About the Author

BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States and is the proud mother of three wonderful children (one boy and two girls). When she’s not teaching or writing, she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages.

Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, www. bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog, www.bronwynswriting. blogspot.com. She loves to hear from readers.

Rake
in the
Regency Ballroom
The Viscount Claims His Bride
The Earl’s Forbidden Ward
Bronwyn Scott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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In The Regency Ballroom Collection

Scandal in the Regency Ballroom –Louise Allen April 2013

Innocent in the Regency Ballroom –Christine Merrill May 2013

Wicked in the Regency Ballroom –Margaret McPhee June 2013

Cinderella in the Regency Ballroom –Deb Marlowe July 2013

Rogue in the Regency Ballroom –Helen Dickson August 2013

Debutante in the Regency Ballroom –Anne Herries September 2013

Rumours in the Regency Ballroom –Diane Gaston October 2013

Rake in the Regency Ballroom –Bronwyn Scott November 2013

Mistress in the Regency Ballroom –Juliet Landon December 2013

Courtship in the Regency Ballroom –Annie Burrows January 2014

Scoundrel in the Regency Ballroom –Marguerite Kaye February 2014

Secrets in the Regency Ballroom –Joanna Fulford March 2014

The Viscount Claims His Bride

Prologue

London, June 1820

Valerian Inglemoore, the Viscount St Just, had a secret, a dreadful secret that caused him to tremble in guilt and self-loathing as he stood alone on Lady Rutherford’s veranda, gazing at the paper lantern-lit garden beyond the balustrade, but not really seeing it.

His secret was all consuming, too consuming to spare a glance for the elegant town garden with its fountains and well-laid paths that wound through knot gardens and small privet hedges.

Under normal circumstances, the garden would have been quite enticing. But tonight, his secret was nearly too much to bear. He was twenty-one and he was in love with Philippa Stratten, Baron Pendennys’s daughter, and she was in love with him. She was to meet him here tonight.

But nothing would ever come of it.

That was the secret.

Tonight, he was breaking it off with her, at her father’s request. Tonight, he had to convince her after two months of stolen kisses and clandestine meetings that his affections were nothing more than a young man’s fleeting fancy. He didn’t know how he’d manage. He loved her so much.

After tonight, he’d never take her in his arms, never feel her run her fingers through his hair, as if it were the rarest silk. The last two months had been heaven. He’d danced with her at her début in April and every night since. They’d made a habit of heated kisses in curtained alcoves, and taking long walks in gardens during Venetian breakfasts and afternoon teas. It had been simple enough to manipulate time alone with her. He was an avid botanist as well as a horseman. It was plausible enough to say they were going off to look at a certain variety of flower or to see a new colt in the stables.

Oh, yes, they’d fallen madly in love with each other. One could almost say it was love at first sight except that he had known Philippa for years. She was his best friend Beldon’s sister. The threesome had spent school holidays roaming the Cornish coast together. He’d known since his first visit home with Beldon that his heart could belong to no other.

Behind him, the Rutherfords’ ballroom played host to three hundred of London’s finest dancing away the night in their silks and satins, champagne never more than a footman’s tray away. But he cared not a whit. His heart was breaking.

‘Valerian.’ A familiar, dear voice spoke his name in the darkness. He drew a final breath, praying for the strength to give her up. It would be for her own good, although she’d never believe it.

He turned towards the sound of her voice, letting her beauty overwhelm him as it always did. The effect was no less devastating tonight. This evening, her beauty was at its zenith, shown to perfection in the pale blue fabric of her gown. In the moonlight, the fabric appeared to shimmer when she moved. A soft summer breeze drew the thin fabric of her gown against her body, reminding Valerian of the fine figure beneath the filmy layers of summer chiffon.

‘Val.’ She whispered his name in response, moving towards him, her hands outstretched. ‘I could hardly wait.’ She wore a gentle smile on her lips, a soft look for him alone in the blue depths of her eyes. It was intoxicating to think the excitement that simmered beneath the surface of that gentle smile and soft look were all for him.

He savoured it. After tonight, he would not feel such joy again.

She slipped her gloved hands into his, expecting him to take her in his arms as he usually did. He swallowed hard against the temptation. He’d come out here to do his duty to her family, a family which had loved and harboured him since his adolescence. They’d asked him to give her up for sake of their finances and her future. It was a difficult task at best. Her merest touch, her slightest affection, made it Herculean.

The embrace did not come. He could not give it to her as much as he desired to take her in his arms and feel her against him. To do so would be to fail the family in the only thing they’d ever asked of him. As a man of honour, he owed them more.

She looked up into his face, reading him aright, unconsciously warning him to better school his features if he was to carry off his task believably. ‘Aren’t you happy to see me?’ Philippa began.

‘Of course I am happy to see you. I am always happy to see a dear friend,’ Valerian said, hoping Philippa didn’t hear the unspoken lie. He’d always seen her as much more than a friend.

‘Then kiss me. I’ve waited all day for you, for this moment.’ She flirted, trying to press up against him, to make him take her in his arms.

He was too skilled for her untutored efforts. ‘Philippa, stop. We have to talk.’

‘Here?’ She glanced around curiously, disappointment evident on her features. Valerian wondered what she’d been expecting that this location was not suitable. Certainly, she wasn’t expecting what he had to tell her. Her father, Baron Pendennys, had indicated that Beldon and Philippa were completely in the dark about the family’s situation.

The balcony was mostly empty, but there were a few couples strolling about. It wasn’t nearly as private as he’d hoped. Valerian shook his head. ‘No, not here. Come walk in the garden with me.’

They found a bench settled among rhododendrons in full bloom and sat. Valerian kept her hand. He nodded towards a bower of roses across the pathway. ‘The roses are lovely. I hear Lady Rutherford has imported a special yellow rose from Turkey.’

He was stalling and he knew it, putting off the news as long as he could, storing up every memory of her—beautiful, innocent Philippa, believing in the purity of his love when he’d come to prove her beliefs ill founded and her heart played falsely. It would be years before she would understand this was a sham designed to protect her family.

‘What is it, Val? You didn’t come out here to show me roses,’ Philippa coaxed.

‘I spoke to your father earlier this evening.’

Her face lit with joy. A little cry of delight escaped her lips. She clapped a gloved hand over her mouth. He replayed the words in his head the way she would hear them. He knew he’d mis-stepped. She thought he had come to propose. He must be more careful, more convincing.

Valerian shook his head in warning. ‘No, Philippa, it is not what you think. Your father has told me of your betrothal to the Duke of Cambourne. He accepted an offer for your hand this afternoon.’

Philippa furrowed her brow, disbelief and confusion warring across her face. His words had achieved their goal. This pronouncement was so far from what she’d expected she couldn’t even be angry. She couldn’t get angry with him until she put the pieces together. The poor girl hadn’t even known Cambourne was interested, although the betting book at White’s had been full of wagers over when the widower Duke would make his move. The men about town had privately acknowledged Cambourne’s interest in the Season’s finest débutante weeks ago. Valerian had hoped to wait out the storm. He might have succeeded if the Baron’s need for funds hadn’t been so desperate.

‘Cambourne? You must be mistaken, Val.’ She was all naïve logic, standing up and shaking out her skirts, convinced she only had to march into the ballroom and explain the situation to her father. ‘He loves you. Nothing would please him more than to welcome you into our family. He would want this for me, for us.’

‘Wait, Philippa.’ Valerian kept his voice even and cold, not betraying the emotion threatening beneath his hardening veneer. ‘I came out here to encourage you to accept Cambourne’s offer.’

‘What do you mean? You want me to marry Cambourne?’ Philippa exclaimed, horrified. ‘He’s old enough to be my father! I don’t love him. Beyond a few dances, I hardly know the man at all.’ Her infamous temper started to show now that the initial shock had passed. Valerian did not relish being on the receiving end of her sharp tongue.

‘You have the rest of your life to get to know him, Philippa.’Valerian dismissed her argument with callous disregard. ‘He’s an excellent catch for you, if you think about it.’ Valerian made a show of ticking the other man’s merits off on his gloved fingers. ‘He’s from our part of the world. You’ll still be close to home and your family. He’s wealthy. He loves horses as you do. He’s not a cruel or unattractive man. You could find happiness with him. he will offer you stability and security.’

‘But not love,’ Philippa fired back. ‘Here you are, laying out his assets like a business merger. But the only one I care about is love. He can’t possibly love me. He doesn’t know me. You know me, Val. If those criteria are so important to my father, then why won’t you suit? You live in our part of the world, you love horses, you’re kind and attractive, you have money. Under those conditions, I don’t see why your offer isn’t as good. What was wrong with you, Val? Let me talk to my father. We’ll be engaged by midnight. You’ll see.’

Valerian looked into the azure depths of her beseeching eyes. It was deuced awkward playing the jilt. If he was successful, she’d walk out of the garden thinking he was unaffected by the turn of events. She’d never know he’d carried a ring in his pocket for the last two weeks, hoping against hope that Cambourne’s suit would come to naught.

The ring was still there, in the left pocket of his evening coat. And there it would remain. He strongly doubted he’d ever give it to another. It was slow torture to outline Cambourne’s merits to her, to offer her reassurances that all would be well when in fact he didn’t think he’d ever be well again. His stomach was churning.

‘What was wrong with me?’ Valerian echoed with feigned flippancy ‘For starters, I don’t want to be engaged by midnight. Secondly, I didn’t ask.’

