen sometimes, to them what don’t get protection,” he was saying. “Didya hear about that dress shop over on Fiddler’s Way? Burnt to the ground last week. Lost ever’thin, poor wench what owned it. Thought protection come at too dear a price, she did. Deal of a lot cheaper than starting over, though, I ’spect.”

Emily stiffened. “I believe what you’re suggesting is called extortion.”

Mr. Harding shrugged. “Never much on book learnin’.” He stared directly into her eyes. “Best remember that dress shop, little lady.”

Emily pressed her lips together. She could barely meet her expenses now—raising another ten pounds a month would be impossible. Besides, this was clearly illegal. How dare this bully try to intimidate her?

She straightened and turned to Mr. Harding. He lounged against the table, watching her, the trace of a mocking smile on his full lips. She felt anger flush her cheeks.

“Tell your master I cannot avail myself of his—protection. Advise him also that such threats are illegal, and I shall go to the authorities should he persist.”

To her fury, Harding’s grin widened. “Oh, I wouldn’t advise ya t’do that, ma’am. Knows a powerful lot a’ folk, does Mr. Harrington. How ya think he got to buy up so many lots hereabouts where all the nobs spends their blunt?”

His small eyes beginning to shine, he approached her again. “Now, ya needn’t fret, little lady. For special cases like yourn, old Josh here’s got another answer. Be nice to me, an’ we can talk about that ten pounds a month.”

Licking his lips, he seized her with one beefy arm. Foul panting breath descended toward her.

Bracing herself against the desk, she thrust him back. “Take your hands off me, Mr. Harding. Go peddle your threats amongst the streetwalkers of Covent Garden.”

He held on, his look turning ugly. “Think yerself too good for the likes a’ Josh Harding? Fancy one of them fine gentlemen as is always sniffing ’round yer skirts? Well, I been watchin’, an’ ain’t none of ’em stayed ’round to keep ya company. Nor will any, once they cast their peepers on this.” He showed her the bunched fist of his free hand. “So ya best be nicer, little lady.”

He yanked her roughly against him and plastered his heavy wet mouth on hers. His tongue probed her firmly closed lips and one hand fumbled at her breast, fingers groping the nipple.

Outraged, she shoved at him with all her might, managing to push him back enough to prepare a stinging slap.

He caught her hand and held her motionless. His eyes gleamed brighter, his breathing quickened and he laughed, the sound low in his throat like a growl. “Sweetheart, ya don’t even know how.” Before she could think to struggle, with one burly fist he backhanded her across the mouth.

The blow spun her into the desk, smashing her hip against its oaken surface. A hot trickle dripped from her stinging lip. Frightened but furious, she groped with trembling hands for some sort of weapon. Seizing the heavy glass inkwell, she moved it behind her and straightened to face Harding.

Utterly nonchalant, he was walking away. After two steps, he paused to make her an exaggerated bow. “Ya think about them offers. Both of ’em. ’Cause I can promise ya, little lady, yer problems is just beginnin’.”

A man strode in, then halted. “Madame Emilie?”

Hand clenched on her weapon, she whirled toward the door. In that first instant she saw not one of Harding’s cohorts, but a figure whose fashionable attire proclaimed him a gentleman even as her mind registered the cultured tone of his speech. In the next moment, she recognized Lady Cheverley’s son. Relief coursed through her.

“Excuse me, I didn’t realize you had a customer,” he said, his dubious gaze fixed on Mr. Harding.

Averting the injured side of her face, she released the inkwell and tried to gather her composure. “N-not at all, Lord Cheverley. The man was just leaving.”

After subjecting the nobleman to a careful inspection, during which he must have noted his superior height and obvious strength, Harding defiantly curled one hand into a fist. “When I gets ready, little lady. When I gets ready.”

Cheverley glanced coldly from Harding’s hand to the man’s swarthy face. “I believe the lady asked you to depart. Immediately.”

For a moment, the two men’s gazes locked. Then Harding shrugged, letting his fingers fall open. “Makes no matter. Just remember, when all the fancy toffs be gone, Josh Harding’ll be here.” He sauntered to the doorway and tipped his hat mockingly. “Ya got my word on it, little lady.”

“Was the ruffian disturbing you?” Lord Cheverley walked toward her as the shop door closed behind Harding. Two paces away, he must have caught sight of her bleeding lip, for he stopped short. “That villain struck you? By God, I’ll cut him down!” He spun on his heel.

Emily grabbed his sleeve. “Please, my lord, ’tis not your concern. Let him go.”

Lord Cheverley paused. Emily could feel the tension in the coiled muscles beneath her fingers. The scent of shaving soap and warm male filled her nostrils. She had a sudden, dizzying perception of the leashed power within the body towering over her, and for an instant she felt almost—safe. Like with Andrew.

Bitter memory flooded her, and her grip on his sleeve slackened. Giving her head a shake, she pushed the surging emotions back and fumbled for some rational comment. “Y-you wished something else? Did the bonnet not suit?”

“You must allow me to pursue him!” Cheverley pulled away from her hand. “I cannot permit the blackguard to get away with such an insult.”

“He was only delivering a message—rather crudely, I admit—from his employer. But my trivial affairs cannot concern you. With what can I assist you, my lord?”

“Should I not rather ask you that?”

Emily opened her lips to explain, then closed them. She had carried her own burdens for so long, ’twas vastly tempting to pour out her troubles to this seemingly strong, intelligent and interested stranger. But he is a stranger, she reminded herself. He is not Andrew.

“Is the man’s employer threatening you over some matter of business?”

Emily hesitated. The Earl of Cheverley could have no real interest in her…except, she thought, as she remembered the blatant admiration on his face earlier, of the same sort Harding had so crudely expressed. She pushed the degrading notion aside. Then again, his lordship might well serve as magistrate for his county. Perhaps she might chance requesting legal advice. She looked up to find him smiling.

“Come, after so distressing an encounter, you must sit.” Tentatively, he took her arm. With a sigh she let him lead her to the chair.

“Now, please allow me to help.” There being no other perch in the tiny office, he indicated a cleared space on the desktop. “May I?”

At his continued solicitude, her scruples collapsed. Nodding acquiescence, she let him seat himself, and briefly recited the facts of her encounter with Mr. Harding.

“I cannot be sure he really spoke for his employer. It could be that he works this game on his own, to augment his income, and Mr. Harrington would be shocked and disapproving should I inform him of it.”

“Perhaps.” Lord Cheverley frowned thoughtfully. “He’d probably express outrage in any event. But if this Harrington is indeed in collusion, confronting him might bring down immediate harm of the sort you’ve just suffered. You must not risk that.”

“I shall have to risk it. I cannot pay, and I certainly don’t wish to—well, I shall have to settle it sometime. Better sooner than later.”

“Have you no family, preferably broad of muscle and deep of pocket, to take care of this matter?”

In her rattled state, that simple question shredded the ragged bonds restraining memory. A tide of hurt, betrayal, pain and grief flooded forth. She struggled to stem it, for a moment unable to utter a word. Despite her efforts, one tear escaped. “No one,” she managed to whisper.

“Dear lady, you mustn’t distress yourself!” Cheverley leaned forward, his forehead puckered in concern. “I shall look into this personally. My solicitor will check out the gentlemen, and I’ll have him round up some off-duty runners to keep an eye on your shop. I doubt that ham-fisted coward would dare make a move if he sees able-bodied men on guard.”

When she started to protest, he waved her to silence. “No disagreement. We cannot have brigands going about menacing honest citizens. Besides, my mother would insist, for she holds you in the highest regard. As do I.”

“But you barely know me.”

“Everything I needed to know, I learned the moment I looked into your eyes.”

His low voice vibrated with emotion. Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, she turned away. “Don’t misunderstand, I don’t wish to appear ungrateful, but I…” She flushed. “I simply cannot afford to pay your solicitor, much less hire runners. As Mr. Harding well knows.”

Cheverley made a dismissive gesture. “Don’t trouble yourself. I shall take care of it.”

“Oh, but you don’t understand!” Humiliation deepening, she forced herself to add, “I’m afraid the profits of shopkeeping are vastly overrated.” She managed a weak smile. “I cannot even predict when I should have sufficient funds to repay you.”

He smiled back. He had, she noted despite her distress, a singularly engaging smile that dimpled the skin beside the lean mouth and brought that devilish sparkle to his deep blue eyes. “Ridding the streets of such vermin constitutes something of a civic duty. And, as you doubtless know, I’m a wealthy man. Think no more of it.”

“But I could not be under such an obligation—”

“Please.” He put one finger to her bleeding lip. “I should consider protecting you a very great honor.”

