“It’s only one night, after all.”

Their eyes locked and his widened slightly.

And then he knew. Knew what she was saying. She would give him one night. And give herself one night. With him.

She watched him struggle with what she knew had to be a compellingly wicked temptation.

“It’s your decision,” he said slowly, but his fists remained balled up by his side.

“I’ve already made up my mind,” she said.

“So be it,” he said, and as he stared deep into her eyes his own were strangely cold, yet full of a dark triumph.

MIRANDA LEE is Australian, living near Sydney. Born and raised in the bush, she was boarding-school educated and briefly pursued a classical music career before moving to Sydney and embracing the world of computers. Happily married, with three daughters, she began writing when family commitments kept her at home. She likes to create stories that are believable, modern, fast-paced and sexy. Her interests include reading meaty sagas, doing word puzzles and going to the movies.

Miranda Lee
Just for a Night

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

‘I DON’T want you to go.’

Marina looked up from her suitcase and shook her head at the sulky expression on her fiancé’s face.

‘Please don’t start that again, Shane. I have to go. Surely you can see that?’

‘No, I can’t,’ he snapped. ‘It’s only three weeks till the wedding and here you are swanning off to the other side of the world on some wild-goose chase. There’s no guarantee that your bone marrow will save that little girl’s life. You’re probably just getting their hopes up for nothing.’

‘Firstly, I will only be away a week at the most,’ Marina pointed out, impatience only a breath away. ‘Secondly, I happen to be a near perfect match. Not only in blood, but in tissue type. Do you know how rare that is?’

‘I’m sure you’ll tell me,’ he said sourly. ‘You’re the smart one around here.’

Marina frowned at his tone of voice, and at the indication behind his words. This was a side to Shane she’d never seen before.

There again, she considered slowly, she’d never crossed him before. After her mother’s death a couple of months ago she’d been more than happy to accept the warm hand of friendship and support Shane had offered, more than happy to have someone there to make all the funeral arrangements and give her a shoulder to cry on. Her usually decisive and strong-willed character had failed her entirely during that grief-stricken time. Shane had been strong when she’d felt weak, kind and thoughtful when that was what she’d needed most.

That his kindness had ended up in his bed had probably been inevitable. He was an attractive man and she was, after all, so terribly lonely. Her satisfaction with his lovemaking had not been quite so inevitable, given her uninspiring sexual history. The pleasure he’d given her had stunned her, so much so that she’d believed herself in love at last. When he’d asked her to marry him a month ago, she’d said yes.

Now she stared at him. His face was not so handsome as he scowled at her. His eyes not so kind, either. They were cold and angry.

‘I had no idea how much you resented my being a teacher,’ she said, covering her distress behind a cool tone. ‘If you imagine I think you’re in any way inferior to me because you work with your hands, then I don’t.’

Shane had been her mother’s right-hand man in the riding and dressage school she’d run on the outskirts of Sydney. Although a high school drop-out, Shane was far from dumb. When Marina’s mother had hired him a good few years back, the then twenty-five-year-old had known everything there was to know about matters equestrian. He’d got along with Marina’s mother like a house on fire because they had a passion in common: the passion for horses.

Marina quite liked horses, and she’d learnt to ride adequately enough, but she’d never been obsessed by the showjumping scene, as her mother and Shane were. She’d always quite liked Shane too, but he’d been standoffish in her presence—till her mother’s illness and death had changed the status quo between them.

After they’d become engaged, Marina had told Shane that the school and the horses were his to do with whatever he liked.

She wondered now if he loved the school and horses more than he loved her.

Or if he loved her at all…

‘Maybe our getting married is not such a good idea,’ she said quietly. ‘We did rush into it a bit.’

He was around the bed and taking her in his arms before she could say boo. But his hard, hungry kisses left her cold. Shane stopped after a while and held her at arm’s length. This time his expression was full of apology and remorse.

‘You’re angry with me,’ he said. ‘And you’ve every right to be. I was being bloody selfish. Of course you have to go. Of course. It’s just that I’m going to miss you terribly, sweetheart.’ He released her arms to cup her chin and lift her mouth for him to kiss again. Softly this time. And sweetly.

Marina had to admit to a moment of melting. These new sexual responses of hers could be very disarming. And perhaps not always in her best interests, came the astonishing realisation.

‘I’m really going to miss this beautiful mouth of yours,’ Shane murmured. ‘There again, everything about you is so beautiful. Your eyes. Your skin. Your hair. Your breasts.’ His hands lifted to stroke them through her shirt and she was dismayed at the way they responded, as though they weren’t connected with her brain.

‘I’ve always wanted you, Marina,’ he insisted, with a thickened quality to his voice. ‘From the first moment I saw you. But your mother warned me right from the start that I could look, but not touch. Her little princess was not for the likes of me.’

Marina was not really surprised by this news. Her mother had been a very contradictory person. British-born and bred, she’d apparently defied her wealthy, upper-crust parents to run off to Australia with a colonial stablehand. She’d been told never to darken their doorstep again. Which she hadn’t.

Her bitterness over their attitude had been such that she’d never spoken of her English ancestors to her daughter, and had forbidden Marina to ever seek them out.

One would have thought she’d bring up Marina to despise this kind of snobbery and hypocrisy. And she had, in a way. But at the same time, perversely, she’d tried to turn her only daughter into a right little madam, with all the associated refinements and manners. Marina had been given ballet lessons, piano lessons and speech and drama lessons, not to mention the obligatory riding and dressage lessons.