More lies. He had asked anyway, even knowing the situation. Her father had explained plainly that the young viscount didn’t have enough money—at least not until he was twenty-seven and came into his inheritance. But Baron Pendennys couldn’t wait that long. It had hurt enormously to realise his dreams had been sold for golden guineas. He would be a wealthy man for ever living without the one thing his money couldn’t buy.

‘What? You never asked?’ Her eyes filled with tears, her voice full of disbelief. ‘I don’t understand.’

God, she was beautiful. Valerian fought the urge to pull her against him. She stood so close it would hardly be an effort to do so. He could smell the light fragrance of her lemon-scented soap rising from her skin, the lavender rinse of her clean hair.

She sat down hard on the stone bench, grasping at the logic of it all. ‘I thought you loved me. I thought you wanted to marry me.’

Valerian fought the urge to follow her down, and take her hands in comfort. He had to stop touching her or she’d know it was all a lie.

‘Keep your voice down. We don’t want to draw attention,’ Valerian scolded, covertly casting his gaze about the area. ‘The last thing we need now when it’s all over is to be compromised.’ He’d meant it to be a set-down. She seized on it as the answer to their troubles.

‘That’s it!’ Philippa said wildly. ‘If you compromise me, Father will have to let us marry and Cambourne will have a gracious out. Everyone would understand he couldn’t marry me then.’

Valerian felt himself rouse at the very idea. It would be easy enough to compromise her, but he loved her too much not to warn her of the consequences—consequences she couldn’t fathom through the lens of her innocence, but with three years of town bronze on him, Valerian could. ‘Philippa, no one in London would receive us. We’d live a life of exile and I could not doom you to that. I could not doom myself to that,’ he added selfishly.

Philippa could not be fooled, and her face tilted, perplexed by the incongruous statement. ‘Do such things matter to you? I thought if you had your horses and your gardens and me, it would be enough.’She rose and moved into his embrace, her head finding its way to his shoulder.

Valerian let her, although he held himself stiff, his arms wooden at his side. He was tired of fighting on all fronts. It was inevitable now. He was down to last things. He would not see Philippa after tonight. He’d decided already that he could not go back to his home in Cornwall and watch her become the wife of a neighbour. It would drive him insane to know she and her husband lived only a day’s ride away. He’d known when he met her tonight what he had to do. He’d known she would try to argue against her father’s choice. He’d known he would have to resist her entreaties no matter what form they took. He had not known how painful it would be.

In her desperation, Philippa was arguing with all the tools at her disposal, even her body as she was doing now. Early on in their relationship, he’d revelled in teaching her about a man’s body. There was something heady about tutoring one’s beloved in the sensual arts. He’d never dreamed he would not be the one to teach her the ultimate love lesson. He fought back the wave of nausea sweeping his form.

Philippa raised her head from his shoulder, a lock of her long hair falling from its loose coiffure. Valerian involuntarily reached out to brush the russet strand back from her face. How many times had he made that gesture in the past months?

‘If you won’t marry me or compromise me, at least give me one night of passion. Let me be with you, as we intended to be together,’ she whispered.

Just hearing her utter the words completed his growing erection. A small moan of regret escaped his lips as he shut his eyes, gathering his strength. With her head on his shoulder, thankfully she could not see the torture on his face, although he knew she could feel his desire straining against her stomach. God knew how much he wanted her. He made no attempt to hide his arousal. She knew how she affected him and he her. But he was a man of honour. He’d promised to let her go.

‘That’s a very unwise suggestion, Philippa,’ he heard himself saying in a steady voice that sounded as if it came from another man who watched the vignette unfolding with great uninterest.

‘Please, Val,’ Philippa cried, clutching his hands. ‘I love you and you love me, I know you do. I can feel it.’

He had to end this scene soon. She was on the verge of breaking and his restraint was failing. If this went on much longer, his reserve would crack and they would spend the rest of their lives paying for the foolishness of a few mad minutes. He would not do that to her.

‘Don’t beg. I can’t stand to see you grovel,’ he said in a low voice close to her ear. Then he released her and stepped back, preparing to say the most difficult words he’d ever uttered, but he had to make her believe them. ‘I do love you, but perhaps not in the same way you love me. I am sorry if you’ve misunderstood my intentions when we started our little experiment in l’amour. We are finished now, you and I. Whatever we had is done, a fair-weather fling. That is how it is for a man.’

He could feel the nervous tic jump in his cheek as a silent curtain fell between them. A tickling bead of sweat ran its slow race down his back as he waited on her next words. His heart warred with his mind. His mind wanted her to see the practical logic of ending their affaire and accept his hurtful fabrication. His heart wanted her to see the words for the farce they were.

He watched coldness steal over Philippa’s face as her features changed from desperation back to anger. An unchecked fury raged in the depths of her eyes as her mind raced towards the conclusions he’d wanted her to draw. When she spoke, he could hear her voice tremble with emotions.

‘A fair-weather fling? This was all a game to you? Everything was a lie?’ she cried as the truth spread across her face, like clouds across the sun, as she began to acknowledge the import of his words. He wished he didn’t know her so well as to guess her thoughts. In her pale face he saw her doubt and pain. He knew that she believed that every knowing look, hot kiss and searing touch had been little more than seductive perjury of the worst kind. He’d played his part well. She believed those gestures had meant nothing at all to him while they had meant everything to her.

‘I thought you were a man of honour, Valerian.’ Her voice trembled. Her heart was breaking.

Valerian tightened the reins on his resolve. ‘I am a man of honour. That’s why I feel I need to call a halt before our sweet interlude goes any further.’

‘Interlude?’ Philippa was incredulous. ‘You make it sound as if our affaire is nothing more than an intermission at the theatre! Something to occupy your time between activities!’

Valerian held himself stiffly, ready to deliver the coup de grace, the last stroke. ‘I am to leave tomorrow to join my uncle on the Continent, something of a belated Grand Tour now that peace has been restored.’

‘Valerian, this is not like you. You’re playing a cruel game.’ There was reproach in her voice for both of them. Reproach for his despicable behaviour and self-chiding for her rashness. She was wrong, of course, he loved her very much, but there was no honourable way out of the situation. Perhaps it was best if she believed the worst, that his love was a fraud, that she was an extended exercise in dalliance. Valerian said nothing in his own defence. Instead, he gave her a neat bow. ‘I’ll leave you here. I can see you need a moment to collect yourself before returning to the ball,’ he said with polite coldness and turned to leave.

Philippa called to him one last time. Her anger was perilously close to giving way to tears as she spoke in a strangled whisper. ‘Tell me you loved me, that it wasn’t all false coin.’

Valerian stopped, but did not look back. Like Orpheus, it would be his undoing. ‘Miss Stratten, I cannot.’ He comforted himself with the fact that it was the truth. He was too choked with emotion to utter the words she wanted to hear. Worse, he knew the reason for his silence would be misconstrued as heartlessness. In reality, to say the words would be to give her false hope. If she thought there was any window of opportunity for her case, she’d not give in. Philippa was tenacious. He was counting on that tenacity to help her through this crisis and build a new life for herself.

Valerian closed his eyes as loss swept through him. It was better that the words went unsaid, no matter what cruel conclusions she might draw. His logic was cold comfort when Philippa spoke again, her emotions mastered, her quiet parting words piercing him like a venom arrow to the heart. ‘I will not forget this, Valerian.’

Miserable and heartsick, Valerian squared his shoulders, intending to find Philippa’s father and tell him the deed was done. He’d no longer stand in the way of the family’s financial stability. He’d tell Beldon to take Philippa home. Then he’d leave—it was the only truth he’d told tonight.

In the other pocket of his evening coat was his uncle’s letter, inviting Valerian to join his uncle’s family on the Continent where he served as one of Britain’s premier diplomats. The letter had come yesterday in response to Valerian’s own inquiries. Valerian knew he could not stay in England and watch Philippa’s new life unfold. Instead, he would go and serve England against whatever threats arose and try to exorcise the memory of Philippa Stratten from his hot blood.

Chapter One

30 December 1829

An icy wind blew steadily through the poorly sealed post chaise, keeping its two occupants chilled in spite of their caped greatcoats and the hot bricks they’d installed at the posting inn. But it had been the best they could do at the time. The west country was not known for its luxuries. The newly returned Viscount St Just didn’t mind. He’d been in far less comfortable situations over the past nine years and he was simply glad to be home.

‘What are you smiling about?’ Beldon Stratten, the young Baron Pendennys, groused, stamping his feet in a futile attempt to generate some body heat.

‘Am I smiling?’Valerian asked. ‘I was unaware of it.’

‘You’ve been smiling since the inn at St Austell. I can’t imagine what about.’

Beldon was right. There wasn’t much to smile about. Their journey had become a comedy of errors. Nothing had gone right since they’d left London after celebrating the Christmas holidays in town. They’d hoped to sail down the Cornish coast to St Just-in-Roseland, Valerian’s home on the peninsula, and avoid the roads. But foul weather on the Channel had scotched those plans. So they’d set out on horseback, hoping to make better time than a lumbering coach. Valerian had a yen to be settled in his home by New Year. But weather again played them false, turning too cold for safe passage on horseback. They’d abandoned the horses at St Austell and hired the only post chaise available.

It went unspoken between them that they’d get no farther than Truro today. If they wanted to try for St Just-in-Roseland by New Year, it would have to wait until tomorrow.

‘Do you believe in serendipity, Val?’ Beldon asked, stretching his long legs out across the small space between the seats.

Valerian looked at him queerly. ‘I am not exactly sure what you mean.’