She ought to protest further, but his touch seemed to tangle her already tattered thoughts. As she sat speechless, he slowly traced his gloved finger around the circumference of her swollen lip.

The soft brush of chamois against her stinging skin mesmerized her, sent little ripples of sensation throughout her body. Her startled gaze flew to his.

His finger stopped its tracery. He drew in a sharp breath and met her eyes with a glance so intense she felt herself drawn almost physically closer. The steady pulse of his warm finger quivered against her lip.

When at last he removed his hand, the only thing she could think to stutter was, “Y-you have soiled your glove.”

Cheverley looked at the bloodstain on the fawn surface. He raised his finger and kissed the spot. “I shall treasure it. Don’t worry, Madame, that villain will trouble you no more. You have my word on it.”

Evan whistled as he walked back down the street, a bounce in his step. He breathed in deeply, his nostrils still filled with the enchanting scent of lavender, his senses still heightened by the heady euphoria of holding that slender arm, touching those delicate lips.

He’d roust his solicitor from the tea table and ensure the runners were dispatched immediately. The mere thought of that slimy little villain putting his foul hand on Madame Emilie’s perfect face sent a blistering rage through him. He would check back personally to make sure guards were posted this very day.

But he shouldn’t be too angry at the fellow who had provided him such a perfect opportunity to act the rescuer, he reminded himself as the rage cooled. Surely the divine Madame would look kindly on him for intervening. Be she ever so virtuous, surely she could imagine a way to repay his concern, one that might be immensely gratifying to them both.

Not that he would so much as hint such a thing. Indeed, doing so would relegate him to the same crass category as the unspeakable Mr. Harding. The Earl of Cheverley normally had only to express interest, and the chosen lady hurried to do his bidding. The impossibly beautiful Madame, however, seemed reluctant to accept even protective assistance from him, despite the real danger in which she stood.

Vividly he recalled that sizzling glance, her smoldering touch. She was aloof, and yet undeniably responsive.

Winning her would not be easy, he recognized, his instincts piqued by the challenge. Once she was won, however, he could imagine no more enjoyable a task than lifting every burden from her slim shoulders and sheltering that exquisite body close.

A discreet little house in Mayfair, perhaps? With furnishings in the first stare of elegance, a loyal staff, gowns, jewels, carriages, whatever she wished. He would move heaven and earth to grant her every whim. He imagined dressing her in amethysts and deep plum satin to match those incredible eyes. Imagined even more vividly undressing her….

Excitement tingled in his veins, and something else tingled lower. Not for months had he felt so alive, so buoyed with anticipation.

He would ensure her safety, of course, whether she smiled on him now or not. But sooner or later, he vowed, she would.

Chapter Two

Emily saw the man immediately after she unbolted the shop door the next morning. As she stared through the fog-wisped air, shocked into immobility, the burly figure lounging in a doorway opposite snapped to attention and gave her a jaunty wave. The bright red waistcoat under his buff frieze jacket proclaimed him a runner, apparently detailed, as Lord Cheverley had promised, to protect her.

Her immediate rush of relief was succeeded by a worry that gnawed at her all morning as she fashioned her bonnets and waited on customers. His lordship was obviously a man of his word. Could he, as he claimed, construe it his public duty to ensure private citizens such as herself were not molested in their homes and businesses? And the wages of the watchman now loitering on the street outside—did she truly, as he insisted, have no need to concern herself over the matter?

Her thoughts went round and round, but always returned to the same point. Despite his lordship’s promises, she could not deem it prudent to permit him to fund her protection.

For one thing, the very thought of accepting so great a boon from one entirely unrelated grated against every principle upon which she’d been raised. More ominously, as bitter experience had taught her twice over, rich and influential men like my lord of Cheverley did nothing without calculation. Debts owed would be called in sooner or later, generally when most advantageous to the lender. Worse yet, she thought with more than a touch of annoyance, the earl’s immediate, high-handed action—taken without any consultation as to her preferences—had stuck a spoke in the wheel of Josh Harding’s game, a curb that villain was unlikely to forgive or forget.

She recalled the strength of the bully’s rough hands jerking her close, the stench of his wet tongue assaulting her mouth. An involuntary shiver skittered down her spine. She had few illusions as to what sort of vengeance he would choose if he could get her once more in his power.

Which meant, unless she were prepared to relocate her business—a financial impossibility—she was likely to need protection for some considerable time. Yet more reason to stand alone now, for who could predict how long the quixotic Earl’s interest in her welfare would last?

Perhaps it would be possible to have his solicitor maintain the defensive policies already set in motion. She should consult the man immediately. And determine safety’s unpalatable price.

That unpleasant conclusion reached, she instructed Francesca to take over the shop, and embarked on the long walk to the offices of his lordship’s counselor.

The bored-looking young clerk who answered her knock subjected her to an insolent inspection her glacial manner did nothing to discourage—until she stated that her business concerned the Earl of Cheverley. Instantly the clerk turned respectful, ushering her to a seat and announcing he would immediately inform his master of her presence.

Yet another indication of the Earl’s power, she thought uneasily as she leaned back to rest her tired shoulders. The chair on which she sat was luxuriously appointed in leather; heavy damask drapes hung at the windows, and a Turkey carpet graced the floor. The entire establishment reeked of exclusivity and expensive cigars.

Suddenly she was transported in memory to a room very like this, where a lifetime ago a defiant young lady had informed her sire she intended to embark, not on the London Season planned for her, but on a vessel bound for the Peninsula, as the bride of Lieutenant Andrew Waring-Black. When she remained steadfast in the face of her father’s adamant disapproval, he alternately mocked, threatened and finally raged he’d see her dead first. “Where do you think you would find yourself, missy, when that impertinent jackanapes got himself killed? Destitute in some heathenish land, that’s where, earning a living upon your back!”

“Mr. Manners will see you now.” The clerk’s deferential words startled her out of reverie. Clenching her fingers on her reticule, Emily followed him.

Behind a huge desk sat a thin man with spectacles perched on his narrow nose. Shelves of legal tomes lined the walls; a leather armchair astride another tasteful carpet poised before the desk. A lamp glowed, adding the piquant scent of its flaming oil to the melange of cigar and lemon wood polish. The heavy curtains were drawn, as if the occupant did not wish even the daylight to intrude into his sanctum. The polite but piercing look he fixed on her said he resented her intrusion as well.

“That will be all, Richards,” Mr. Manners said. The clerk, who had been staring at her again, hastily bowed himself out. “A chair, Mrs. Spenser?”

Emily sat. This forbidding man did not seem likely to trouble himself over one such as her. More than ever, she sensed the excluding wall that barred all that was weak and womanly from the world of male privilege and power.

An old, familiar resentment revived her flagging spirits. “Mr. Manners, Lord Cheverley consulted you about me. A matter of attempted extortion, you may remember.”

“Yes, Mrs. Spenser, I’m fully cognizant of the details. Has there been another…incident?”

“No, sir, the, ah, guard his lordship promised has been dispatched. There have been no further threats. I just wished to inquire as to the normal procedure in such situations.”

“There is no ‘normal’ procedure, ma’am. I don’t usually prosecute matters of this sort, but as his lordship refers all his legal business to me, I have of course undertaken a full investigation. You need have no further concern for your safety, I assure you. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

Emily resisted his clear dismissal. “Oh, but I wish—”

“Mrs. Spenser, I am sure his lordship, at his convenience, will acquaint you with any details he deems appropriate. I simply cannot discuss a pending case with other than my client.” This time, he rose and indicated the door.

“And if I were your client?” Emily persisted, rising, but refusing to let his obvious annoyance intimidate her.

“I see no need for that. His lordship already retains me, and as I’ve informed you, everything needful is being done.”

“I am sure it is, Mr. Manners. You must not think I doubt your competence, or that I am not grateful for his lordship’s intervention. But if this…situation should recur in future? Sadly, there are always rogues only too ready to prey on the honest. As a woman alone, I would wish to be informed of my alternatives.”

Mr. Manners tilted his head and tapped at his chin. “’Tis true, ma’am, that despite taking appropriate action now, one cannot rule out the possibility of future difficulties.” He looked her up and down. “You are a widow, I understand. You have no near relatives, yours or your late husband’s, to see to your protection?”

“If I had, would I be here now?” she replied, an edge of anger in her voice.

To her surprise, the humorless face creased in what might be construed as a smile. “Excuse me, I meant no disrespect. Please, sit back down, Mrs. Spenser. What is it you wish to know?”

Emily felt some of the tension leave her. “How does your office handle such a matter? Should I report any future threats to the authorities? And what…” She faltered. “What fee would you require, were I to retain you?”