It hadn’t really worked. Marina might look an elegant twenty-five-year-old lady on the surface, and she could hold her own in any company, but she was still Australian through and through—with a stubborn streak a mile long, an instinctive irreverence for authority and a pragmatic no-nonsense attitude to life.

She was also a chip off the old block when it came to defying parents, because when she’d gone to England on a backpacking holiday a couple of years previously she had tried to look up the maternal side of her family—her mother’s maiden name being on her birth certificate—only to find that there were more Binghams in England than you could poke a stick at.

Without more information to narrow the field, or money to hire an investigator, finding the right Binghams would have been like looking for a needle in a haystack. Since she had never been all that curious about the English side to her family—they sounded horrible snobs to her—she’d given up the search without another qualm.

Shane’s comment reminded her that she would be in England again soon. And this time she did have some money. Her mother’s estate had been larger than she’d envisaged. It seemed she’d been a very astute businesswoman over the years. Now that Marina could not hurt her mother with a more in-depth search, she might just see if she could find her grandparents, plus any possible aunts, uncles and cousins.

And maybe she wouldn’t.

They’d never searched for her, had they? Why should she care a whit for them? They’d probably only upset her by not wanting to have anything to do with her.

No, she would abandon that idea entirely. Best to let sleeping dogs lie.

‘I never thought you’d look twice at me,’ Shane was saying, ‘with your private school education and your looks. But you did, didn’t you, princess? And now…now you’re mine.’ He bent to back his claim with a long and very intimate kiss. It did set her heart a-thudding, but it was not what she wanted at that moment. All she wanted was to be left alone. Her head was absolutely whirling.

‘Come back as quickly as you can,’ he urged. ‘Don’t stay over there a moment longer than necessary.’

Marina didn’t know what to say. She felt very confused. A couple of weeks ago she had not been able to wait to marry Shane. Now, suddenly, those heady feelings of being madly in love seemed to have disappeared and her thoughts were very disturbing.

Surely Shane could not be just marrying her for the horses. Surely he loved her. And surely she loved him back. Hadn’t she quivered under his touch only last night? Hadn’t she cried out with pleasure?

Her mental toing and froing led nowhere, but the urge to get away from Shane remained acute. The urge to get away all round was becoming even stronger.

The trip to London, which had loomed in her mind as something of a trial, now took on a different perspective. It became a welcome escape, a time away from Shane during which she could think more clearly. By the time she returned, hopefully, she would know what to do.

It would not be too late to break her engagement even then. It wasn’t as though they were going to have a big church wedding, only a simple ceremony in her mother’s prized rose garden, with a celebrant and a few close friends attending.

This had been Shane’s wish, not Marina’s. She’d always wanted a traditional wedding, but Shane had argued the unsuitability of a big celebration so soon after her mother’s death. She recalled Shane had also said it would be a waste of money—money better spent on the plans he had for building new stables and buying new horses.

Money figured a lot in Shane’s arguments, Marina was beginning to realise.

When the phone call had come from the children’s hospital, asking her if she could fly to London as soon as possible to be a bone marrow donor, Shane’s first concern had been how much money it would cost and who was going to pay. He hadn’t shut up about it till a follow-up letter had arrived, explaining Marina would not be out of pocket in any way whatsoever.

Shane still hadn’t been happy about her going.

But in this case Marina had remained adamant, her natural tendency to stubbornness rising up through the uncharacteristic submissiveness which had been plaguing her. This had nothing to do with them as a couple and everything to do with herself as a decent and caring human being. She was prepared to go even if she had to pay for it all herself. How could she not, when a little girl’s life was at stake?

Her name was Rebecca, and she was only seven. An orphan, God love her, but with a wonderful great-uncle, it seemed. An earl, no less. And rich as Croesus, thank heavens.

He’d sent a first-class return ticket for Marina, plus a written assurance that he would be personally responsible for all her expenses. His gratitude knew no bounds. He claimed he would be in her debt for the rest of his life.

Marina smiled as she thought of the letter and its incredibly formal-sounding expressions. The man was British aristocracy through and through, all right. But rather sweet, she conceded. For a blue-blood.

‘Ahh, you’re smiling,’ Shane said, and bent to peck her on the lips. ‘I must be forgiven.’

Marina could not trust herself to speak. She twisted out of Shane’s arms and busied herself shutting and locking her suitcase. ‘We’ll have to leave for the airport shortly,’ she said. ‘If you’re still going to drive me, that is?’

‘Why wouldn’t I drive you?’ he said expansively. ‘Don’t be so sensitive, sweetheart.’ He scooped the suitcase off the bed and placed his spare arm around her shoulders.

‘I know why you’re so touchy,’ he said, hugging her to his side. ‘You’re just jumpy about the flight. And about your hospital stay at the other end. I’ll say this for you, Marina, you’re damned brave, volunteering to have needles poked in you like that. I know I wouldn’t do it. Not for a perfect stranger.’

Marina frowned. She didn’t think of herself as particularly brave. She’d been assured the procedure was not painful, though there might be some discomfort in her hip for a couple of days.

It dawned on her then that Shane was a very selfish man. Selfish and ambitious and stingy.

Marina fingered her engagement ring all the way from Bringelly to the airport at Mascot. Half a dozen times she contemplated taking it off and giving it back. But she didn’t. And, in the end, she boarded the plane still an engaged woman.

CHAPTER TWO

THE man holding the sign which said ‘MISS MARINA SPENCER’ didn’t look like a chauffeur.

He wasn’t wearing a uniform for one thing, like several of the other sign-carrying chauffeurs standing near him. He was wearing a black pin-striped three-piece suit and a crisp white business shirt whose starched collar was neatly bisected by a classy maroon tie. A matching maroon handkerchief winked from the breast pocket of the superbly tailored jacket.