‘You know, making valuable discoveries by accident.’

‘Ah, coincidence,’ Valerian corrected. ‘You think it is merely a fortuitous happening that I ran into you in London.’

‘Definitely luck since you’d sent no word ahead of your return.’ There was a censorious note in Beldon’s voice. Valerian did not miss it. He had not said goodbye to Beldon properly when he’d left London so abruptly years ago and he had not written over the long years with the exception of one short letter early on. It was a credit to the depth of their friendship that Beldon had felt his absence so keenly and forgiven him so readily.

Beldon’s tone softened. ‘Perhaps you will explain to me some day why you all but vanished into your uncle’s household overnight. I am your friend. I would understand, whatever your reasons. We all missed you, even Philippa. I think she had always admired you from afar.’

Valerian started at that. Had Philippa kept their secret all these years? He’d expected her to blurt it all out. He’d imagined her crying on Beldon’s shoulder in the garden that last night, sobbing out how her heart had been broken by her brother’s cad of a best friend.

He’d known this moment was inevitable. Hearing her name would be just the first of many such moments. He knew in his heart that was why he hadn’t written ahead to Beldon to tell him of his return. Of course, he hadn’t known until the last moment that he would be assigned to the team of negotiators sent to London to pound out a peace treaty to end the latest conflict between the Turks and Russia. Even when he’d known with a certainty he’d be coming back, he still hadn’t sent advance notice of his return. It was a stalling mechanism and a desperate one at that, designed to put off any encounter with Philippa until the very last.

His tenure on the Continent had not outlasted his own broken heart. He had stayed on in Europe as long as he could, volunteering for myriad diplomatic assignments that lingered in the wake of the Napoleonic Wars. Napoleon’s efforts had left their mark on old and new regimes alike and Valerian had quickly learned that there was always someone to fight.

Treaties may have been signed, but Europe, particularly the Balkans, was not at peace. There was still plenty for Britain to worry over as countries fought to define themselves and empires sought to expand in the power vacuum left by Napoleon’s defeat.

Valerian had watched modern history play out before his very eyes as Britain and the rest of Europe fought to corner the fledgling Balkan markets.

After years of pointless victories and disappointments, Valerian found he had no stomach for a fight motivated by greed and avarice, thinly cloaked in a facade of ideals, and he could not stay away from home indefinitely. He had gardens and an estate to manage. He could not rely on his steward for ever.

While a broken-hearted young man of twenty-one could be forgiven for impetuously leaving his inheritance, a grown man of thirty years, who knew his duty, could not continue to shirk it. Yet it was difficult turning for home when he knew it would mean facing Philippa and Cam-bourne. But duty and honour beckoned, two ideals he had always held dear even when his country hadn’t.

‘How is your sister?’ Valerian inquired, hoping to sound casual.

Beldon nodded. ‘She’s doing well. I see her often. You just missed her in London. She spent the holidays with a friend in Richmond before heading out here. If I had known you were coming, I could have persuaded her to stay in town.’ Beldon paused, seeming to consider his next words before speaking them. ‘It’s hard to believe she’s twenty-seven and already through her first husband. Here I am at thirty and I haven’t been married, not even close. It makes me feel “behind” somehow.’

Valerian felt his body tense. ‘Through her first husband?’

‘Yes, didn’t you know? It was in all the papers, quite a newsworthy death.’

‘I wasn’t exactly holed up in Vienna the entire time,’ Valerian said wryly, thinking of the rugged Balkan territories he’d journeyed through with their mountains and sparse populations. There were places in Europe the mails didn’t reach, places with names like Voden and Negush. Places that didn’t appear on a map unless you were a Turkish Pasha charged with keeping the Christian millet in line.

‘Cambourne died three years ago in a mining accident. There was a cave-in while he was touring one of his tin mines. It was a freak incident. A shaft support gave way. The miners pulled him out, but he died of his injuries three days later at home.’

Philippa was a widow. The implications were not lost on him. Valerian’s emotions ricocheted from a morbid elation that Philippa was free to a sadness that she’d had to bear the loss of a husband, set adrift in society as a dowager so early in life.

‘I hope Cambourne left her well provided for,’he said quietly, knowing that the Pendennys’s fortunes had rested so completely on Cambourne’s welfare. Valerian didn’t like to think that her marriage had come to naught.

‘Absolutely. He had a cousin who inherited the title and the other estates, but Philippa has all she needs or wants. Of course, the principal estate went to his heir, but Philippa has the house in Cornwall where they spent their marriage. To my mind, she got the better end of the deal. Coppercrest is a much more hospitable dwelling. Even Cambourne himself preferred it.

‘“The heir” isn’t much on going up to town, so Philippa has free run of the town house. Cambourne also bequeathed her a substantial interest in the mines and the associate businesses. He owned a tin smelter and a small gunpowder works.’

Valerian only half-listened to Beldon’s itemization of Philippa’s situation. The first line had caught most of his attention—a cousin had inherited. Ah, there were no children. Another delicate question answered. Valerian wondered if Beldon had shared that information on purpose or if it had been accidental.

Beldon chuckled softly. ‘I forget that you haven’t seen her recently. She’s much changed since you saw her last. She’s not a budding débutante any more. She’s a sophisticated woman now, as comfortable in town among the leading hostesses and politicians as she is in the country, tramping over the cliffs and riding neck-for-nothing at the hunt. When she’s in town, her house teems with politicos. Everyone seeks her endorsement and asks her opinion. She’s a leading supporter of mine reform these days, and with justifiable reason.’

Valerian smiled thoughtfully in the gathering gloom. The grey afternoon was turning towards evening. Truro couldn’t be more than a few miles in the offing. Beldon’s revelations were enough to fill the time. Valerian turned his mind inwards, pondering all Beldon had shared.

Philippa was free. In a fairy-tale world, he would have a second chance. But his world was far from a fairy tale. They had parted badly nine years ago. Philippa’s final words to him were still achingly clear. And now there was all he had done during those years to contend with as well. His years in the Balkans had left him with another set of nightmares, another set of people he’d failed in their hour of need. Those failures hung like an invisible millstone about his neck, even when he was able to subdue the more physical reminders of his futile efforts.

He’d been surprised in London to know how much people had heard about his antics on the Continent. Of course, no one had known the depth of such shenanigans, but they knew the gist. He’d led a flamboyant lifestyle in Vienna during his brief time there, playing the role of a womanising diplomat. It had been the perfect foil for something darker that took him to the sinister underbelly of the rebellions popping up across Europe. He’d been nothing short of an expert spy and negotiator, engaging in the kind of diplomacy that never made the broadsheets.

‘We’ll stop tonight at Lucien Canton’s place just outside Truro. It’ll be much better than an inn. He has an excellent cook and an even better cellar,’ Beldon broke into Valerian’s ruminations.

Valerian nodded, only half-engaged in the conversation. ‘It won’t be an imposition, I hope?’ He didn’t remember this friend of Beldon’s from their early days as young bucks on the town. ‘I don’t believe I know him.’

‘He’s Viscount Montfort’s son and heir. He was close to Cambourne before his death. Since then, he’s been Philippa’s strong right hand.’

Valerian couldn’t quite read Beldon’s expression. It didn’t seem that Beldon was precisely elated about the man’s association with his sister, but had resigned himself to it. Beldon’s conversation was moving on. ‘It will be a party before the party, the three of us together again like old times. With luck, Philippa is there already. Lucien asked her to act as hostess for his New Year’s gala since she’s the best hostess in the neighbourhood and his sister couldn’t come down from London to do it.’

Now Valerian was fully engaged. ‘Philippa will be there?’ Regardless of Beldon’s assurances that Lucien Canton was a grand chap, Valerian doubted he’d like the man very much. He was inclined to dislike any man who had a claim on Philippa’s attentions and this Lucien clearly did. No one played hostess for someone they didn’t know well. They must be good friends indeed and perhaps something more.

Beldon grinned and leaned forwards in his growing excitement. ‘Yes. She will be beyond surprised to see you.’

She would indeed, Valerian reflected wryly, although he and Beldon would likely disagree about her reaction to that surprise.

Philippa Lytton, the widowed duchess of Cam-bourne, glided down the curved staircase of Lucien Canton’s Truro manor at half-past six, consciously aware that she would be the last one to the drawing room and that she’d be the only female present. What had started out as a small en famille supper with Canton and the bachelor vicar from down the road had turned into a supper party with three unexpected guests.

One of them was her brother, Beldon, who had arrived unannounced just two hours ago and a guest he’d brought with him. Beldon’s arrival was understandable given the terrible weather and the fact that she was already in residence. The third guest’s presence was less clearly explained. Lucien knew him only through the acquaintances of others. He was a Mister Danforth, a well-to-do shipping merchant from Liverpool who hoped to start a provincial bank. He was not someone they would normally associate with. He was a rich Cit who’d made most of his money during the war, making his fortune somewhat speculative as to the legitimacy of its origins. But the underpopulated wilds of Cornwall in mid-winter and his tenuous connection to Lucien made it difficult to turn him away.

Philippa stopped at the foot of the stairs to draw a deep breath and square her shoulders. She stole a glance in the hallway mirror as a final check. She looked fine with her hair piled high and threaded with pearls. The heavy satin folds of her skirts fell neatly to her ankles into a deep Van-dyked hem. She liked the quiet shushing of the satin skirt as she walked.