“First, I would not have you contact the authorities—not initially. Come to my office first. Most of the magistrates are honest folk, but from time to time a bad apple falls into the basket, as it were. My contacts would ascertain the background and intention of the perpetrators and proceed from there. And my normal fee would be two hundred pounds, plus the expense of hiring runners if I thought the need justified.”

Emily tried not to gasp. Lord Cheverley was laying out two hundred pounds, plus expenses, to thwart Mr. Harding? And she had thought another ten pounds a month exorbitant!

She forced herself to rise on shaking legs. “Th-thank you for the information, and for your time, Mr. Manners.”

He rose and nodded. “Think nothing of it, Mrs. Spenser.” His shrewd eyes scanned her again, and she colored, sure he must have realized how staggering was the sum he’d quoted her, how impossibly far beyond her means.

“Don’t distress yourself, ma’am,” he said, his tone kind. “Lord Cheverley will pursue this to its conclusion, regardless of time or expense. I have had the privilege of his patronage for many years, and one could not find a more conscientious member of the nobility. You may trust him to do the right thing, Mrs. Spenser. And I doubt you will be troubled again.”

His attempted reassurance was nearly as daunting as his fee. She had known pursuing the miscreant would be costly, but had never dreamed the total would be that vast. How could she allow a virtual stranger, be he ever so noble, generous and dutiful, to absorb such an enormous expense on her behalf? But then, how could she ever reimburse him?

Emily sat in her tiny garden, absently eating the nuncheon Francesca had insisted on preparing for her when she returned. She was still pondering the dilemma, and no closer to a solution, when a shadow fell across her teacup.

Lord Cheverley himself stood over her. As her gaze met his, he gave her again that enticing, intimate smile. “Forgive me for disturbing you. I just wished to ascertain that the runner we sent was satisfactory.”

“Yes, of course. I hardly know how to thank you.”

“There’s no need.” He was looking at her intently, waiting, she realized, for her to offer her hand. When she raised it, he brought it to his lips, lingering over it a fraction longer than was proper.

“I would have called last night to report the guard was in place, but I had several appointments, and ’twas late when I returned to check. I saw no lights, and did not wish to disturb you.”

“You came by last night?” she echoed in astonishment.

“Of course. I told you I would. I could not have slept, had I not been assured of your safety.”

It had been so long since someone other than Francesca had expressed any concern whatsoever for her well-being that in spite of herself, she was touched. “You are too kind. Again, I thank you. And you must allow me to defray some of the costs—the runners, perhaps—”

He waved away the suggestion. “Certainly not. A business as clever and stylish as yours must surely succeed, but hardly needs any additional expenses at its inception. I am fully recompensed by knowing you are safe.”

Again, she felt absurdly touched. “I do feel safe. Thank you for that.”

His compelling gaze captured hers. “I would not beteem the winds of heaven/visit thy face too roughly,” he paraphrased from Hamlet. Gently he touched one finger to the bruised corner of her mouth.

A jolting spark tingled her lip. She stood mesmerized as he slowly removed his hand.

Bemused, she raised her own hand to the spot. ’Tis the bruise that throbs, she told herself.

“Ev, the runner wishes to speak with you.”

It seemed to take a moment for the newcomer’s voice to penetrate. With a grimace, Lord Cheverley stepped back. Waving at him from the garden door, Emily saw, was the man who had accompanied him to her shop the previous day.

His lordship turned on her another dazzling smile. “I shan’t keep you any longer, ma’am. The patrols will be properly maintained, so you may rest easy. If anything occurs to frighten or trouble you, send to me at once. Number 16, Portman Square. Someone there will know where to reach me if I’m from home.”

Once again he raised her hand to his lips. “I shall call again later.”

“’Twould be an honor, my lord,” she managed to murmur.

As Lord Cheverley strode from the garden, his companion ambled toward her. “Brent Blakesly, ma’am,” he said with a bow. “You can rest easy, you know. Evan is as good as his word. Trust him to guarantee your safety.”

“So I’ve been urged,” she murmured, recalling the solicitor’s advice. “I only wish he were not doing so at such great expense.”

She must have looked troubled, for Blakesly’s friendly face sobered. “You mustn’t distress yourself, ma’am. Evan is wealthy enough that his kindness places no strains upon his purse.” He gave her a deprecating smile. “I suppose, having always had vast sums at his disposal, he never realizes it might be difficult for his friends to easily accept his assistance.”

“But I am not a friend,” she replied, her voice low. “I have no more claim to his largesse than I have the means to repay it.”

“May I speak candidly, Mrs. Spenser?” At her nod, he continued, “Evan has a great dislike for bullies. ’Twas how I first met him, when as a runty lad at Eton he pummeled the two upperclassmen who were tormenting me. Seeing some villain attempting to take advantage of a lady, he would feel compelled to prevent it, even—” he grinned at her “—did he not so greatly admire the lady. But you must not imagine his doing so places you under any…obligation whatever. Indeed, I am certain he would be appalled should you even consider such a thing.”

Somehow, his certitude didn’t raise her spirits. She followed as he walked out to join Lord Cheverley on the street. No obligation whatsoever, Blakesly assured her. Trust him to do what is right, the solicitor advised.

But what is right? she wondered as, with a wave, the two men started down the street. And why did her dratted lip still tingle?

Hours later, Emily looked up from the tangle of bills on her desk. Dusk had fallen, and she could hear the lamplighters going about their tasks. Through the salesroom window she glimpsed the glow of a lighted cheroot. Another guard on duty, she surmised.

Sighing, she rubbed the tight muscles at the back of her neck and took another sip of her tea, long cold now. She had entered all the invoices into her ledgers, and though several customers had settled their accounts today and Lord Cheverley had brought his mama’s payment along with an advance on another order, the debit and credit columns still were nearly equal.

We are just barely surviving, she thought with a sigh. If she did attempt to repay Lord Cheverley, ’twould likely be his great-grandson who signed off the debt. Would he give her that long? Dear God, what was to become of them if he refused?

Immediate reimbursement in coin was impossible, the ledger clearly showed. A woman had but one other asset.

She recalled his heated glances, his lingering hand on her lip. She had seen lust in other men’s eyes, during and after her marriage. If she could bring herself to offer, would Cheverley accept that means of canceling her debt?

For an instant, she imagined those hands cherishing her bare skin, that lean mouth at her breast. A deep tremor sent heat rushing through her.

A flush of guilt succeeded it and she felt as if caught out in some unforgivable indiscretion.

Nonsense, ’twas ridiculous. She could not be unfaithful to a dead man.

Oh, but I didn’t want him to die, her heart cried back. How many times had she gone down on her knees on the rough stone of the village church, imploring God as Andrew’s life drained away breath by ragged, painful breath? Promising to go anywhere, do anything, if only God would spare him?

Well, her prayers had been for naught. At the end, her husband had died in that small dusty village. And if God had not heeded her desperate pleas then, He was hardly likely to concern Himself with Emily Spenser Waring-Black now.

No, if salvation came, she would have to arrange it herself. And while her shop teetered so precariously between success and failure, having, for a time, a rich protector to keep trouble away could only help.

The very idea of it ate at her soul like acid.

She gave a bitter laugh. For years while she scraped together the funds to return and open her shop, she’d managed to avoid the fate so often dealt beautiful but impoverished widows. How ironic that it threatened her now, back in the homeland she’d pined for and imagined a haven.

“Mistress, ’tis darkness you work in,” Francesca scolded as she entered. “And your tea, é frio! Another pot will I fetch, and light up the lamp. What’s to become of us, querida, if you lose those bright eyes?”

“What’s to become of us anyway?” Emily replied, more than a hint of despair in her tone. “And don’t make fresh tea—we can scarce afford what we drink now. I’ll make do with this.”

The maid sat herself on the desktop and, head tilted like a small brown bird, gazed down at her mistress. “Be of good heart, querida. Always, we have worries, but always, you prevail. We shall—how you English say it? Ah, yes, we shall come into.”

Emily had to smile. “Come about, I believe you mean. And I wish I had your optimism. Just now, I am having a difficult time imagining how we shall ever come about.”

“Yesterday, that porco threatens you, and today, poof—” the maid waved an expressive hand “—he is gone. Other worries, they too will go.”

“’Twill take more than a—” Emily stopped abruptly. “What know you of Mr. Harding?”

Francesca shrugged. “I hear things, yes? When I hear that voice, I come. I see what he does. Almost I am running to you, but then, the beautiful one arrives. And saves you.”

“Aye,” Emily said in a whisper. “But for what?”