Frankly, he looked like an executive. A very tall, very good-looking, very successful executive. In his early thirties, Marina guessed, he had straight black hair—impeccably parted and groomed—straight black brows, and an air of urbane superiority. She could see him sitting behind a desk, in one of those black leather swivel chairs. Or in a boardroom, at the head of one of those long, polished tables.

But the sign he was carrying placed him very firmly as the chauffeur she’d been told would meet her at Heathrow. So Marina set her luggage trolley on an unswerving path straight towards him.

His gaze, which had been staring rather blankly at the steady stream of arrivals, shifted abruptly to hers, and Marina found herself looking into deeply set blue eyes which widened at her approach. Clearly she didn’t fit his idea of a Miss Marina Spencer any more than he did her concept of a chauffeur.

Admittedly, she probably didn’t look like most Englishmen’s idea of a girl from Sydney. Her bright red hair and very pale skin did not fit the clichéd beach beauties from Bondi, sporting honey-blonde hair as long as their legs and a gorgeous all-over tan.

At least I have the long legs, she thought, smiling ruefully to herself over her total inability to tan—inherited, possibly, from somewhere on her maternal side. Unless it came from her father’s distant Irish ancestry. Who knew, where recessive genes were concerned? Luckily, Marina’s mother had lathered her daughter’s sensitive skin with sun factor fifteen her entire life, and she only carried a smattering of light freckles.

Marina stopped the trolley right in front of the chauffeur and smiled politely up into his by now frowning face.

‘I’m Marina Spencer,’ she informed him.

He gave her the longest look in return, one which left her feeling as poorly composed as the twenty-two-hour flight had. She’d hardly slept a wink, for one thing. And something she’d eaten had not agreed with her. All in all, the trip had been a trial, and she wasn’t looking forward to the return flight, regardless of the first-class seat.

She’d done her best to resurrect her appearance in the Ladies just before disembarking, but despite fresh make-up her skin still felt dehydrated, and her normally vibrant red-gold curls hung rather limply around her face and shoulders. Her widely spaced green eyes, one of her best features, had dark smudges under them.

On the plus side, her jeans had survived the trip better than a skirt or a dress. And her favourite and thankfully crease-proof black jacket hid the wrinkles in the white shirt underneath.

But she still felt somewhat the worse for wear.

The chauffeur’s thorough visual assessment irritated her somewhat. Finally, he bent to prop the sign against a nearby pillar, then straightened, still unsmiling, to hold out his hand to her in greeting.

‘How do you do, Miss Spencer? I trust you had a good flight? I’m James Marsden.’ The fingers which enclosed hers were firm and cool. ‘My chauffeur had a problem with one of his knees this morning. Arthritis. So I came to collect you myself. He’s waiting for us out in the car.’

Marina blinked her astonishment. This was James Marsden? This was Rebecca’s great-uncle? This was the Earl of Winterborne?

Her first impulse was to laugh. No wonder he hadn’t fitted the image of a chauffeur. But, my goodness, he didn’t fit her image of the Earl of Winterborne, either. She’d pictured an elderly white-haired gentleman, with a handle-bar moustache, a walking stick and an Irish wolfhound at his feet.

‘That was very kind of you,’ she said, trying to school her mouth into a polite expression instead of an amused grin. She succeeded, but not before the Earl of Winterborne clearly spotted her struggle to suppress a smile. Those straight black brows of his drew momentarily together, and for a brief second she thought he was going to ask her what the joke was. But he merely shrugged and stepped forward to lift her suitcase from the trolley, swinging it easily to the ground at his feet.

‘Is this your only luggage?’ he asked.

‘Yes, it is.’ She was glad now that she’d brought only her best clothes with her. Glad too that she’d had a new suitcase to pack them in. The bag she’d brought to England on her previous visit would have proved a right embarrassment.

This one was an elegant tapestry model in smoky blues and greys which she’d bought from one of the chain stores during the after-Christmas sales at the beginning of the year. It had a roomy matching shoulder bag which was at that moment hanging fairly heavily on one of her slender shoulders, filled to the brim with everything she’d thought she might need on the long flight over.

‘You travel light, Miss Spencer.’

She almost laughed again. He wasn’t carrying her leaden shoulder bag. She smiled instead. ‘Do call me Marina. Please.’

Now he smiled, if you could call a slight upward movement at one corner of his nicely shaped lips a smile. ‘Australians have a penchant for using first names quickly, don’t they?’

‘We don’t stand on ceremony, I guess,’ she agreed, and wondered if she had offended him in some way. There was a dryness to his voice which could have been sarcasm. Or disapproval.

The demi-smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. He was as stiffly formal in life as he’d been in his letters, she decided. But where his written words had seemed rather sweet, his blue-blood bearing and autocratic manner were not so endearing. Frankly, they were intimidating. Marina determined not to succumb to the temptation to kowtow and grovel, reminding herself he was just a flesh and blood man underneath the cloak of superiority he wore so arrogantly, yet so very elegantly.

‘So what should I call you?’ she asked. ‘What does an earl get called, anyway?’

There was a minute lifting of his eyebrows, as though her casual attitude was to be expected but only just tolerated. ‘My Lord, usually,’ came his cool reply. ‘Or Lord Winterborne, in my case.’

His pompousness sparked a touch of rebellion. ‘That sounds awfully stiff. How can you stand it? At home you’d simply be called James. Or Jim. Or even Jack. Still, when in Rome do as the Romans do, I guess. I wouldn’t want to do anything which wasn’t appropriate while I’m over here.’