Indeed, she loved this gown for its textures and feel as much as she loved it for its look. The cream skirt was set off by the deep blue velvet of the round bodice that fell low over her shoulders and into a plunging vee in the back. She fiddled with the simple choker of blue Kashmir sapphires that set off the expanse between her neck and the delicate cream-lace trim of her bodice.

She looked well. Not that she wanted to attract any attention. She wasn’t dressing for a man’s approval, not even Lucien’s, although he’d readily give it. Being in high looks boosted her confidence, a security blanket of sorts. In a room dominated by the male species, one could never have too much confidence if one was going to hold one’s own.

She stepped into the wide doorway of the drawing room, her eyes quickly assessing the gathering. Lucien stood at the carved-oak fireplace mantel, dressed in dark evening clothes, looking slender and elegant with his usual immaculate perfection. He was doing his host’s duty by chatting with the unworthy Mr Danforth. Across the room in a little grouping of chairs situated beneath an expansive Gainsborough landscape sat her brother, the vicar and apparently the guest her brother had brought with him. The guest’s back was to her, affording her only a glimpse of broad shoulders and dark hair, sleek in the evening light of candles.

Beldon saw her first. He gestured that she should join them, saving her from joining Lucien and his odious guest at the fireplace. Philippa smiled warmly at her brother and moved towards the group. She was always glad to see Beldon. They had been close as children and become even closer with her marriage to Cambourne. He’d supported her as she had learned to navigate London society and after when she had to re-learn the treacherous paths of society as a new widow.

He and the little cohort under the Gainsborough rose as she approached. ‘Beldon, I am so happy to see you! We weren’t expecting you, but it’s delightful all the same.’ She gave him a sisterly kiss on the cheek, having to reach up only slightly to do so. They were nearly of a same height, both of them tall and built for grace. Anyone seeing them side by side would not doubt their similar genetic origins. Both had sharp blue eyes and russet hair the colour of chestnuts, each strikingly attractive in their own way.

The vicar leaned forward to take Philippa’s hand in greeting. ‘I am pleased to see you again, your Grace.’

‘And I you, Vicar. How are your plans for a miner’s school coming? I believe you had plans drawn up when we spoke last.’

‘Very well, thank you. It is kind of you to remember.’ The vicar beamed. ‘I hope we’ll have time to talk about its progress later tonight. I would love your opinion on a few things.’He gently inclined his head to indicate the third gentleman in the group.

The vicar was right. It would be unseemly to jump into conversation before all the introductions were made. Philippa turned her attention to the stranger immediately, small talk coming easily to her lips. But the man to her right was no stranger at all and the small talk died a quick death.

Chapter Two

Valerian Inglemoore was the last man she’d expected to see in Lucien Canton’s drawing room. Philippa mustered all her aplomb. ‘Viscount, this is indeed a surprise.’

Surprise didn’t even begin to cover it. What was he doing in Truro? How long had he been back? A thousand questions rioted through her mind. She mentally tried to tamp them down, telling herself she didn’t care about such information. But it was like fighting the Hydra. The more she tried to squelch the rising tide of questions, the more questions came forward—worse questions because they didn’t deal with the basic information of who, what and when, but with more intimate concerns—had he thought of her at all during his absence? Had he realised what he’d termed a mere dalliance was something far stronger? Did he have feelings for her yet? Did she, in spite of her efforts to deny it? Her pulse was certainly racing as if she did, as if she’d forgotten why she’d foresworn any connection to him years ago.

‘It is a surprise for me as well, and a pleasant one at that, I might add.’ Valerian bent over her gloved hand with an elegant bow. ‘Enchanté, Duchesse.’

The warmth of his touch sent a powerful frisson up her arm, so sharp she had to control herself not to snatch her hand back as if burnt. She told herself the reaction was due to the strength of his grip. The reaction had nothing to do with still being attracted to him. She had hardened her heart against Valerian Inglemoore years ago and rightly so.

Time had proved her choice a good one and her escape from his seductive clutches a lucky one. Reports from Europe during his sojourn abroad reached her circles, portraying him as a splendid diplomat with a talent for seduction. From captain’s wives to Continental princesses, no woman was safe from the dashing viscount’s wiles and no woman wanted to be. He’d become a much sought-after commodity.

It was easy to see why. She was doubly glad she’d given him up years ago. He was far too handsome for his own good now that he’d come into the fullness of his adulthood.Anyone less wise than she would be easily distracted by the silky sleekness of his dark hair. She knew from experience how simple it was to spend an evening thinking about running hands through those ebony skeins.

If the hair didn’t distract one thoroughly enough, there was the trap of his piercing jade eyes, the angular planes of his chiselled face, the sensual promise of his lips, the caress of knowing hands, firm and confident as they learned the contours of one’s body and the pledge of his own body, all muscles and hot strength beneath superbly tailored clothes. Ah, yes, Valerian Inglemoore was a walking minefield of passion—promising pleasure but delivering heartache to the unsuspecting miss. It was good she knew better. That was one trap she would not fall into again.

Valerian gave her a slight nod, a smug smile playing on his lips. She felt herself blush. He’d caught her looking. She hadn’t meant for that to happen.

The butler entered and intoned the announcement for dinner. Philippa felt herself breathe again. She started towards Lucien, eager to escape the scrutiny of Valerian’s gaze. A warm hand on her arm stayed her.

‘Would you do me the honour of allowing me to escort you into dinner?’ Valerian asked, his voice low next to her ear, his message just for her.

Philippa shot a look at Lucien, but he would be of no use to her. He’d already acquiesced to the situation, a hard look in his eyes that belied the friendly tenor of his words. ‘You’ve got her then, St Just? I remember now that the three of you grew up together.’It was said pleasantly enough, but Philippa didn’t miss the tightness of Lucien’s smile or the covert scrutiny in his eyes.

Valerian seated her at the foot of the table and put himself promptly on her right, leaving Beldon and the vicar to juggle Mr Danforth between them.

Philippa couldn’t decide if she preferred Valerian next to her or next to Lucien. Both positions offered their own forms of temptation. She could either have him next to her and struggle with his physical nearness or spend the entire evening fighting the distraction of his handsome visage down the table. But it hardly mattered, she reprimanded herself. He didn’t affect her either way. Her current reaction was merely the shock of seeing him again without warning.

She wished she could read Valerian better. It would be a small measure of comfort if he was struggling to adapt as well. Did she have any effect on him at all? All at once, she vividly recalled the hardness of his erection, the feel of him pulsing through his trousers in their youth, how he’d taught her to caress him. Was he hard now? Or entirely immune? No matter that he’d once claimed only the shallowest of feelings for her, he’d roused to her none the less.

She had to stop! Philippa reached for her wine glass and took a generous sip. These were unseemly thoughts. They were base in nature and had no place at the dinner table, especially coming from a woman who had spent the years putting the memory of his kisses behind her.

The footmen removed the soup and served up the fish course. Conversation lagged as they performed their duties. Once the course was settled, Lucien picked up the threads of small talk. ‘St Just, are you home for good or has the Continent enchanted you?’

Valerian patted his mouth with a fine linen napkin before speaking. ‘I am home for the duration and proud to say it. I terminated my affiliation with the diplomatic corps while I was in London over Christmas. I can now devote my time to my estate, my much neglected gardens and my nursery.’

The statement was ambiguous. Anyone knowing Valerian as she did would wonder if he meant his flower nurseries or perhaps a nursery of another sort. No one was ill bred enough to ask for an explanation, but apparently such probing was not beyond the pale for Mr Danforth, who hadn’t known Valerian for more than the time it had taken to eat the soup.

With a smug masculine tone to his voice, Danforth said, ‘You mean to marry and beget an heir. Very good thinking. I hear you’ve quite a fortune. You’ll need an heir to look after things.’

At the head of the table, Lucien nearly sprayed a mouthful of wine at the tactless comment. It was practically an art form to make such a faux pas as mentioning ‘begetting’ and money in the same poor comment.

Valerian met the rude comment evenly. ‘In fact, I do mean to marry as soon as possible. Enough time has been wasted, I think. I find myself eager to embrace matrimony. With the right woman, of course.’

‘Naturally,’ Danforth agreed, oblivious to the social faux pas he’d committed. ‘A wife must have certain qualities. She must be pretty, biddable, malleable, open to a husband’s training and all that. No man wants to spend his life leg-shackled to an opinion-spouting shrew, no matter what her dowry.’

Philippa stiffened at Danforth’s belittling remarks. ‘I think finding a wife is altogether different than shopping for a brood mare, Mr Danforth. At least it is for those of us who hold marriage as something more than servitude.’

Beldon coughed and the vicar looked nonplussed. There was more she’d liked to have said to the sputtering Danforth, but Valerian’s hand pressed heavily on her thigh beneath the damask cloth in warning. She fought back a smile. Was he remembering her infamous temper?

Valerian smoothly intervened with the honed skill of a diplomat. ‘For myself, Mr Danforth, I am looking for different qualities in a wife. I prefer a more mature woman, a woman who can speak for herself, who can hold her own in an argument. In short, a woman of independence.’

Danforth bristled. ‘Yes, I’ve heard that about you.’ His beady gaze met Valerian’s directly in a surprising show of spine.

Everyone at the table stopped eating. Philippa wondered how Valerian would confront his ‘reputation’, as it were. Would he deny it? Part of her wished he would.

Valerian smiled. It was not a friendly smile, but a wolfish one that suggested he was not, nor ever would be, the prey. ‘Then you will have also heard that I am not afraid of a woman’s opinions, that I am not a man who will cower behind old-fashioned thought and conventions when it comes to the suppression of the fairer sex. Much would be missed in our world if we neglected half the population. Take, for example, the excellent champagne our host is serving from his excellent cellar tomorrow night.’