The maid raised her eyebrows, as if the answer were all too plain. “He is a great lord, querida. He saves you for his honor.”

Emily made a scornful noise. “Heaven preserve us from the ‘honor’ of great lords!” She turned accusing eyes toward her maid. “Or have you forgotten, Francesca?”

“Not all lords threaten like the padre of your husband. Also I remember Don Alvero. He would have had you for his lady wife, would you but pledge your troth. But no, we must return to this—” nose wrinkling, she made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the tiny office “—this England.”

“Incomprehensible to you, I expect.” Emily smiled as she squeezed Francesca’s still-outstretched hand. “Dearest friend, to have left your homeland to follow me! I thought we could build a future here, that at last we would be safe.” She sighed and put a weary hand to her forehead. “Was it a fool’s journey, I wonder?”

“The great lord could keep us safe.”

Emily straightened. “In exchange for what?”

When the little maid remained silent, Emily gave another cynical laugh. “Ah yes, his honor. Would those troopers who battled the French for your village have released you out of ‘honor,’ had not my husband’s sword insisted? No, the safety your ‘great lord’ buys us carries a price. He will extract repayment—perhaps not now. Perhaps not soon. But eventually he must….”

The thought that logically followed so dismayed her that she jumped to her feet. “Merciful heavens, ’twould be much worse were he to wait a year—or two or three!”

“Tsh, sit, querida.” Gently Francesca pushed Emily back in her chair and moved behind her, beginning to massage her neck. “Perhaps, as he vows, he wants only your safety.” When Emily made a scornful noise, she shrugged. “Of a certainty he wants more. But ’tis beautiful he is, querida. Would yielding to him be so terrible? And safer to do so now, eh?”

Emily could not deny that truth. Her earlier visit to her father-in-law’s town house confirmed that for the moment he was unlikely to discover them, despite the notoriety a liaison with such a wealthy, prominent man might engender. But how long would the man’s absence continue?

She knew he would lose no time wresting his grandson from her unworthy care should he find them back in England. And though for Drew to return to his rightful place in society, she must eventually turn him over, she intended to treasure every moment before inescapable duty forced her to give him up.

A man’s lust was generally short-lived. If she gratified Lord Cheverley’s now, the affair should end long before it could threaten her with exposure. If she delayed, his lordship—and his whims—would keep control of the whole dangerous business.

After years of evading her father-in-law’s agents, she’d had more than enough of being at the mercy of a rich man’s schemes.

No, far better to take the initiative now. She might never have a more opportune moment to cancel her obligation for good and all.

Francesca had been watching her face. “Whatever the tall lord wishes, you should grant. He is beautiful, but kind as well. That man outside, who keeps away the filthy pig Harding, he sent him, yes? He will be good to us, mistress. This I know, here.” She tapped on her chest above her heart.

“I suppose in any event I must invite him to dine.” Emily sent the maid an acid look. “You can cook him an oh-so-beautiful meal.”

“Ah, perfeito! With greatest glee will I serve him, mistress. And you—wear something to show off the eyes, in violeta.” She clapped her hands, looking absurdly pleased. “He is beautiful and rich, no?”

“Francesca…”

“Bah, I will be silent no longer. You are young, querida. Too many years you have been without a man. If this great lord, one of your own people, desires you, I say ’tis a gift.”

“Francesca, don’t!”

“You know I adored the comandante, your husband, may he rest with the blessed saints!” With a swift gesture she crossed herself. “But he is dead, mistress, morto! You must go on.”

Emily put her hands to her eyes, too tired to stem the tears. The passage of years seemed to have hardly dulled the edge of anguish.

“I know,” she whispered. “Do you think I want to linger in a past that holds only pain? I want to go on, truly I do! But how?”

Francesca wisely remained silent. After lighting the lamp, she patted Emily’s shoulder and walked out.

Emily drew blank paper from her drawer and stared down at it, soft amber in the pool of lamplight. Ignoring the lump that lodged in her chest, she reached for her pen and scrawled an invitation.

Over dinner she would offer Lord Cheverley her grateful thanks. And then, while he sipped his brandy, she could delicately hint…

Her imagination failed her and a tide of heat flooded her cheeks. Just how did a lady go about “hinting” so brazen and immodest a proposal? One could not just bluntly say, “My lord, you have expended sums on my behalf that I cannot repay. However, if you are interested, I could warm your bed until such time as you consider the debt canceled.” No, ’twas impossible!

Merely considering how to word such a proposition made her head ache and tied her stomach in knots.

But mayhap she misjudged him. Perhaps he would prefer cash, however slowly repaid. After all, so rich, handsome and highly titled a gentleman undoubtedly already possessed a mistress, doubtless one more beautiful and skilled than she.

The fire she remembered in his eyes didn’t lend much substance to that wistful hope. Since when had powerful gentlemen felt any compulsion to limit themselves to one woman at a time?

She’d worry about that later. With a deep breath, before her nerve failed, she sealed the note and propped it on the desk for Francesca to deliver.

In the tiny kitchen behind her she could hear the trickle of water and clinking of pots as the maid prepared their frugal dinner. Twisting her hands together in her lap, Emily stared sightlessly into the darkened salesroom. She should go in to dine. But at the thought of what she must do if Lord Cheverley refused cash repayment, her normal appetite vanished.

Chapter Three

His hands holding the ends of the untied neckcloth, Evan gazed again at the note propped on his dresser. “Lord Cheverley, I would be most pleased if you would honor me with your presence at dinner this evening at eight of the clock…Mrs. Emily Spenser,” he repeated to himself, though he had no need to look at the paper to recall the words.

Closing his eyes as he worked the knots, he could see her again as she’d looked that afternoon in the tiny garden behind her shop: thick, glossy black hair pinned in simple curls atop her head, a plain lavender gown that emphasized her elegant figure, the long fingers as fine as the bone china teacup she held.

In less than an hour he would present himself. A whirlpool of desire, anticipation and excitement spiraled in his gut at the thought. The maid would admit him and Madame would receive him, probably in some upstairs room.

Would she be wearing that proper lavender gown, or a shimmering sweep of satin night rail? At the image, his breath caught, his heart pounded and his fingers clutched at the linen cloth.

Get hold, he told himself, taking a deep, calming breath. She asked you to dine merely. Probably she just wishes to thank you, quite properly, for your kind intervention.

Ah, but if she intends more… After all, a virtuous middle-class lady didn’t ask a man to dine alone with her. And a widow, if discreet, might allow herself liberties forbidden a wife or unmarried girl.

How would he get through dinner without touching her? If she made him no offer, how could he compel himself to leave without taking her?

He looked down at his clenched fists and realized he’d just ruined another neckcloth. With an oath, he pulled off the crumpled linen and tossed it on the heap with the other failures. Already he’d dismissed his valet, insolent lad, who’d laughed after he’d hopelessly wrinkled his fifth attempt. If the fellow hadn’t been with him since Oxford, he’d have boxed the man’s ears.

Lord, he thought in disgust, Brent was right, he was behaving more like a green sapskull enamored of his first wench than a seasoned man of eight and twenty. He’d enjoyed the favors of a number of women, appreciated their company and paid cheerfully for services rendered. Even with his mistresses, he’d dallied in their beds and forgotten them the moment he’d left. Why should this be different?

With mercurial speed, his irritation faded and he grinned. Because I feel like the greenest sapskull, for the first time truly enamored of a woman. He’d been distracted and out of sorts ever since her note arrived, consumed by a fierce desire to be with her again. Ah, what a woman!

In just a short while he would see her once more. Somehow, he would restrain himself, concentrate on exerting all the charm a bevy of ladies had previously found irresistible. And then, this very night, she might be his….

If he ever got his bloody neckcloth tied. With a growl, he took another cloth from the stack and set to work.

“Excellent dinner,” Lord Cheverley complimented Francesca as she poured his coffee.

“Obrigado, my lord.”

“Have you set out the port?” Emily asked. At the maid’s nod, she continued, “You may go, then. Thank you, Francesca. My lord, if you please?”

With a smile, she indicated a small settee poised beside a woven floral carpet that adjoined the dining area. Lord Cheverley carried his cup and placed it on the side table. She followed him and took the adjacent armchair.

So far, so good, she thought, her nerves on edge but under control. Dinner had been excellent, one of Francesca’s best, and conversation had flowed with no awkward pauses.

Over the meal she’d drawn out her noble guest about his family and interests. He’d remained in town through the winter, he informed her, because of his work for the Army Department, something to do with the always-tangled supply routes for Wellington’s forces. She learned he was the sole protector of a mother and a younger sister soon to make her come-out, that he had estates in three different counties, that he loved riding and hated peas.