He gave her another of those highly disturbing looks. ‘No, of course not,’ he drawled, and his eyes dropped to her left hand and her diamond engagement ring.

Marina could not believe the thought which flashed into her mind. Immediately prickles of heat whooshed into her cheeks. When his eyes lifted back to her face, she hoped and prayed he could not read the reason behind her most uncustomary blush.

‘Then call me James, by all means,’ he said with starch-filled gallantry. ‘Come.’ He lifted her suitcase from the floor beside him with his right hand while he put his left at her elbow. ‘You must be tired. I will take you to my apartment in Mayfair where you can have some decent food and a rest. Then, this afternoon, I will take you to the hospital to meet Rebecca.’

Marina felt guilty that she’d forgotten her mission for a moment. ‘How is Rebecca?’ she asked anxiously. This is what you’ve come for, she lectured herself sternly. Not to have unconscionable thoughts about the Earl of Winterborne.

‘She’s very much looking forward to meeting you,’ he replied. ‘I must warn you, though, she’s very thin and she’s lost all of her hair through the chemotherapy. So try not to look shocked when you walk in. Rebecca might only be seven but she’s very much a girl, and very sensitive to her appearance.’

Marina’s heart turned over. ‘Oh, the poor little love,’ she murmured.

The Earl of Winterborne gave a very un-earl-like sigh. It carried a weariness born of worry and grief, plus a type of resignation which came from feeling totally helpless. Marina understood perfectly what he was going through, because that was how she had felt while her mother had been dying of cancer. It was the reason why Marina had put herself on the bone marrow register. Because she’d wanted to give someone else hope where there had been none for her mother—or herself.

‘Yes. Yes, that sums Rebecca up entirely,’ he agreed. His face had grown as bleak as his voice, and his hand dropped away from Marina’s elbow. The suitcase was lowered to the floor once more. ‘She’s had little enough love in her life so far. And little enough luck. But that’s been the way with things at Winterborne Hall for quite some time.’

Marina found herself reaching out to put a comforting hand on his nearest sleeve. His handsome head dipped slowly to glance down, first at her hand on his arm and then up into her sympathetic gaze.

‘Let’s hope my coming will turn the tables, then, shall we?’ she said softly, giving his arm a gentle squeeze before letting it fall back to her side.

He stared at her in silence for ages. Or so it seemed. It was probably only a few seconds.

A thousand emotions seemed to flitter across his face, none staying long enough for her to gauge properly. But she was left with the impression of a deep distress, one which was disturbing him greatly.

‘I would like to think so,’ he said staunchly at long last. ‘But I have a feeling that might not be the case. They say things are sent to try us,’ he added in a strangely bitter tone. ‘To test our characters. I can see that the next few days are going to test mine to the limit.’

Marina was not sure what he meant. Had the doctors already given up all real hope for the child? Was her own trip over here a waste of time, as Shane had suggested? She wondered what other misfortunes had befallen his family lately. Marina suspected he had more on his mind than the health of the child. The Earl of Winterborne clearly had many burdens on his shoulders.

But they were very broad shoulders, she noted when he bent to pick up her suitcase a third time and began to stride off with it. She wondered if they would look as good without the suit. If they were mostly padding or real.

Marina frowned as she trotted after him. This was the second time in as many minutes that her mind had swung unexpectedly to the physical where this man was concerned. It wasn’t like her to have thoughts such as this. Well, not till recently, anyway, and certainly not about any man other than Shane.

Not that she’d had anything to do with any man other than Shane lately. She’d taken compassionate leave from her teaching position after her mother’s death and had stayed at home ever since, helping Shane with the administrative side of running the riding school. For the last few weeks her life had revolved around her fiancé and the astonishing things he could make her feel.

Her frown deepened as she tried to make sense of her unbidden responses to the Earl of Winterborne. Was her recent sexual awakening able to be transferred to any attractive man who came along? Had she turned into an ogler of male flesh? A female fantasiser?

The prospect appalled her. She’d never liked the way some women talked about men and sex all the time when they were together, as though there was nothing else in their lives. Or the way they stared openly at certain parts of the male anatomy.

Marina’s eyes drifted down from those broad shoulders to where Lord Winterborne’s suit jacket outlined what looked like a nicely shaped derrière.

You’re doing it now, that annoyingly honest voice piped in her head—the one which Marina could never deny.

And enjoying it, another sarcastic voice inserted slyly.

The first voice came to the rescue with a vengeance.

And what’s wrong with looking? it challenged belligerently. There’s no harm in looking!

She wants to do more than look. She’d like to touch, too. She’d like to see if an English earl makes love like an Aussie stablehand. She’d like to—

‘Oh, do shut up!’ she muttered aloud.

‘Pardon?’ The object of her mental warring glanced over his shoulder, slowing his stride at the same time.

Marina almost cannoned right into him. She stopped herself just in time, rocking backwards and forwards on her toes as she hitched the tapestry bag higher on her shoulder for added balance.

‘Nothing,’ she said with a blithe and decidedly false innocence. There was definitely nothing innocent going on in her mind at that moment. ‘Just talking to myself.’

‘You do that often?’ His drily amused smile did wickedly attractive things to his mouth. Marina decided she preferred him dead serious.

‘All the time,’ she admitted, wrenching her mind back from the path to hell with great difficulty. ‘I was an only child, and only children often talk to themselves. I used to talk to a tea-towel as well.’