Valerian turned to Canton. ‘Pendennys mentioned you’d be offering aVeuve Clicquot, an outstanding champagne thanks to the revolutionary efforts of Clicquot’s widow. Did you know, Danforth, that she is responsible for inventing the remuage process? We have a woman to thank for clear champagne. Without her efforts, we’d have nothing more than a cloudy, fizzy novelty.’Valerian raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Madame Clicquot.’

In a few short sentences Valerian had eloquently smoothed over Danforth’s uncomfortable claims and moved the conversation into the safer realm of wine. Danforth did not venture out to play with verbal fire again.

Dinner went smoothly after that if Philippa did not count the unnerving sensation of Valerian’s body in such close proximity to her own. In all the numerous dinner parties she’d attended, she had not ever noticed the intimate closeness she was now exceedingly aware of with Valerian next to her. His knee touched hers; she dropped her napkin and his hand brushed her skirt as he bent to retrieve it, beating the footman to the task.

By the time dessert was served, Philippa’s nerves were jangled beyond reason. She stood as soon as it was politely possible. ‘Gentlemen, excuse me. I’ll leave you to your port and cigars.’

Lucien rose and protested. ‘Please stay, my dear.You are welcome to stay.’He directed the comment at her, but his hazel stare was directed at Valerian. The look in his gaze was sharp and penetrating, meant to send a message.

So he had noticed Valerian’s casual touches, Philippa thought, and he’d found them as unsettling as she did, but for altogether different reasons. She could feel Valerian’s eyes read every message, spoken or not. She had no desire to stay in the dining room and become a prize to be fought over. ‘Really, I would prefer to retire and give you gentlemen some privacy,’ she insisted, not waiting for permission to leave the room.

Philippa collected a shawl from her bedroom and then made good her escape to a quiet veranda where she could let the cold air do its work. She needed a clear head. Valerian was back and he would have to be contended with. His presumptuous behaviour at dinner suggested he wasn’t the least bit penitent about breaking her young girl’s heart, nor was he disinclined to live down the rumours regarding his profligate behaviour abroad.

Certainly, she didn’t want to be petty. What had happened between them had occurred years ago. They were both adults now. She should put the past behind her. He obviously had if his behaviour at dinner was any indication. He apparently thought she might welcome his advances. But he would have to take her for a fool if he thought she would disregard his well-taught lessons after one flirtatious encounter.

Would she disregard his harsh lesson in love? The thought that she might re-think her position on Valerian was startling. In her mind, she’d often played out an imaginary encounter. In that encounter, she’d been an aloof lady with grand manners, icily polite to a fault and he would know that his attentions had come too late.

Funny how in her imaginings she always assumed he’d care what had become of her. Maybe that was because she could not fathom how he’d gone from a dedicated suitor with words of undying devotion on his lips to that of a cold jilt in the span of a day. Undisputably, he’d broken her heart, but she’d never quite convinced herself it was for the reasons he’d cited. None the less, in the end, the results had been the same.

Valerian would drive her mad! Perhaps it was time to think more seriously about Lucien Canton’s offer. There had been no formal proposal, but much was implied in their long-standing relationship. She did expect a proposal soon. Perhaps Valerian was the impetus she needed for getting on with her life.

Lucien was exactly the kind of man she needed and he’d spent the years since Cambourne’s death proving it. He’d overseen the difficult tangle of financial matters and entailments until she’d learned to manage them on her own. He’d been the one to ride out to the mines and keep the Cambourne industries running while she was in mourning. Besides herself, no one knew the extensive Cambourne holdings better than Lucien. He was competent, handsome, well mannered, comfortable to be with. He was reliable and steady, a constant companion.

‘Philippa.’

All thoughts of Lucien vanished. She didn’t need to turn to know it was Valerian. ‘I came out here to be alone.’

‘Then we have something in common. I came out here to be alone with you, too.’ Valerian took up a position next to her at the railing, leaning on his elbows. ‘I wanted to talk to you. There are things I want to explain.’

Philippa shifted her body to face him. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea unless you want to start explaining why your hand spent most of dinner on my thigh. We are finished. You made that clear nine years ago.’

Valerian would not be put off by her harsh words. It was disappointing, but not unexpected that he could not be handled like the ballroom beaux. A set-down from her usually sent them scrambling for apologies.

Instead of begging forgiveness, Valerian laughed softly in the darkness, a beautiful, sensual sound that promised indecent pleasures. One would have thought she’d spoken love words to him instead of a scolding.

‘You are more sharp-tongued than I remember.’ He paused to look at her, his voice lowering. ‘And more beautiful. You’ve done well for yourself.’

If he refused to be scolded, then she would refuse to be taken in by his flattery. ‘St Just, if you intended that as a compliment, your skill is diminished greatly. I am insulted by the idea that my beauty has done well for me as if my looks were an industry designed to turn a profit. My looks have bought me a few houses and financial security. While those are not unpleasing things, the price for them has been my personal happiness. To think that my looks have done well for me is to be misled by the shallow mind you apparently possess. You show yourself poorly by believing I would settle for so little.’

There, such a scalding set-down should drive even him from the veranda. But Philippa was supremely dissatisfied with the results.

Valerian’s face broke into a wide grin, showing all his white teeth. His voice was low and private, laughter lurking beneath the surface. ‘I am glad to see that along with selling your hand in marriage, your parents didn’t succeed in selling your soul.’ He chuckled, enjoying his humour.

‘You’ve a black sense of humour, St Just.’

Valerian reached for her hand where it rested on the railing, caressing it idly with his fingertips. ‘My dear, when have I ever been St Just to you? Call me Valerian as my friends do, as you once did.’

Philippa snatched her hand away. How dare he come out here to insult her and then expect that he could take liberties? ‘Let me set you straight. I am not your “dear” or your friend. Nine years ago, I paid the price for what passes as friendship with you. I shall not make that mistake again. I have a new life now and there’s no room for you in it.’It was important that she define the rules first before he had a chance to worm himself into her good graces. He could be charming and she must be wary of letting her guard down, of letting him pretend to be her friend.

His face flushed at her words. She did not think the flush was from her candour, but rather from a rising anger. Valerian gripped her by the arms, his soft sensuality of moments ago replaced by a hard envy. ‘A life that includes Lucien Canton? What is Lucien Canton to you? Is he your lover?’

‘Take your hands off me. I don’t answer to you.’ Philippa looked him squarely in the eye. Something dangerous and erotic lurked in their emerald depths. In an unfair moment she thought Lucien’s hazel eyes merely pretended towards greenness.

He ignored her request. He crowded her against the hard iron of the railing. Somewhere in the far recesses of her mind she thought she should have minded the invasion. But his hot envy had transmuted into molten seduction.

‘Your body answers to me, Philippa. My hands were made for you and you alone. No one has ever felt like you do, Philippa. I’ve not forgotten how your skin feels like rose petals.’ He pushed back the shawl from her arms and trailed the back of his hands down their length, removing the long gloves as he went until her arms were completely exposed.

‘I have not forgotten what it is to span the width of your back with my hand and pull you against me.’Warm skin met warm skin where the plunging vee of her gown bared her back and she trembled against her will.

‘And you’ve not forgotten either,’Valerian whispered against her mouth, his lips moving to seal hers, his hands moving to crush her against him, one hand finding the firm mound of breast beneath the velvet bodice. He palmed it, caressed it reverently until she cried out in his mouth from unwanted pleasure.

It was all coming back to her in a rush, how he felt against her, how he could make her body come alive, how she loved the exquisite sensations he could coax from her. How could she have forgotten this?

Philippa burned. Every part of her body was on fire. Heat licked at her from the inside out. Pressure built at her core until she wanted to scream. Valerian was the sum of her world in that moment. He was everywhere—his hands on her body, his scent in her nostrils—and she didn’t want him to stop. She wanted this moment to go on for eternity. She hated herself for it.

She pulled away with the greatest of efforts, panting and desperate. Valerian looked dismayed at her retreat. That was some gratification. ‘Have a care, St Just. Lucien will not tolerate playing the cuckold.’ She gave a slight nod to the empty room beyond the French doors, where Beldon and Lucien had just arrived. She hoped she didn’t look as dishevelled as she felt.

‘Philippa—’ he began in a ragged voice.

She didn’t give him a chance to beg, to explain, to persuade. ‘You have gravely overstepped the boundaries of polite society.’

‘I didn’t do it alone,’ St Just responded, his eyes hot, gleaming dark with unslaked need.

‘How dare you try to implicate me in your base conduct?’ Philippa flamed. ‘Let me remind you that this is not some decadent European court filled with women who are dying of lust for your attentions.’

‘You’re just angry because you liked it.’ He had the audacity to give another throaty laugh.

Philippa’s nerves were stretched to breaking. She raised her right hand and slapped him hard across the face.

‘What was that for?’ Valerian put a hand to his red cheek, stunned.

Philippa inhaled deeply, squaring her shoulders. ‘That was “welcome home.”’

Chapter Three

Welcome home indeed, Valerian thought sourly, watching Philippa disappear inside. Through the glass panes of the French doors he could see her sit down at the polished cherry-wood pianoforte and arrange her skirts.