“You’ve discovered all my secrets,” he remarked, taking a sip of the strong brew, “and yet I know almost nothing of you. Your late husband was with Wellington, I understand?”

Careful, her inner voice warned. “Yes. He fought in almost every peninsular battle.”

“And you followed the drum?”

“Yes.”

“You must have been very young when you married.”

That brought a smile. “Indeed. I was but sixteen.”

“Sixteen! I’m astonished your family permitted you to marry and hie off to the Peninsula at such a tender age.”

Her smile faded. “Neither family approved the match. We eloped. After our scandalous runaway marriage, my father cut me off completely, so I had no choice but to follow the drum. Though never did I regret it, I assure you! I cherished every moment with—” Biting her tongue, she stopped herself before she made any rash disclosures. “More coffee, my lord? Or can I pour you some port?”

“Port, if you please.”

She took a glass from the tray and poured the deep cherry liquid. “What sort of work do you do at Horse Guards, my lord? Or are you not permitted to discuss it?”

He smiled when she handed him the glass, as if amused at her diversionary attempt. “I don’t discuss it. Though my silence has more to do with avoiding boring you to death than any real need for secrecy.” He took a sip. “Did your father never forgive you?”

“No. He’s dead now, so it doesn’t matter.”

“And your husband’s family?”

She suppressed the urge to return a sharp answer. Better to respond pleasantly than reproach his curiosity or attempt to evade, she knew. “My husband’s father was just as autocratic as mine. His plans for his youngest son did not include soldiering in the Peninsula with a child-bride, especially one in disgrace who brought him not a groat of dowry. Even when I contacted him that his son lay d-dying—” she choked, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice “—he did not relent. Where he is, and what he is doing now, I neither know nor wish to know.”

She realized she was gripping her cup so tightly the fragile handle was likely to break, and she loosened her hold. A demand that she give up her son had been her father-in-law’s only reply to her frantic message, but his Inquisitive Lordship didn’t need to know that. The less he knew of her, the less he might divulge in careless gossip at his club.

Cheverley was gazing at her thoughtfully. “Have you been in London long? I wonder I’ve not met you before.”

“I returned to England only a few months ago.”

“But—that means you remained abroad for years after your husband’s death! How did you manage?”

“When he was wounded I took him to the closest town, a small Portuguese village. He’d taken a ball in the lung and there was no doctor to remove it. He lingered for a time before…Well, I had done some painting, and after…it was over, the local lord, Don Alvero, commissioned me to do a portrait. It pleased him, and he was kind enough to recommend me to other nobles. Eventually I amassed sufficient funds to return to England and open my shop.”

“Alone, unprotected, a new widow in a war-torn country?” Cheverley shook his head in wonderment. “Madame, I’m appalled! ’Twas exceeding dangerous, was it not?”

She smiled at the dismay on his face. “On, no! The villagers were wonderful to us. As the widow of an English hero who died fighting the French invaders, I was everywhere treated with the utmost respect. And I wasn’t alone. Francesca has been with me since I arrived as a bride.”

“You are the most courageous woman I’ve ever met,” he said flatly, awe and respect in his voice. “The English lady who stayed behind to nurse her dying husband. I expect you became nearly a legend.”

She shrugged uncomfortably. “Hardly that.”

“A legend,” he repeated softly. “And no wonder. I have trouble myself believing you’re real.” Slowly, as if he couldn’t help himself, he reached a hand toward her. “You are so very beautiful.”

She forced herself not to flinch from the warmth of his gloveless fingers when they touched her cheek. “Be assured I am quite real,” she replied somewhat unsteadily. “And safe, thanks to you.”

She thought for a moment he might kiss her, and swallowing hard, closed her eyes. But he removed his hand, and relieved, she looked back at him.

His fingers were trembling, as if he were holding himself under rigid control. “And so you shall remain. I spoke with Mr. Manners late this afternoon, and he’s already amassed quite a dossier on the, ah, enterprising Mr. Harding. Indeed, so full was his account of that gentleman’s activities that I’m told the man was moved to book passage on a ship leaving next week for the Americas.”

Before she could thank him yet again, he waved her to silence. “His master is under scrutiny as well. Even if Mr. Harrington is indeed involved, I doubt he’d be foolish enough now to find another tool to implement his illegal designs. Though we plan to continue the surveillance another few weeks, to be sure all danger is past, I think you may feel safe in truth.”

“I cannot adequately express my thanks for all your efforts. Indeed, your consideration quite overwhelms me! You must allow me to reimburse your expenses. I could not cover them all immediately, of course, but—”

“Out of the question!” He held up both hands, as if warding off the suggestion. “Dear lady, under no circumstances whatsoever could I take your money. Knowing you are safe is reward enough.”

He would not take her money. As the full implications of those words sank into consciousness, Emily barely heard the rest. Could she not leave it at that? Oh, how the thought tempted! Mayhap he’d never press for repayment. Mayhap he’d smile, and leave, and ’twould be the end of it.

Mayhap he’d be back next month or next year with a proposition she was in no position to refuse.

No, she mustn’t risk it. Conjuring up the image of her son’s face, she took a deep breath. Her heartbeat accelerated and she felt light-headed.

You can do this. You will do whatever you must to keep Drew.

Tentatively she put her hand on the Earl’s arm. She felt his muscles tense, heard his rush of indrawn breath even as she spoke, her voice near a whisper. “To express my gratitude in any way that pleases you would be my greatest honor.”

She looked up into his eyes, praying he understood, that she would not have to utter words any more explicit. Her heart thudded in her chest and a flush of shame and anxiety heated her cheeks.

His eyes searched hers. She forced a smile, though her lips trembled.

He placed his hand over hers and gripped it tightly. “There is no compulsion.” His eyes glowing brighter, he made a move with his other arm as if to embrace her, then dropped it back to his side. “I don’t wish you to think—”

“I don’t. I know you would never force me.”

Though he retained her hand, he sat back a little, his eyes dimming as if affronted. “Of course not!” He gave her a twisted smile. “You cannot help but know it is my fondest hope to establish a more…intimate connection, but I would have you do so from desire, not out of—gratitude.” He almost spat out the word.

Though the statement nearly choked her, she made herself utter the lie. “’Twould be my fondest hope as well.”

His body tensed again, his gaze so heated she felt she must go up in flames. “Are you sure?”

Unable to voice another affirmation, she merely nodded.

It was enough. He seized both hands and brought them to his lips, kissing them fervently. “If you truly wish it, you make me the happiest man in England.”

So the die was cast. She felt detached, as if observing the scene from a vast distance. What should she do now? She couldn’t bear the thought of coolly choosing a date and time for the assignation. No, better it begin tonight, lest she be tempted to renege on the bargain.

Gently she disengaged her fingers. “Let me pour you another port.” She was proud that her voice wobbled only a little. “Now, if you’ll excuse me a moment?”

Evan watched her as, with a sensuous sway of hip, she disappeared through the doorway across the hall from the little parlor. He moved the glass to his lips with shaking hands, then set it back down.

No, best not drink more of that mind-dulling liquid. He was already too close to losing control. When she’d touched him, it had taken every bit of restraint he could muster to avoid sweeping her into his arms.

But she’d just invited him to do so, hadn’t she? Normally he’d know just how to proceed, but now…With his body on fire and every nerve screaming at her closeness, he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t misinterpreting her response, was only imagining she shared some part of the enormous desire that consumed him.

After all, if her story could be believed, and he had no reason to doubt it, she’d been a virgin bride and a faithful wife. Despite what must have been severe pressure to do otherwise, she seemed to have remained chaste even after her husband’s death. Certainly her rejection of the lures cast out by St. Clair and his set confirmed that assessment.

How she must have loved her soldier-husband, to leave what had obviously been a privileged home and follow him to the privations and dangers of war. Evan felt a swift, irrational flare of jealousy.

Well, she’d not rebuffed him. He’d given her every opportunity, reiterated his insistence that she owed him no additional thanks, but when he’d boldly admitted his desire, she’d avowed her own. What could be plainer than that?

He remembered the darting thrill yesterday when he’d touched her lip. He’d felt it in every nerve, and she’d felt it, too—he’d seen the shocked recognition in her eyes immediately after. Perhaps attraction didn’t burn in her as fiercely as in him, but she was hardly indifferent.

Mayhap, having been years without a husband and lover, she was as ready as he.

Well, she was unlikely to be that ready, he conceded. But she was drawn to him, he was certain of it, and he could build on that.

He would build upon it, court her until she welcomed him with anticipation as fervent as his own. Never, he vowed, had any woman been wooed as persistently, passionately and persuasively as he intended to woo Emily Spenser.