‘A tea-towel?’ He laughed, and Marina gritted her teeth. Laughing did to his whole face what that smile had done to his mouth: transformed it from merely handsome to lethally sexy.

‘Why a tea-towel? Why not a doll? Or a teddy?’

Marina pulled a face. ‘It’s difficult to explain. The tea-towel wasn’t another person, or a pretend friend. It was me. Or another side of me. My…secret side.’

‘Sounds fascinating. Do you still talk to tea-towels?’ he asked as he walked on, more slowly this time, so that she fell into step with him by his side.

‘Not since I was eighteen.’

‘What happened to you at eighteen?’

‘I left home to go to teacher’s college. I didn’t think my new flatmates would indulge my peculiarities like my mother did. Since then, any conversations with my secret side take place in my head.’

He slanted a thoughtful glance across at her. ‘And how often do these conversations take place?’

‘Not that often nowadays.’ But she had an awful feeling they were about to pick up frequency.

‘Do you tell anyone about them?’

‘Lord, no!’

‘Not even your fiancé?’

Marina hesitated a fraction.

‘That is an engagement ring on your finger, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ Marina had pretty well decided on the flight over that she’d blown the incident before leaving home way out of proportion, that of course she loved Shane and wanted to marry him. But her responses to the man standing before her had shaken that conviction anew. How could she possibly be in love with Shane and feel attracted to the earl of Winterborne?

It’s possible because this is not love, pointed out her pragmatic side. It’s just…attraction. He’s a very attractive man.

Marina found comfort in that thought. Yes, of course. Any woman would find this man attractive. He was the stuff female fantasies were made of. Handsome. Rich. Enigmatic. I’m not being disloyal to my feelings for Shane. I’m just being normal.

‘No,’ she answered levelly, after scooping in and letting out a steadying breath. ‘I definitely don’t tell Shane about them. He thinks I’m a very sensible, level-headed girl.’

That disturbing demi-smile surfaced again. ‘And you’re not?’

‘I do try to be.’ But I don’t always succeed, she thought ruefully.

‘When is your wedding?’

‘In three weeks.’

‘Three weeks!’ He sounded shocked. And almost disbelieving. ‘You’ve come all this way…and your wedding is only three weeks away?’

‘I would have come,’ she said truthfully, ‘even if the wedding had been tomorrow. My mother died of cancer. I could not have lived with myself if I had not come. And now that I have…I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to doing this for your Rebecca. As soon as it can be arranged, actually. Tomorrow if you like. You did say the sooner the better in your letter, didn’t you?’

He stopped and stared at her, then began shaking his head. ‘You are one special lady, Miss Marina Spencer. One very special lady. Tomorrow would be marvellous. But I thought you’d be too tired.’

‘What’s tired in the scheme of things? I can rest afterwards.’

‘And you will, too. As soon as you can leave the hospital, I’ll take you down to Winterborne Hall, where you can relax for a few days before flying home. It’s out in the country and quite beautiful at this time of year.’

‘But…’ A host of terrible thoughts rushed into her head which had nothing to do with relaxing. Marina tried to think of these new fantasies as just normal, but their explicit nature was very perturbing. ‘No, I’m sorry. I really can’t accept. For one thing I should be getting home to Shane. Besides, I… I wouldn’t like to impose on Lady Winterborne like that.’

He simply had to have a wife, a man such as this. Please God, let him have a wife, Marina prayed. I would never think thoughts like this about a married man. I know I wouldn’t.

‘There is no Lady Winterborne,’ he informed her coolly, and something inside her fluttered uncontrollably. ‘But there are a dozen guest bedrooms just dying to be used. And plenty of staff to see to your every whim. What’s a few days?’ he added temptingly, his eyes searching hers. ‘Your fiancé surely won’t expect you to jump on a plane straight out of hospital?’

‘I…I guess not. But I wouldn’t like to put you to—’

‘I insist,’ he broke in brusquely. ‘I will not take no for an answer.’

Marina swallowed. It was the wrong thing for him to say to her at that moment in time.

An image filled her mind, of her lying on a magnificent four-poster bed in one of those undoubtedly huge and plushly elegant guest bedrooms…

It was night, but there were candles casting an intimate glow through the room. Her red hair was spread out against a mountain of pillows, gleaming gold against pristine white. Her nightgown was virginal white as well, but made of satin and lace, and it hid little. She was reading when he came into the room, dressed in a rich purple robe. His penetrating blue eyes clashed with her own startled green ones. He walked arrogantly to the edge of the bed and shrugged out of the robe. He was naked. He climbed onto the bed and pulled the curtains so the world was shut out and darkness enveloped them. The book was taken from her suddenly trembling fingers. She felt a hand sliding around her neck, and her mouth being slowly lifted.

‘I will not take no for an answer,’ he whispered against her lips…

Marina’s glazed eyes slowly cleared to find the main star of her shockingly life-like fantasy staring at her with unconcealed concern.

‘What is it? Are you not feeling well?’

Marina felt decidedly shaky, for such was the power of her imaginings.

‘I…I was feeling a little faint there for a moment. But I’m all right now.’ She scooped in a deep breath and did her best to still her wildly hammering heart.

‘You had me worried. I thought I might have to carry you as well as the suitcase.’

For a split second Marina contemplated organising a faint.

‘Do you think you can make it outside?’ he asked, worry on his handsome face. ‘It’s not far.’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said briskly, disgusted with herself for this ongoing and quite uncharacteristic weakness. She had to get a hold of herself and her head once and for all. This would just not do!

‘Lead on, My Lord,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll follow.’

He frowned. ‘I thought you were going to call me James.’