Lucien Canton slid on to the bench next to her, ready to turn pages, acting the devoted suitor to perfection. From the looks of him, the man did everything to perfection. He was immaculately turned out and not just his clothes, Valerian had noted. Canton’s nails were trimmed and buffed to a healthy sheen, his face freshly shaved. Valerian looked at his own nails, just as neatly kept. He too was fastidious in his personal habits. He had learned quickly in his time abroad that women responded to two things, cleanliness and sincerity, both of which were in short supply in many parts of the world. But from all appearances through the window pane, Canton possessed both qualities in abundance. Through the panes, Philippa smiled and laughed at something Canton had said.

Primal envy sparked in Valerian. He didn’t want Philippa laughing with Canton. He wanted her laughing with him. He hadn’t come home expecting to woo her. He hadn’t even known wooing her would be a possibility until Beldon had mentioned Cambourne’s death in the coach. But now that the chance to win her back was present, he could see no other course of action.

He’d meant what he’d said at dinner about taking a wife and starting a family—as long as that wife was Philippa. He still desired her and she still responded to him, if that ill-conceived interlude here on the balcony was any indication. He only had to convince her of that. She’d had nine years to nurse her grudge and she’d always been far too stubborn. The sting of her slap suggested the job in front of him would not be an easy one. The passion of her body’s response to his said the task would not be without its rewards. She might have struck him, but he was not convinced she’d slapped him out of anger about his advances. Given her response to him, she’d struck him out of anger over her own behaviour. He was merely a convenient target.

However, he was willing to acknowledge that it had been the height of foolhardiness to seek her out alone, knowing that his emotions were ruling his better judgement. The thrill of seeing her again, of feeling her presence next to him at dinner, of watching her deal with Danforth, combined with the surge of jealously that coursed through him at seeing Canton lay claim to her, was too potent a mixture to swallow without consequence.

He’d meant to confess his feelings to her, to declare his devotion and even to explain away the events of their last evening together as the poor decisions of youth. He’d got nowhere with his agenda. Instead, he’d no doubt affirmed all the sordid rumours that had trickled back to London about him. Within moments they’d been sparring and then, his blood hot, he’d taken her in his arms and silenced her the only way he knew how. But his reckless kiss had been more consistent with the behaviour he wanted to refute than the man he wanted to convince Philippa he was, and had always been, in spite of actions to the very persuasive contrary.

The only thing more senseless than kissing Philippa was standing out here in the cold, allowing Canton to hold Philippa’s attention uncontested. Valerian pushed open the door and went inside. The battle was joined.

Lucien spied his return to the company as Philippa finished playing a pretty country piece. The small group clapped politely. ‘Let us play our duet for them,’ Lucien suggested to Philippa, sorting through the sheets of music until he found the one he was looking for. He gave Valerian a challenging look that could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was—a silent dare. Valerian returned the stare with a short nod of acknowledgement.

They executed the duet flawlessly. Valerian had known Philippa was a dab hand at the pianoforte, but Lucien was the stronger of the two players. He wondered if Canton knew he played as well. The piece flowed seamlessly, the four hands following each other to Lucien’s trademark perfection.

Amid the brief applause at the end, Canton tossed him a smug look of satisfaction. Philippa caught him at it and gave Canton a hard look. Valerian was hard pressed to smother a laugh. Lucien didn’t know Philippa well if he thought such masculine antics would go unpunished. She would make Canton pay and, he noted ruefully when her quick stare censured him as well, he would pay too.

‘Anyone else care to play?’ Lucien asked, once more the congenial host. Valerian doubted any of the other guests were aware of the currents flowing between the little triangle. It was tempting to play, but it was also petty. Valerian opted to refrain, but Philippa had different ideas. She caught his eye. ‘Viscount St Just is quite accomplished if I remember correctly. Do you still play, St Just?’

‘Yes, I do. It would be an honour to perform on such a fine instrument.’ Valerian took the bench and flexed his hands experimentally.

‘I have some music…’ Canton began.

‘I won’t need any music,’ Valerian said shortly and launched into a complicated scherzo that left the audience mesmerised.

‘Magnificent! You’ve been training,’ Beldon enthused afterwards. ‘I’d forgotten how good you were.’

‘Thank you,’Valerian said, rising from the bench. He tossed a covert glance towards Canton, making sure the man understood he’d picked up the gauntlet.

The tea tray arrived, but no one lingered overlong. There would be much to do on the morrow to be ready for the evening’s festivities. As everyone retired, Valerian stopped off at the library to select a book to read. A few minutes later there were muffled footsteps on the Axminster carpet. He didn’t need to turn around to know the newcomer was Lucien Canton. He’d expected as much. The problem with perfection was that it was often predictable.

‘I thought you and I should talk, St Just. Have a seat.’ Canton sat down and motioned to the chair across from him.

‘You have an extensive collection of books,’Valerian said glibly.

Canton waved away the attempt at small talk. ‘I am not here to trade banalities with you. I came to make sure you understood how things stand between myself and Lady Cambourne.’ His eyes glittered like hard gems.

Valerian steepled his hands. ‘I understand from Pendennys that she is acting as hostess in your sister’s stead,’ he said, deliberately misinterpreting the implications of Canton’s message. If the man wanted to stake his claim, he’d have to do it directly. He would not get away with subtlety.

‘She is more than my hostess. We have discussed the possibility of a more permanent arrangement between us. I mean to propose marriage to her and I have every reason to believe that my suit would be met favourably.’

‘Why are you telling me, a mere stranger, this?’

‘You know very well why—you didn’t take her into dinner for the sake of old friendships renewed and all that. I did not know the depth of your former relationship was quite so, ah, developed. It is clearly much more than a friendship. No one looks at an old friend the way you looked at her tonight.’

‘And how is that?’ He’d been more transparent than he thought, or perhaps Canton was simply more astute.

‘Like a starving man looks at a feast,’ Canton said acidly.

Valerian raised his eyebrows, ready to strike. ‘Is that cliché the best you can do?’ He liked Canton less and less by the moment and not all of it had to do with envy. All his instincts said Canton had ulterior motives regarding Philippa. A man in love and certain of his affections being returned would not feel a need to stake such a blatant claim. Canton’s next statement confirmed Valerian’s suspicions.

‘I know you didn’t go to the drawing room to study the Gainsborough when you left the dining room,’ Canton said, referring to the facile lie Valerian had used to excuse himself and to follow Philippa. ‘My footman reported the two of you were out on the balcony, intimately engaged.’

‘Spying on your guests? That’s quite an admirable trait,’ Valerian said drily. ‘I wonder how the Duchess would feel if she knew you had her followed. Do you do it regularly?’ He rose, book in hand. ‘I’ve had enough of this gentlemanly conversation. Goodnight, Canton.’

Lucien rose with him. ‘I mean to have her, St Just. She’s mine. I’m the one who has been here through the years when she was in mourning.You can’t waltz into my home after a nine-year absence and undo in the span of a few short hours what I’ve worked years to accomplish.’

Valerian stopped at the door, his hand forcefully gripping the knob as he reined in his temper. He’d faced down Mehemet Ali, the renowned Egyptian naval commander. By God, he would not suffer the threats of a viscount’s top-lofty heir whose only pretension to greatness was his father’s title. ‘You’re wrong, Canton. If a stolen kiss and a dinner among others are all it takes to “undo” your hard work, it was never “done” in the first place.’

He strode purposefully up the stairs to his chambers, fitting pieces together in his mind. He knew now what he didn’t like about Lucien Canton beyond the simple fact that he coveted Philippa: Lucien Canton was dangerous.

Behind his polished perfection was a lethal streak. He’d seen men like Canton during his years abroad in the highest levels of covert intelligence and diplomacy, catapulted into such positions because of their cunning and arch-shrewdness. To these men, attainment of their goal was everything. Nothing was too sacred to escape sacrifice. There was something Lucien Canton wanted and Philippa was a vital link in his ability to get it. He speculated that Lucien Canton would be willing to do more than marry to secure it as well.

The man had portrayed no signs of lover-like affections, but had instead acted like a man in possession of a great treasure around which he must place guards and fences. It didn’t take a large amount of speculation, even knowing as little as he did about the state of Philippa’s inheritance from Cambourne, to surmise Canton had his eye on some aspect of her estate.

Beldon had asked him in the coach if he believed in serendipity. Absolutely not. He had not survived the dark side of diplomacy by luck. He’d survived because he believed a man made his own chances. From the looks of things, Lucien Canton believed that too. That made the man more dangerous than he might have been otherwise.

He wondered if Philippa knew Canton didn’t love her, but what she owned. If not, he’d be sure to call it to her attention by showing her the depths of his own passion for her. It looked like he wouldn’t make Roseland Hall by New Year after all.

31 December

The dancers whirled about Valerian in a dervish of luxurious winter velvets and satins to a rowdy country dance played by the five-piece orchestra seated above the crowd in the small balcony at the top of the ballroom, designed for just such a purpose. The guests were in high spirits as midnight approached. Philippa had done a splendid job playing hostess, making sure everyone had partners for dancing. No one went unnoticed, from the plainest of girls to the quietest of matrons.

He and Beldon had done their parts to ensure her success in that pursuit. They’d danced with the matrons and charmed the local wallflowers until they blossomed.

But for the most part, Valerian had spent the evening listening to the rhythm of Cornwall. What did people think about these days? What was the lifeblood of the Cornish economy? Where did people think their future lay? The answer repeatedly came back to mining.

It was not surprising. Mining had been an ongoing consideration in the region for literally centuries. Valerian’s own family had mining interests upon which the family fortunes were built. He knew the Duke of Cambourne had invested heavily in tin and copper mines as well as the ancillary businesses that accompanied the industry of mining: smelting, furnace parts and mining equipment.