But to do so, he must finish his port and depart before her intoxicating closeness destroyed what little was left of his control. Before he did something rash.

He didn’t want this to be rash or hurried. He wanted their time together to be like her—perfection.

The door across the hall opened and Emily emerged. His mouth went dry and the glass slipped from his fingers. Smiling, she walked toward him clad only in a night rail.

’Twas not the flannel garment of a prim, virtuous middle-class matron. Oh no, the most skilled of courtesans would have delighted in how this gown of slithering, shining emerald silk swept from her shoulders over her full breasts to her narrow waist and past rounded hips to whisper about her thighs and calves as she walked. It clung to the taunting outline of pebbled nipples, the round of belly, the tempting fistful of curls at the junction of her thighs.

Beyond speech, he merely stared as she halted before him. Her violet eyes, enormous, caught his dazzled gaze as a drift of delicate scent, lavender and heat and woman, dizzied him.

“My lord?” she said softly.

Any reservations he may have retained crumbled. With trembling hands he drew her down beside him on the settee. His blood pounding in his ears, every sense knife sharp, he gently touched the faint bruise on her lip with one finger, then lowered his mouth over hers.

She tasted sweet, ah so sweet, of coffee and wine and Emily. Mindful of her hurt, he licked her lips gently, gently sought entry. She opened her mouth, and when her tongue met his, every iota of control dissolved.

With a cry he crushed her to him. Leaning her back against the cushions, he plundered the depths of her mouth, nibbling, sucking, voracious. With fevered impatience, he moved lower, tracing the satin length of collarbone, tasting the pulse at the hollow of her throat, then lower still, forcing the satin bodice beneath her breasts so it thrust them up and out to him, like trophies.

He cupped the warm, heavy rounds, licked their fullness, drew a nipple into his mouth. He thought she gasped when he squeezed the breast to take in yet more of its fullness, then withdrew to lave the sides and nibble the nipple’s rigid top.

He couldn’t seem to get close enough, kiss deeply enough. She tried to help, truly she did, struggling to pull off his neckcloth and unbutton his shirt as he carried her across the hallway and shouldered open her chamber door. She was fumbling with the buttons at his straining breeches when he laid her on the narrow bed, but impatient, he wrenched the cloth free. When his manhood sprang forth and she touched him, an explosion of heat and need shut down his brain entirely.

How he got her gown off without ripping it to shreds he couldn’t remember, but somehow she was lying under him, all warm, glorious naked skin. He managed to restrain himself long enough to tangle his fingers in the thatch of dark curls and part her, to briefly taste her fragrant womanhood. Then he was plunging into her, burying himself as she tilted her hips to take him deeper, and the whole world erupted in a searing fireball of sensation.

He must have passed out, or dozed, for when he came back to himself Evan lay sprawled against the pillows—alone. Sitting up with a start, he saw Emily at the doorway to a small balcony that overlooked the back garden.

Strong emotion washed over him, followed by guilt. So much for courting, for flowers, gifts, sweet words. He’d said nothing at all, then taken her too fast, like a callow youth with his first woman. He recalled the ladies who had sighed with satisfaction after his bedding, swearing him to be the most skillful of lovers, and almost laughed. There’d been no trace tonight of that vaunted technique.

’Twill be better next time, he promised her silently. Next time he would go slowly, slowly. Everything, each touch and taste and stroke, would be for her. Not until she writhed under him, clutching his shoulders and begging for release, would he sheath himself in her, and even then he would hold back until her cries of pleasure freed him to find nirvana again. He recalled the brain-melting, heart-stopping intensity of his response, and had to grin. Well, at least he would try to hold back.

Naked, he slipped out of bed and approached her. She must not have heard him, for she stood silent, still facing out to the garden. He halted a step away, savoring her incredible beauty and marveling at its powerful effect.

She’d put the night rail back on. Light from the streetlamp beyond shone in lozenged patterns on its shiny surface. Her lush hair, only a shadowy outline in the gloom, hung forward over her breasts. He bent to kiss her bared nape and suddenly realized what he’d taken to be patterns on the silken gown were, in fact, fold lines.

Peering more closely, he examined the evenly spaced repetition of the rectangular shapes. So sharply creased were the lines, so spicy and deep the clinging odor of lavender, that he was forced to conclude the night rail must have lain folded in tissue wrap for a very long time.

Had she welcomed her soldier back from battle wearing this? When he returned to her wounded, had she tenderly set it away, waiting for the day when he had recovered enough that she might wear it for him once more?

An unexpected and shockingly intense feeling of outrage engulfed Evan at the thought of her with another man. As if laying claim, he placed his hands on her shoulders.

She’d been trembling, even before his touch startled her. She turned her head toward him, and he saw star-spangled droplets clinging to the ends of her long lashes. She was, he realized with horror, weeping.

Remorse swamped him. He pulled her into his arms, grateful that instead of resisting, she rested her head against his chest.

After a moment, she moved away, swiping at her eyes. He stayed her hand and kissed the moist lashes. “Ah, sweetheart, you truly are a virtuous matron.”

She managed a glimmer of a smile. “I used to be.”

“You are.”

Some fleeting emotion crossed her face. Gently she pushed him back and walked to the bedside table, took a sip of wine from a glass left there.

Keeping her gaze averted from his unclothed body, she turned toward him. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t very good. It’s been a long time.”

“You’ve had the gown since…” He couldn’t complete the thought.

“Yes. Be assured, I’ve never worn it. After A—After he was wounded, I kept it as a sort of talisman for the time when he would be well. But you cannot wish to hear of it.”

She was right; he didn’t want to hear about it. At the same time, he was morbidly curious, and absolutely sick with jealousy.

She poured another glass of wine, spilling a little, and handed it to him. Then she lit a lamp, retrieved his shirt and breeches, and brought them over.

After he’d drained the wine, she held out the shirt. “Shall I help?” Her glance grazed his naked form, and she flushed. “I mean, are you…ready?” She smiled slightly. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.”

No, no, don’t let it end like this, his mind screamed. “Nothing,” he choked out. “You don’t have to do anything.”

Nonetheless, with another determined smile she assisted him into his shirt. Had she tenderly dressed her husband after loving, when he’d left her to go on duty? As she attempted to do up the buttons, Evan brushed her hand away blindly, stupidly furious.

Idiot, he castigated himself. Of course she isn’t a trollop, though you just treated her like one. Of course she bought this sumptuous, sinful, will-melting gown for her husband, the man she all-too-clearly adored—and adores still. He was her husband, dammit! ’Tis only right she loved him.

He gave the last button a savage twist. “Just don’t regret this,” he said gruffly. “I couldn’t bear that.”

Her violet eyes looked up in surprise, their puzzled depths trapping him. Helpless, he could not look away.

“I don’t regret it,” she said slowly after a moment. Squaring her shoulders, she straightened. “Truly, I don’t regret it.”

“I wish I could believe that. But you needn’t worry, I’m leaving. I don’t, as a rule, rape grieving widows.”

He reached for his breeches. Her hand caught his, and with the other, she turned his chin so that she could look once more into his eyes.

He tried to jerk away, sure his face mirrored all his roiling emotion and stupid, little-boy hurt. But she held on and gazed up searchingly.

After a long moment, she whispered, “I don’t regret it.” And kissed him.

She was right—this was better, so very much better than before that any thought of leaving expired on the spot.

This time her tongue sought out his, circling and stroking it, teasing him deeper. As she alternately sucked and nibbled at his lips, he groaned and yanked up her gown to knead the soft roundness of her buttocks and mold her torso against his. She pressed herself higher and, still teasing his tongue, rubbed her springy curls against his rapidly hardening shaft.

He lifted her, and she wrapped her legs about his waist and thrust down, taking him inside. One arm about his neck, she brought his mouth to one taut, silk-encased nipple. She moaned as he tongued her, tensing the muscles inside her hot, slick canal about his burgeoning manhood.

Gasping, he wrapped his arms around her and carried her back to the bed. With each step, she rocked her hips to take him deeper. By the time he eased her against the pillows and settled himself over her, he was already throbbing for release.

He managed to hold himself back this time. Driving in as deeply as he could, he stilled and bent to bare her breasts. Slowly he sucked and nipped each nipple in turn while she quivered under him, straining to rock her hips. He rested his weight against her, pinning her motionless while he savored her skin. When her breathing turned to shallow gasps, when a fine sheen dewed her chest, only then did he shift his weight and slowly draw himself out to the very tip, then slowly ease himself back in. She moved her hips urgently, her hands clutching his shoulders. “Please,” she whispered, “please!”