‘I know, but somehow it doesn’t feel right.’

He looked slightly annoyed. ‘Surely I’m not that intimidating?’

‘Well, actually, yes, you are, Lord Winterborne.’

In more ways than one.

‘But I would prefer you to call me James.’

‘Sorry, Your Lordship. No can do.’ This unfortunate attraction might be one-sided, but Marina still felt it only sensible to keep him at a distance. Calling him James was just too intimate for her peace of mind.

His glare fell just short of scowl. ‘You really have a mind of your own, don’t you?’

‘Well, why not?’ she said in a challenging tone. ‘Don’t English women?’

He laughed, but didn’t answer her, she noted. After one last shake of his head, he stalked on ahead with her suitcase, leaving her to follow as she’d said she would.

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS raining outside—a light drizzle more like a mist than real rain. And it was freezing, by Marina’s standards. After all, it was supposedly summer over here, unlike the actually warmer winter she’d left behind in Sydney. Of course it was still very early in the morning. Just going on six. The plane had landed in the dark, not long after five.

Still…

Marina thought of the clothes she’d brought and wondered if they’d do.

‘Don’t worry,’ Lord Winterborne said when she glanced up at the sky. ‘We have good heating inside. August can be like this. Very unpredictable. It will probably be fine and warm tomorrow. Ahh, here’s William with the car.’

A large and stately-looking dark green saloon pulled into the kerb with a properly uniformed chauffeur behind the wheel. He looked about fifty, with a full, florid face and a few too many pounds around his stomach.

‘Don’t get out, William,’ his employer called out, on opening the back door. ‘Just hand me the keys and I’ll put the luggage in the boot. This is Marina, by the way, all the way from Sydney, Australia.’

‘How do you do, miss?’ the chauffeur said, lifting his cap in greeting as she climbed in and settled in the most comfy brown leather seat.

They exchanged a smile in the rear-vision mirror. ‘His Lordship was over the moon when he found out you were coming, miss. It’s ever so good of you to do what you’re doing.’

‘That’s nice of you to say so, but I’m only doing what anybody would do, under the circumstances.’

‘I wouldn’t say that. I wouldn’t say that at all.’

‘What wouldn’t you say, William?’ the man himself asked, on joining them and handing back the keys.

‘That not everyone would do what this pretty lady is doing for Rebecca. Or come this far to do it.’

‘You’re quite right. I wholeheartedly agree with you. Straight to the apartment, William.’

‘Very good, My Lord.’

His Lordship stayed well over on his side of the roomy back seat, Marina noted, which was a relief. There was something about being confined in a car with him which was even more disturbing than ogling him from behind, or conjuring up erotic little scenarios in her head. Their enclosed closeness meant she could not only see him. She could smell him.

No matter how often Shane showered he still smelt slightly of sweat and horses. This man smelt of something very expensive. An exotic, spicy scent which teased the nostrils and made you think of crisp clean air and pines covered in snow, of cool white sheets and freshly washed bodies and…

Oh, my God, I’m doing it again!

Marina wrenched her mind back from the abyss, turning her head away from the inspiration of her erotic thoughts and that damned cologne he was wearing. She stared out at the suburban London street and the rows of identical houses, and tried to pull herself together.

‘You mentioned your mother died of cancer…’

Darn it, he was speaking to her. She would have to turn her head back and look at him.

She did so. Slowly. Nonchalantly. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said, and their eyes met. He really did have riveting eyes, she thought. The blue was as intense as their expression.

‘Was it leukaemia?’ he asked.

‘No. She died from skin cancer. A couple of months back. Melanoma. It took her fairly quickly after it was diagnosed. Though it’s never quick enough, is it?’ she added, her heart contracting at the thought of her mother’s suffering.

‘And your father? How is he coping?’

‘My father died when I was just a baby. A horse he was breaking in threw him into a fence. Snapped his neck. That’s why I have no brothers or sisters.’

‘Your poor mother.’

‘Oh, Mum coped. Mum always coped. She was very strong. Very brave.’

‘Her daughter takes after her.’

Marina shook her head. ‘I wish I did. But let’s not talk about me. I want you to tell me about Rebecca and her background.’

‘What would you like to know?’

‘Oh…everything, I guess.’ She was very curious about the child, plus how she came to have such a young great-uncle.

‘It’s only a half-hour drive to Mayfair at this time of day,’ he said a touch ruefully. ‘I doubt I can fit the Winterborne saga into such a short space of time. But I’ll try. Though I’ll keep it down to the relevant details and leave whatever family skeletons I can in the closet. I want you to think well of us.’

‘I already think well of you,’ she said, before she could bite the words back.

But it was true. Aside from the unfortunate physical attraction, she did think well of him. This was no selfish man sitting across from her. A selfish man would not have personally taken himself in to Heathrow airport at five in the morning. A selfish man would not have given a hoot if his chauffeur had arthritis. A selfish man would not love a little girl as he obviously loved his great-niece.

His smile was ironic. ‘You don’t really know me, Marina.’

She shrugged. ‘A man is known by his actions.’

He nodded slowly up and down. ‘I’ll try to remember that. Now where was I? Oh, yes. Rebecca…’

Marina soon realised she could listen to the Earl of Winterborne talk all day. He had a wonderfully rich voice. And perfect vowels. She would never have imagined perfect vowels could fascinate her, but they did. The whole man fascinated her, if she was truthful. As did his story…

It turned out that James had not been born to be the earl of Winterborne. That honour had gone to his brother, Laurence, who was an amazing twenty years his elder.