What did surprise him was the growing competition. Mining had not yet reached its apex, but the foundations for managing those future interests were being laid now. Mining had become a full blown industry and much more highly politicised than it had been before.

Valerian had caught snatches of conversations regarding mining-related legislation. House of Commons members, home from the Michaelmas session of Parliament, and members of the House of Lords, debated the need for safety laws that ensured a quality of life for the miners and their families.

More intriguing to Valerian were the conversations he overheard regarding the merits of importing metal ores from British settlements in Chile and Argentina. The capitalists of the group argued importing would certainly help meet growing industrial need, while other, cooler, heads argued for caution; glutting the market with copper and tin would drive the price down, which in turn would affect the domestic market’s ability to turn a profit.

Canton sided with the capitalists, avidly arguing for aggressive expansion in South American mining. Valerian’s earlier suspicions about Canton coveting the assets brought to him through marriage to Philippa were finding substantiation in Canton’s avaricious stance on the economics of mining. Valerian made a mental note to ask Beldon about the extent of Philippa’s mining assets.

‘Fifteen minutes until midnight!’The cry went up from the orchestra conductor, who urged everyone to find a partner for the ‘last waltz of the year’. There was an excited flurry on the dance floor as people laughingly paired up.

Valerian strode purposefully towards the group Philippa stood with. Other than acting as a willing dance partner for her wallflowers, Valerian had stayed apart from her. He preferred to study her movements and behaviour from afar—a certain kind of exquisite torture he’d imposed on himself as punishment for the prior evening. In hindsight, he acknowledged that he had not handled himself well on the balcony. He’d rushed his fences without knowing his quarry.

Tonight, she sparkled among an already glittering crowd. The deep gold of her gown was an elegant foil for the mass of burnished hair piled on her head and coiffed in strands of gold, woven through the coils like other women wove pearls. Her long neck was shown to advantage with the upsweep of her hair and Valerian was seized with the urge to kiss her nape as he came up behind her. He settled for putting his hands on her shoulders as if he were settling an imaginary cloak about her. He bent close to her ear, saying, ‘I believe this dance is mine.’

It was a proprietary overture on his part and he knew it well. Most women thrilled to such a seductive, possessive claim. Odds were that Philippa wouldn’t. But neither would she be able to politely refuse without looking like a shrew in front of the others.

Whatever scold she had in store for him would be worth the feel of her in his arms. Waltzing was something they’d done often and well in the old days.

‘Viscount,’ Philippa said, recovering from having been caught unaware by his gambit, ‘I thought you’d forgotten. You’ve left it until the last minute.’ She gave a smile, forced to cover for his presumptions.

‘My apologies.’ Valerian swept her a gallant bow and escorted her to the dance floor, knowing he wouldn’t get off that easily. He had no sooner fitted his hand against her back when she showed her displeasure.

‘Don’t ever handle me like that again,’ she began.

‘I am afraid it would be rather difficult to dance without touching you,’ Valerian said obtusely.

‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. You put me in a position where I could not refuse you without looking rag-mannered. Moreover, you insinuated claims on my attentions that you do not have.’

‘Haven’t I?’ He couldn’t resist the temptation to flirt with her.

The music started up before she could fire another insult at his head. Valerian swept her out into the centre of the floor, effortlessly creating space for them in the crowd. He was confident her pique wouldn’t last long. Philippa could not resist the lure of the waltz. It had always been her favourite dance.

He had waltzed women across dance floors from the Black Sea to St Mark’s Square in Venice, but no partner could rival the beauty of Philippa in his arms. Her long legs matched his stride with ease; her body answered the subtle guidance of his hand. She was all fluid grace as they moved through the turn at the top of the ballroom, her anger at him erased in the exhilaration of the dance.

They turned swiftly and tightly, giving him a reason to bring her up close to him instead of holding her at arm’s length. She gasped at the change in contact, then threw back her head and gave an honest laugh. ‘You waltz scandalously, St Just. Is this how they do it in Vienna?’

‘It’s how I do it.’ He wondered how long he could keep her like this. The sight of her smile was breathtaking. In that moment, the smile was all for him. It was not her hostess smile, or her duchess smile, just her smile. A smile he’d known for years. It was the smile she’d given him when they raced neck or nothing, the smile she’d given him when they’d danced at her début, the smile she’d given him the first time he’d kissed her, deeply, thoroughly, and she’d recognised him as a man of powerful urges.

He laughed back and whirled them about at a faster pace, heedless of convention. The dancing halted promptly at midnight in order for the ballroom to cheer in the New Year. Both of them were laughing and breathless. Valerian had his arm about her waist, keeping her close at his side, enjoying her unhampered good humour.

All her masks were off and she was Philippa Stratten beside him once more. His masks were off too. He was simply a young man again, in the throes of a first and true love, untouched by the rougher edges of life. A giddy elation fired his blood at the final stroke of midnight. As the raucous cheers went up, he recklessly pulled her to him and kissed her full on the mouth. Her arms wound around his neck and her head tipped back to take his kiss completely. There was an unequalled sweetness in knowing she felt the fire, too, and had given herself over to it. In that moment Valerian swore a silent resolution to himself in the fashion of old English tradition. By this time next year, he would have her. He’d already lived too long without her.

The orchestra struck up a tune for another waltz before the guests headed in for the New Year’s supper. Valerian swung her into the dance without asking. She protested with a laugh, ‘We’ve already danced once tonight.’

‘That was last year,’ Valerian parried easily, his elation only partially dampened by the stare of an infuriated Lucien Canton, who watched them from the sidelines, rage emanating from every pore of his impeccably groomed form.

Lucien viewed the pair waltzing with abandon and a disgusting amount of apparent ease in each other’s arms. They were beautiful to watch as long as one wasn’t also watching one’s opportunity to marry one of them decreasing exponentially. Valerian Inglemoore was most definitely an unlooked-for complication in the progress of his plans. He had meant to propose to Philippa in the spring when he could do it in high style in London among the haut monde. Watching her with the newly returned viscount, Lucien knew without doubt he couldn’t wait that long.

He had to strike before the iron was hot, as it were. Most people who knew him believed him to be a keen judge of human nature. Lucien knew his accuracy in guessing people’s motivations and desires was partly his own intuition, but also partly because he spied on everyone in his milieu. The duchess was not exempt.

His spies indicated that the viscount was besotted with her, stealing away from the dinner table last night to steal kisses on the veranda. It was no balm to Lucien’s concern that his spy also reported Philippa had slapped the bastard across the face. At the moment she might be conflicted over her response to the return of her curious friend, but hate ran a close parallel to love. From what Lucien had seen, if he waited until spring, the lovely and pivotal duchess would no longer be interested or available.

Without the Cambourne mines, his hopes to corner the tin market and establish an elite, profitable tin cartel, with holdings in Britain and South America, would become an idle dream. And without access to the Cam-bourne finances, he’d be hard pressed to cover some of his investments. It didn’t take any amount of genius to know that if St Just claimed Philippa’s affections, Lucien’s own friendship with her would come to a quick end. St Just was not the type of man who’d allow his wife to keep a close male friend.

Lucien’s hard gaze followed St Just into the last turn of the waltz. He’d ordered murder done before to get what he wanted. He wouldn’t hesitate to see it done again.

Chapter Four

‘He made you look the whore last night, ’Lucien bit out crisply over breakfast late the next morning in the library.

Well, there it was. Philippa had expected as much when she’d received the note requesting they privately break their fast together, away from the other guests. Lucien was a stickler for propriety. Not one of his more desirable traits. Apparently, he was covetous too. She’d not had reason to notice that before. But no one had ever posed a threat to his claims on her time.

Philippa buttered her toast calmly, unbothered by Lucien’s pique. ‘You can hardly be jealous because I danced with an old friend.’ That wasn’t to say she was pleased with her behaviour the night before. She had indeed let her guard down with Valerian, a behaviour she did not indulge in with anyone. But Valerian’s enthusiasm had been contagious and in his arms she’d felt the responsibilities of her world lift for a moment.

‘Old friend? The word is too tame,’ Lucien scoffed, reaching for his coffee. ‘I’ve never danced with the sister of an old friend the way he waltzed with you. He desires you, Philippa. One cannot not notice. He makes no effort to hide it. Such behaviour is better suited for a brothel than a ballroom.’ Lucien set his cup down and looked at her squarely. ‘St Just needs to understand in specific terms that his attentions are not welcome, even if they were encouraged in the past.’

Philippa met his stern gaze evenly, bridling at his insinuations about her virtue. She was the Dowager Duchess of Cambourne. She would not be commanded in such a high-handed fashion. She chose to ignore Lucien’s subtle probe into her past. Whatever had transpired between she and Valerian was their business alone. Lucien could speculate all he wanted. She hadn’t even told Beldon.

‘Are you suggesting I am forbidden to see him?’ This possessiveness was exactly the kind of behaviour she’d been trying to avoid in a relationship with any male acquaintance of her circle since Cambourne’s death. She didn’t need to take direction from well-meaning men who thought she couldn’t manage the reins of her estate or social life on her own. In Lucien, she’d thought she’d found a liberated man who would tolerate her independence.

It had been the basis of her attraction to him. Lucien had been a welcome friend during a difficult transition period for her. He’d been a loyal escort and adviser when she’d begun rebuilding her social circle after Cambourne’s death. She’d believed they complemented one another well and had a comfortable companionship between matched intellects and interests.