Digging his thumbnails into his hands to slow himself, gradually he increased the rhythm. She lay back, her hair streaming over the pillows, her eyes closed, and arched into him. He bent to suckle again her full, taut nipples, and she cried out, nearly destroying his disintegrating control.

“Evan,” he gasped as he drove harder, “call me Evan.”

“Evan,” she whispered, and then “Oh, Evan!”, until finally she sobbed out his name and he let her exquisite, sweet convulsions set off his own.

Afterward, he cradled her close, loving the feel of her sweat-drenched skin against his own. “Emily, sweetheart, don’t ever regret this,” he murmured as he slid his hands over the slick satin of her hips, her breasts. She cuddled into him and he massaged her shoulders and back, reveling in the sheer sweet pleasure of touching her.

She stretched out, languorous as a cat, one soft leg draped over his. After a few moments, her relaxed, even breathing told him she slept.

Though there was no need, he continued to gently stroke her. He felt a deep satisfaction that, this time, he had undeniably given her pleasure, and a sense of awe at the intensity of the pleasure she gave him.

He ought to wake her, let her dress him, take his leave. He never spent the night with his mistresses; once the loving was finished, he was usually eager to be off.

It seemed in this, too, being with her was different, for he had not the slightest desire to stir from her bed. There was utter contentment in holding her silken body close, watching moonlight play across her face.

She looked peaceful now, and happy. That was how he wanted her to be when she was with him: safe, content and satisfied. ’Twas his last thought before he, too, drifted asleep.

When later he woke, pink dawn painted the sky beyond the balcony. Emily, clad in a dressing gown, sat beside him on the bed.

Seeing him stir, she smiled. “Good morning, my lord. Should you like coffee before you go? Francesca has some ready, as it’s almost time for us to be in the shop.”

He nearly groaned with frustration. Though ’twas not much later than he sometimes returned from a night’s ramble, she was a businesswoman, and must rise early. Her subtle hint warned him ’twas too late for any further dalliance.

She seemed matter-of-fact now, both sadness and contentment gone. “No, I suppose I’d best be going,” he replied, still strangely reluctant to leave. Nonetheless, he let her help him into his shirt. As she buttoned it, he bent and pressed his lips against the softness of her neck.

“Oh, Emily,” he whispered.

She stilled. Then, somewhat awkwardly, she put her arms around his neck and drew him close.

After he’d dressed, she walked him downstairs, through the office and out to the front door.

“Lock it well,” he admonished as she slid the bolt open. “Shall I see you tonight?”

She angled her head to look up at him. “If you wish.”

“You know I do. Emily, sweetheart, I can’t dissemble about how much I want you.” He laughed shortly and ran a hand through his tousled hair. “I expect that’s only too painfully obvious.

“It may be foolish,” he continued, “but I would wish for you to want me, too. If you do not, I can respect that.” He managed a grin. “I cannot like it, but I’ll respect it. Unless you truly wish it—” he forced the words through reluctant lips “—I’ll not return.”

Despite that show of nonchalance, his pulse stampeded and sweat broke out on his forehead as he awaited her response.

She smiled faintly, and he began to breathe again. “I wish you to return as often as you like, for as long as you like.”

An upsurge of joy brought the grin back to his face. “Rest assured, I shall thoroughly enjoy coming at every opportunity! But be cautious what you wish for. Were I to visit as oft as I’d like, you’d have me underfoot constantly.”

She merely smiled, and he bent to give her a lingering kiss, which she returned, he thought, with some enthusiasm. “Until this evening, then.”

Before he could pull away, she stopped him with a touch to his cheek. “I’d forgotten how beautiful loving can be,” she said softly. “Thank you…Evan.”

His spirits soared to the rooftops. “Call upon me at any time.” Giving her one last kiss, he forced himself to exist. A few steps down the sidewalk, he turned to look back. She gave him a little wave, closed the door, and he heard the bolt slam home.

’Twas all he could do not to run back and knock.

Chapter Four

Several hours later Emily looked up from her worktable in bemusement. “Put them on the desk, I suppose,” she told the urchin with his paper-wrapped parcel of flowers.

“Where, ma’am? There be’s a pow’rful lotta posies a’ready.”

In truth, the top of her small desk was nearly buried beneath a floral avalanche. The bouquets—some small, some large—had begun arriving early this morning, and the parade continued steadily all day. Francesca had long since run out of vases, and the most recent offerings reclined in an odd miscellany of pots, mugs and bowls.

The numerous bouquets contained only pansies or violets. Deepest purple, pale lavender, near white, the shimmering velvet blooms and their perfume filled the office and spilled out into the salesroom beyond.

Searching for a spare inch, Emily surveyed the assortment with a mingling of amusement and exasperation. Lord Cheverley must have bought up every blossom in the city. They’d be reduced to water and cold mutton for dinner, as there was hardly a kettle or teacup left in the kitchen. She didn’t know whether to be touched or annoyed.

The delivery boy still stood, flowers in hand, looking at her expectantly. Sighing, she laid down her scissors. “Just bring them to me.”

The boy handed them over, but when she dug in her pocket for a coin, he waved her away. “The toff what sent ’em paid me good, ’n offered me an extry yellow boy if’n I wouldn’t try’n fob a tuppence off ya.” Tipping his grimy cap, he gave her a gap-toothed grin and ambled out.

Francesca entered from the kitchen behind her and raised her eyebrows. “By the Blessed Virgin, Mistress, your noble lordling must be pleased with you.” Eyes twinkling, she leaned over to pat Emily’s cheek. “And you, querida, look like a woman who has been well loved.”

“Enough, Francesca.”

“Ah, you grumble, but me, I think it very fine,” Francesca replied with unimpaired good humor. “You are tired, no, mistress? Rest, and I will deal with the clientela. Then I cook another special dinner.”

“Lord Cheverley is not invited for dinner,” Emily replied stiffly.

“But he comes tonight, surely as a saint’s reward,” Francesca said shrewdly. “Go rest yourself, mistress. He must not see your beauty dimmed. Take the violetas—” the maid wrapped Emily’s hands around the flowers “—and sleep. I left upstairs a vase.”

In truth, she was tired. With a sigh, she allowed Francesca to urge her toward the stairs. “All right. But for an hour only.”

“Good, I will wake you,” the maid agreed. “A hungry work, this loving is. Tonight will I prepare a hearty paella.”

“If you can find anything to cook it in,” Emily muttered as she walked out.

Emily slipped the fragile, fragrant blooms—deep violet with tiny white eyes—into her favorite vase, a delicate piece of blue-and-white Portuguese pottery in a fanciful pattern of birds and animals. Setting it down on the desk that also served as her dressing table, she caught her reflection in the little mirror propped against the wall. Solemn eyes, somewhat shadowed perhaps, stared back at her over a straight, narrow nose and generous lips. I look no different, she thought. Should not becoming a Fallen Woman have left some tangible sign?

Steeling herself, she picked the miniature off its easel beside the mirror. In defiance of convention, Andrew had wanted her to paint him relaxing rather than posing formally, and so she had. The neck fastening of his dolman was un-hooked, his capless hair tumbled as if in the ocean’s breeze. She’d managed to capture the sparkle in his emerald eyes, his high-spirited grin with just the hint of the devil.

Oh, Andrew, what would you think of me now?

The ache went too deep. Replacing the miniature on its stand, she wandered to the balcony. Wan sunlight, a feeble imitation of the fierce peninsular light that had bathed the quarters they’d shared in a score of different villages, cast a mellow glow. She leaned against the railing, gazing down into the garden below.

When she first returned after years under the Peninsula’s bright sun and sharp blue skies, she’d found London’s mist, fog and smoke impossibly grim. ’Twas as if, she joked to Francesca, the city itself wept at her loss. Then she’d come upon some pots of lavender at a farmer’s market and set about turning the abandoned, weed-choked lot behind her shop into a replica of a peninsular garden.

Now, pots of herbs surrounded a sundial fashioned from a broken milestone, an old deacon’s bench salvaged from the parish burn pile set invitingly near. Her beloved lavender thrived in the barren, rocky soil around the sundial, its scent, released by the gentle sun, floating up to her.

How the smells of sun-baked earth and herbs brought it back—the sharp-cut scenery of rock and scrub, narrow gullies and steep ravines. The simple, whitewashed dwellings clinging to hillsides and gazing at the distant azure sea. How she’d loved to set up her easel on the wide balcony and work furiously to capture the changing light on those hills, that glimmer of ocean.