This Laurence had apparently been a bit of a wild one, given to gambling and living the high life. Unfortunately, his father, the Earl, had dropped dead of a coronary soon after his elder son turned twenty-one, so Laurence had inherited the title at a young age.

Admittedly, Laurence had startled everyone by marrying almost immediately, but any hope that marriage would settle him down and make him face the responsibilities associated with his title, plus running the family estate, had soon evaporated—mostly due to his choice of wife.

Joy was the youngest daughter in a family of four daughters, all of them renowned for their wildly ambitious and social-climbing natures. With the high-flying Joy by his side, Laurence’s life had been even more flamboyant and extravagant than ever. They’d gambled together, travelled abroad, skied, shopped and partied. They’d hardly ever been at Winterborne Hall, which was a relief to Laurence’s mother, who was still grieving for her husband while trying to bring up a young son at the age of forty-five.

The birth of a daughter, Estelle, two years after their wedding, had done nothing to change the jet-setting lifestyle of Lord and Lady Winterborne. They’d merely installed their new-born baby at Winterborne Hall with a nanny and taken off again.

Because of their closeness in age, Estelle had been more like a little sister to James than a niece, and although he and his mother had done their best to fill the gaps of love in the child’s life Estelle had grown up feeling neglected and abandoned by her parents. She’d always imagined it would have been different if she’d been a boy, and heir to the title, but James doubted it. His brother didn’t give a fig about what happened to the title after he was gone.

Estelle had eventually left home and begun taking drugs, then, after her parents cut off her allowance, had paid for her habit through selling herself on the streets.

By this time James had been at university, at Cambridge, and Estelle would occasionally contact him when she was desperate for money. He would try to talk some sense into her but to no avail. It had only been when she’d fallen pregnant a few years later—father unknown—that he was able to talk her into going home.

She had, and, with her grandmother’s help, had stayed drug-free till she’d given birth to her daughter, Rebecca. Less than a month later, however, she had died of an overdose of heroin. She was twenty-five—two years younger than her uncle James.

Rebecca’s grandparents, who’d still been leading self-indulgent lives, had been no more interested in their granddaughter’s well-being than they had in their own daughter’s. A nanny had been hired and that was that. Unfortunately, when Rebecca was only one year old, her great-grandmother had passed away, and, with James leading his own life in London by then, little Rebecca had seemed doomed to grow up even more lonely and neglected than her own mother.

Fate had stepped in, however, when her grandparents were killed on the ski-slopes of Switzerland during an avalanche two years back, making James the new Earl of Winterborne. He’d taken over the reins at Winterborne Hall, plus the guardianship of his then five-year-old great-niece, and had just brought some real love and happiness into the poor tot’s life when she’d been diagnosed with leukaemia.

Her existence over the last couple of years had consisted of nothing but doing the rounds of specialists, stays in hospitals, chemotherapy and sheer misery.

‘So you can see,’ Rebecca’s amazingly young great-uncle finished up, ‘she’s been having a real rough time of it.’

‘It goes like that sometimes, doesn’t it?’ Marina commiserated. ‘It doesn’t rain but it pours.’

Just then the rainclouds parted and a ray of sunshine pierced the passenger window, landing in Marina’s eyes. She blinked, then laughed softly. ‘I hope that sun’s a good omen. I think it might be, you know. I mean…what were the chances of finding a near-perfect match with Rebecca? One in a million?’

She turned her head towards her co-passenger, and caught him staring at her with those intense blue eyes of his. ‘I would say that just about describes you,’ he said in a serious tone.

Marina’s heart flipped over at the compliment. Her laugh felt strained. ‘What a flatterer you are, My Lord. You’ll turn my head if you don’t watch it.’

He said nothing, and she found his silence even more unnerving than his penetrating gaze. What was he thinking? Feeling? Was it merely curiosity about her which made him stare so? Surely the attraction couldn’t be mutual, could it?

She swallowed, and struggled to think of something to say. Anything.

‘Are…are we far from Mayfair?’ she asked, even when she already knew the answer. They were skirting a large park, possibly Hyde Park, and the streets were heavy with traffic even at this early hour. Some time back the rows of suburban houses had given way to impressive old buildings, mostly made of a greyish stone. Not a glass and concrete skyscraper in sight anywhere.

‘Not far,’ he said. ‘I take it you haven’t been to London before?’

‘Actually, I have. A couple of years back. Came on a shoestring and did what touristy things I could afford. Saw the changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace, and Madame Tussaud’s and the Tower of London, not to mention all the museums and galleries. The free ones, that is,’ she laughed.

‘Did you go to the theatre?’

‘Heavens, no. Too expensive.’

‘I’ll take you, if you like.’

She shot him a sharp look, but there was nothing in his face which suggested anything but politeness.

‘Oh, I…er…I don’t think I’ll really have the time, do you? Not if I’m to go down to Winterborne Hall as well.’

His eyebrows lifted in surprise. ‘You mean you’ll actually come?’

‘I…well…you said you wouldn’t take no for an answer.’

His laugh did not sound particularly happy for some reason. ‘But I never for one moment thought you’d succumb to that kind of male pressure.’

What a provocative expression, she thought. Succumb to male pressure. It conjured up the image of an attempted seduction and an almost unwilling surrender.

Marina could not help staring into his face again, for some hint of his feelings towards her. But there was nothing to go on. He had a habit of holding his facial features in that stiffly autocratic fashion which bespoke things like ancestral pride and honour and arrogance, but nothing of any personal emotion. If he was attracted to her on any physical level, his body language did not show it.