She’d painted Andrew, too, of course, and Rob, his rascal of a brother and fellow soldier, and all their comrades. Canvases of men in uniform relaxing on the balcony, dining about her table or playing an impromptu game of cricket on the village square had begun to crowd her baggage, for when the troops were billeted in towns between engagements, the quarters of Lieutenant Waring-Black and his beautiful bride became a sort of junior officer’s mess. Many an evening had they laughed and played at cards, while Boyd or Matthew sang to Francesca’s guitar.

Melancholy filled Emily’s chest along with breaths of lavender-spiced air. She loved this little garden, a tangible reminder of the happy sunlit days with Andrew. When accounts did not total, or a tradesman bickered, or some well-born lady puffed up with her own consequence belittled her, Emily would somehow find herself sitting on the bench below. She’d run her fingers along the stiff gray wands and inhale the herb’s sharp, cleansing scent. Whenever something troubled her.

Like the thought of the tall, well-formed man returning tonight. Her lover.

Her cheeks burned, her body heated and the thought escaped before she could check it: I’m sorry.

Don’t be an idiot, she told herself crossly. You’ve chosen your course. There’s nothing to do but go on and make the best of it. Only children and cowards whine and regret.

She was too honest to deny Cheverley’s lovemaking brought her intense—and sorely missed—pleasure. Nor could she deny the idea of receiving his caresses again, soon, sent a spiral of warmth to her very core.

’Twas just her pride that ached, and old memories she should have long since laid to rest. She should view the matter pragmatically, as Francesca suggested.

A businesslike arrangement without long-term or legal complications might suit her very well. And if his lordship’s ardor lasted until she managed to build her income to such a level of security that she would never again be forced into this position, it would, as Francesca said, be all to the good.

And just what does that make you? a little voice in her head whispered. She turned away from the garden, trying to shut out the ugly word that burned, unspoken, in her ears.

After leaving Emily in the lightening dawn, Evan sought his bed. Too keyed up to sleep, though, he soon gave up the attempt. From the exasperated look his mama gave him when he left the breakfast chamber two plates of eggs, ham and sausages and three steaming cups of tea later, he must have missed half her conversation.

Deciding in his present fog of abstraction he would likely run his high-perch phaeton into a post or allow the highbred cattle to bolt, he waved away his groom and elected to walk to his Horse Guards office.

But during the stroll, instead of reviewing details of Wellington’s supply routes, his mind kept slipping back to the sounds and images of last night. The low velvet timbre of her voice. The curve of her little finger as she held her teacup. Her eyes, sometimes deep plum, sometimes the lighter veined lavender of a woodland flower.

Flowers. He halted, electrified. To the woman beautiful as a perfect, fragrant violet he would send every blossom he could find. Grinning, he hailed a hackney and instructed the jarvey to carry him to the closest florist.

Two hours and a good deal of blunt later, he had dispatched enough blooms, he calculated as he mounted the stairs to his office, to cover her desk and most of the dining table. Mayhap she could even strew some petals on the sheets.

An immediate wave of heat assailed him. No, he dare not start thinking of that. Besides, he wanted this evening to proceed differently. He’d promised himself to court and woo her, then had taken her like a street-corner strumpet. The very thought of it galled him anew. He would have been well-served if she’d kicked him down the stairs afterward and bolted the door.

Instead, she’d wept.

His stomach twisted and his chest tightened. Ah, sweetheart, he vowed, never again will I make you weep.

With a start he realized he now stood before the door to his office. Gathering his disjointed thoughts, he entered, extracted a supply ledger from the stack on his desk and sat down to review it.

He was gazing out the window, thinking of violets and amethysts rather than account totals, when his door opened and Geoffrey Randall, his college mate and assistant, strolled in.

“’Morning, Ev. Have you reviewed the ledgers yet?”

Evan glanced at the page he’d smoothed open at least half an hour ago, unable to recall a single total. “Not quite,” he mumbled.

“When you finish, could you check this report for powder and shot? I’ve added the columns three times, but the figures don’t make sense.” Frowning, Randall tapped the paper he held.

Ah, figures. With a private smile Evan called to mind one particular willowy, well-rounded form.

“Something doesn’t seem right,” Randall was continuing. “I’d appreciate your looking at it. If you would, Ev. Ev?”

His drifting attention recalled, Evan focused on the secretary. “Y-yes. You were saying?”

His assistant eyed him with some concern. “Seem a tad done-up this morning, old friend. Rough night? Surely you didn’t lose, for a change?”

A sudden vision of Emily in his arms, and he in Emily, warmed him like a candle flame. “’Twas a wonderful night, and I certainly didn’t lose.”

Raising an eyebrow, Randall laughed. “Ah, that sort of night. Why don’t you go get some sleep? You’re not doing any good here.”

“Thank you most kindly,” Evan replied with a grin. “But you’re correct—my mind isn’t on ledgers today. Shall we discuss the matter later?”

“Of course.” Randall grinned back. “And if the wench is even halfway deserving of that fatuous smile, you’re a lucky devil.”

As Evan neared home, the idea of another gift struck him with vivid clarity.

There must be no gown unfolded with memories tonight. No, tonight she should come to him in sheer purple silk and a whisper of cream lace. His woman, wearing his gown, making new memories that were theirs alone.

Proceeding immediately to the shop of one of the city’s most exclusive mantua-makers, he swiftly made his choice. However, when he informed Madame she need not deliver the garment, for he intended to take it with him, she protested she’d be happy to insure it arrived wherever he wished.

Catching the speculative gleam in her eye, he realized the seamstress was consumed with curiosity to discover the identity of his newest inamorata. Instinctively he knew his reserved, dignified Emily would not appreciate having her name bandied about. Cordially turning aside the dress-maker’s offer, he paid her well and left the shop.

To be truthful, he found the notion of revealing Emily to be his mistress strangely distasteful. Not that he’d ever flaunted his women, but Emily was different—a treasure he wished cloistered for him alone. He’d not have what they shared be the subject of vulgar speculation by Willoughby and those of his ilk.

What a many-faceted jewel she was, too: elegant and proper as the highest-born lady in that demure lavender gown the first day they’d met; siren last night, her ebony tresses flowing silken over her bare back and full, high breasts, her soft mouth and thighs promising sin and magic.

Just thinking of her hardened him to such urgent need he groaned. How many more hours until dark?

After avoiding his mama’s curious glances at tea, he dressed for dinner early and slipped away to his club. Surely he could find someone to get up a game of whist or piquet that would fill the hours until he could present himself back at her shop.

“Ev, well met!” Brent Blakesly rose to greet him as he entered the reading room. “Missed you at White’s last night. I take it that means your, ah, appointment was successful?”

Evan knew he was beaming; he couldn’t help it. “Completely.”

Brent whistled. “Congratulations, then! Come—” he motioned to a waiter “—let’s have some champagne! Though I can hardly credit it—Willoughby was so sure she’d not go down for anyone.”

Evan jerked back the hand his friend was enthusiastically pumping. “Dammit, don’t you dare describe her in such terms.”

Shocked into immobility, Brent simply looked at him. “Sorry, Ev,” he said at last. “I meant no disrespect.”

Shocked himself by the depth of his outrage, Evan made himself smile and motioned Brent back to his chair. “I don’t want this to become common knowledge about London—not a hint of it. If you take my meaning?”

Brent straightened, looking mildly affronted. “I’m hardly one to go gossiping about my friends. As I thought you’d know.”

“Yes, yes, I do know. Just a reminder.”

“Mrs. Spenser worries for her reputation?” Brent guessed.

“No, I do. I don’t want some idle fool getting the wrong idea and bothering her.”

Brent stared at him searchingly, then shook his head. “The lady must have made quite an impression.”

Evan let his mind play over the images of Emily in all her guises, and of their own volition his lips curved into a smile. “She did indeed.”

The champagne arrived, and with a flourish, Brent presented him a flute. “To you,” he raised his glass, “the luckiest bastard in London.”

After they downed the wine, Evan put a restless hand to his pocket and frowned. “Blast, I seem to have left my watch. What o’clock is it?”

Brent squinted at the mantel clock across the room. “Near on five, best I can see. How about a few hands of piquet before you leave me for the divine Madame? Mayhap I can fleece you of enough blunt to assuage my jealousy.”

So strongly did the thought of Emily pull Evan, even the prospect of several hours spent over good wine in the company of his best friend didn’t appeal. He knew where he most wanted to be. So why not just go there?

“Another time, perhaps,” he replied, deciding on the spot. “I think I’ll stop by the shop and make sure the runner is still on duty.”

Brent grinned. “Righto, better check. Runners are such an inefficient lot.” He ducked Evan’s mock punch. “Give the widow my regards—you lucky bastard.”

Already halfway across the room, Evan only nodded.

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