While some deep feminine instinct rang a warning that perhaps it was not wise to go down to Winterborne Hall, suddenly wild horses would not have kept her away. She wanted to see his ancestral home, wanted to see him in it, wanted to sleep in one of those dozen bedrooms—if only to spend the night fantasising over the Lord and Master of Winterborne Hall.

‘It’s not a matter of succumbing to male pressure,’ she said firmly, ‘but deciding for myself that I would really like to see Rebecca’s home. Still, I can only spare a couple of days. I really need to be getting back to my home as soon as possible.’ Back to the real world, she told herself ruefully. And away from this fantasy one, complete with fantasy man.

‘You must be missing your fiancé,’ he said. ‘What was his name again?’

‘Shane.’

‘What does he do for a living?’

‘He helped my mother run her riding and dressage school. He’s quite marvellous with horses.’

‘I see. But what is he doing now that your mother has passed on?’

‘Just the same. It would be a shame to let all my mother’s work go to rack and ruin. She built up a good business with plenty of clients. And her horses are simply the best.’

‘But that’s not what you do, is it?’

Marina was startled by his intuitive comment. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Your hands, for one thing. It’s also obvious you don’t spend much time in the sun.’

She stared down at her soft, pale hands, which were resting lightly in her lap. She was unnerved by the sharpness of his observations. What else had he noted about her? Could he look into her mind as well, see all those appalling thoughts she’d been having about him?

Her fingers linked together and pressed down hard. ‘You’re quite right,’ she said a little stiffly. ‘I’m a teacher.’

‘A teacher,’ he repeated, and smiled a strange little smile. ‘Yes, I can see you in front of a class. But not boys,’ he added wryly. ‘You would distract boys far too much. You teach at a girls’ school, I gather?’

Marina was rather rattled by his comments. For, while the use of the word ‘distracting’ suggested he found her looks attractive, this fact seemed to slightly annoy him. Was this because she was an engaged woman? Would he perhaps have adopted a different attitude to her if she’d been free to accept…to accept…what?

A romantic tryst while she was down at Winterborne Hall?

Marina found such a thought breathlessly exciting. It was with difficulty that she reminded herself she had developed an overheated imagination since stepping off that plane. For all she knew, the Earl of Winterborne was just making idle and polite conversation to pass the time while in her company. His tendency to an occasional sardonic remark could be caused by boredom. It was a sobering thought.

‘Actually, you’re wrong this time,’ she told him crisply. ‘I do teach boys. Boys and girls. I’m a primary school teacher. I have a class full of nine-and ten-year-olds. Or I did. I’ve taken compassionate leave till next term.’

His smile was accompanied by a drily amused gleam in his eyes. ‘Ahh. But boys of that age are not boys at all, just wild little savages. I was thinking of the slightly older species, which begins to appreciate the difference between boys and girls. And how old are you, exactly, Marina?’

‘Twenty-five.’

He said ‘ahh’ again, as though highly satisfied with her age.

The green saloon turned down a narrow street at that point, angling between cars parked down one side, then turning into an even more narrow and slightly cobbled lane. The brick buildings on either side were three storeys high, with doors which opened straight onto the street. So did the windows. Only the window boxes spilling with brightly coloured flowers gave some relief to the austerity of the architecture.

‘These are mews,’ His Lordship volunteered, on seeing her glance around.

‘Oh, yes, I’ve read about them. They used to be the royal stables, didn’t they?’

‘Not all of them royal, but certainly once belonging to London’s wealthy. They’ve all been converted to apartments nowadays.’

‘They must still be expensive, being so close to the city.’

‘I dare say. This one’s been passed down through the family. I inherited it when my father died. It might normally have gone to the eldest son but I think Father wanted to keep some of the estate out of Laurence’s spendthrift hands. As it was, my brother did his best to bankrupt the estate.

‘But I shouldn’t be telling you any of this,’ he muttered, seemingly irritated with himself for doing so if his expression was anything to go by.

He frowned and leant forward to tap his chauffeur on the shoulder. ‘William, just let us out here at the door.’

The car stopped next to a large brown wooden door with a brass knocker and doorknob. Geraniums and petunias blazed from hanging baskets at eye-level on either side.

‘And give me the key for a moment. I’ll get Miss Spencer’s luggage. No, don’t argue with me. I know how painful your knee is. If I’d had my way you’d have stayed home in bed and I’d have driven myself this morning. Now, after you’ve parked the car, come inside for some breakfast. We don’t have to leave for the bank for another hour at least.’

The chauffeur sighed heavily. ‘You spoil me, My Lord. Your brother would not have—’

‘My brother is no longer in charge, William. I am.’

Which, clearly, he was.

Magnificently and mercifully.

Marina saw then that it was not just the Earl’s handsome face which had captivated her. Or his tall, well-proportioned body. It was the man himself. His whole person. His character. But especially his compassion.

‘Wait there till I help you out,’ he ordered her peremptorily, before climbing out himself.

But she didn’t wait there. That wasn’t her way. She was out of the car and standing beside the passenger door by the time he brought her suitcase around.

His smile carried wry reproach. ‘I thought you said that when in Rome you were going to do as the Romans do?’ he chided.

She shrugged, smiling. ‘My mind is willing, but my flesh is weak.’

He stared at her for a second, then shook his head again. He seemed to be always shaking his head at her. ‘I doubt anything about you is weak, Marina,’ he complimented her, though in a cool voice. ‘Like most Australians, you flout the old-fashioned ways and traditions for the sometimes foolish habits they are. But you haven’t encountered our Henry as yet. Believe me when I warn you things in this apartment are done Henry’s way, or not at all!’

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