She’d helped him too in a myriad of ways, like acting the hostess when his busy sister wasn’t available. It had been the least she could do in return for the assistance he’d given her throughout the years.

‘What right do you have to make such a demand of me?’ Philippa flicked him a tight glance.

Lucien’s eyes flashed. ‘What right? We have been together for years.’

‘We are hardly married, Lucien,’ Philippa warned. They’d not explicitly talked in such terms before, although it would be unfair to say the issue had not arisen in other ways in the last year.

‘Perhaps we should be. Married, that is,’ Lucien said coldly.

‘Is that a proposal? Your lack of enthusiasm makes it rather hard to tell,’Philippa shot back. Damn Valerian for this, Philippa thought hotly. Lucien’s proposal, if one could call it that, was all his doing. He had to come rushing in and wreck everything with hot kisses and knowing caresses, making her remember the possibilities.

Philippa put down her napkin and rose, leaving her toast untouched, but it didn’t matter. Her stomach couldn’t tolerate a bite of food now. ‘I regret to inform you that I have no intention of accepting a proposal articulated with such lacklustre ardour. It bodes ill for the marriage.’ She tinged her voice with exaggerated ennui. The sooner she was out of the room the better. She hoped she made the door before she gave full vent to her temper.

Lucien rose, the glacial calm that usually accompanied his demeanour, melting at her comment. ‘My displays of “ardor” have been quite acceptable to you right up until St Just began stealing kisses on the balcony right under my nose.’

Philippa stiffened. How could he have known? But to accuse him of spying on her would mean admitting he had the right of it. She turned to face Lucien before sweeping into the hallway. ‘You’ve shown yourself in a poor light this morning, Lucien. Jealousy does not become you.’

Wrapped in a heavy wool cloak against the damp weather, Philippa stormed out to the gardens. No one else was about in such inclement weather. She was glad for it. She would make terrible company. She would be hard pressed to behave politely when all her thoughts were focused on less than polite behaviour.

Valerian and Lucien were worse than two stallions in season fighting over a mare and now Lucien had proposed, no doubt prompted by his sense of honour and apparently the belief that she needed protection from the likes of Valerian. In the three years of their association, Lucien had never once pressed her for a discreet affair. There had been nothing beyond a few private, dry kisses, a gentleman’s touch on the dance floor or helping her in and out of carriages. Nothing at all to compare with Valerian’s very public seduction.

Lucien’s kisses were preludes to nothing. They inspired no wish to lose control, to cross over the boundaries of propriety. Valerian’s kisses lit a raging fire in her, forced her to abandon her grip on control. Valerian’s kisses were an invitation to decadence.

The very thought of Valerian’s audacious assumptions brought colour to her wind-whipped cheeks. Lucien was right. Valerian made no secret of his sensual habits. The differences between the two men could not be more clearly illustrated if she drew a line in the dirt. On one side there was Lucien with his icy good looks and restrained passions to match his rigid sense of honour. On the other, there was Valerian, all devil-dark hair and hot eyes, flouting honour and convention at every turn. If the disparities were so obvious, why did she hesitate?

The answer gnawed at her. She was no longer sure Lucien’s companionship would be enough for either of them. She was hard pressed to believe Lucien was happy with the dry affection that passed between them. Certainly, he must wish for more. Surely there must be another reason why he’d forgo physical pleasure. She wished she knew what he’d gain to make the sacrifice worthwhile. She could understand if he openly declared he needed to marry for money. But she did not appreciate hidden motivations. They were usually dark and dangerous and wrapped in lies.

Valerian leaned on his cue stick in the billiards room, pretending to watch Beldon take a shot. In reality, his gaze was fixed on a point just beyond Beldon’s shoulder, through the window. Philippa was walking in the garden, alone. He’d been disappointed to learn she and Canton were taking breakfast privately when he’d come downstairs late in the morning. He could imagine what they’d talked about. Canton was none too pleased with him.

Beldon cleared his throat. ‘Val, it’s your turn.’

‘So it is,’ Valerian returned, but his interest in the game had waned. ‘Beldon, would you mind if we finished our game later? I suddenly remember some pressing business I need to see to.’

Valerian didn’t stay long enough to let Beldon quiz him on his sudden business. He slowed his pace only when he neared Philippa. It wouldn’t do to appear the over-eager swain. She needn’t know he’d interrupted his billiards game to rush after her the moment he’d glimpsed her.

She looked lovely, her colour high and her hair less than perfect from the wind. Desire surged in him, raw and elemental like the weather. She turned and spotted him at the gate.

‘Nice day for a walk,’Valerian offered drily, striding towards her.

‘I found the house a bit stifling,’ Philippa said shortly, bending to study a dormant plant.

‘The house or our Mr Canton?’ Valerian pried shamelessly. ‘I heard the two of you were closeted together over breakfast. I hope he wasn’t angry about last night.’ The last was a lie.

‘You are too bold, St Just.’ Philippa straightened, her eyes flashing as they studied him. He liked the feel of her gaze on him. Let her look and see that he desired her.

‘But yes, Lucien has asked that I make our relationship clear to you.’

‘So to speed my departure,’Valerian mused aloud uncharitably.

‘Be fair, St Just. Lucien has done nothing to earn your enmity besides stand my friend.’

Valerian studied her. ‘Is he your friend? I did not know him from before. He must be a new friend.’

‘Why, of course he’s a friend and he’s perfectly acceptable. He’s the oldest son of a viscount with excellent prospects of his own. He’s not a new friend, not to me anyway. I’ve known him since John…’ she hesitated here and then corrected herself ‘…Cambourne’s death. He was with John the day of the accident and he’s been with me ever since.’ Her sharp tone had softened at the mention of her husband.

Valerian matched it with a quiet tone of his own. ‘Beldon mentioned the accident briefly. Cambourne lived a while afterwards,’ he prompted, liking the quiet intimacy that had sprung up between them.

Philippa turned bittersweet eyes on him, her gaze far away with her memories. ‘Lucien got him home and arranged for a physician, even though he was hurt himself. We stayed by John’s side for the next few days.’ She shook her head. ‘The doctor had known immediately that there would be no recovery. I was afraid to leave him out of fear that he would slip away the moment I was gone.’

Valerian took Philippa’s hand, stroking her knuckles with his thumb, pleased that she hadn’t snatched it away. A queer pang jabbed at him. He was both grateful that Philippa had cared for her husband and yet envious that those affections had been given to another. ‘You cared for the duke, then?’ he asked curiously, wanting to know the nature of the relationship she’d shared with Cambourne.

‘I grew fond of him. He was a good mentor to me and he denied me nothing. He let me use his wealth and his name to build a model school for miners’ children in the village. It’s the one the vicar is modelling his own school after. He was a good and tolerant man. I sincerely missed him when he was gone.’

‘But Lucien was there,’ Valerian prodded.

‘Yes. He helped with all the details of transferring the estates to me and to John’s heir. That can be tedious work and Beldon was so busy settling the Pendennys estate in those days it was a relief not to burden him with my worries as well.’ Philippa sighed.

The bastard knows how much she’s worth to the farthing. He’s had an intimate look at her holdings. The thought was unworthy, but it was the first one that came to mind. How convenient everything was for the man. That raised an alarm for Valerian. He no more believed in ‘conveniences’ than he believed in Beldon’s blasted ‘serendipity’. A man made his own luck. Lucien Canton appeared to have manufactured quite a lot of it.

Valerian’s talk with Philippa in the garden did not go unremarked. Mandeville Danforth let the length of curtain drop in front of the library windows. ‘Look at them, close as courters. He’s holding her hand, damn it. Canton, how could you let him upset things so quickly and so thoroughly? He’s turning her head.’

Lucien pierced the man with a cold stare. ‘I didn’t know he was coming. He and her brother arrived unannounced, much like yourself,’ he said pointedly. ‘How was I to know that he was more than her brother’s best friend?’

‘You could tell the minute he saw her,’ Danforth groused.

‘We all could tell. It’s amazing the house didn’t spontaneously combust. But by then it was too late. I could hardly expel him from the house. We have to be careful with Pendennys. We need his blunt. Where he invests, others will follow. Giving his friend the cold shoulder won’t help our cause, especially with Pendennys still sitting on the proverbial fence where the bank is concerned.’

Danforth huffed in concession to Lucien’s wisdom. ‘Winning the Dowager Duchess of Cambourne’s affections would be enough to bring her brother into the fold. It’s a bad time for a kink in the works. Did you read your father’s letter? I hope it was important enough for me to hare down here from London.’

Lucien felt some inward satisfaction that Danforth didn’t know the contents of the letter. The man was getting above himself to think he could scold a viscount’s son. He had not missed Danforth’s barb about the need to win Philippa’s affections. But Danforth was wrong to assume his only role in this scheme was to play the suitor and woo Lady Cam-bourne.

While the thought of finally having Philippa in his bed after all this time was pleasant enough, he’d invested the last three years of his life for a far more lucrative gambit than a roll in the ducal bed. He had an empire at stake.

Lucien gave Danforth a cold smile. ‘My father writes that the London investors are in place. We may go ahead and officially announce that the Provincial Bank of Truro is open for business, with you, of course, as the nominal head.’ It went unspoken between them the reasons for that choice. A viscount or his son might sit on an executive oversight board of a bank, particularly if the bank was in his own area of the country, but he would never overtly sully himself with such work as the daily running of the bank.

Danforth rubbed his hands together in delight. ‘I am glad to hear it.’

‘As am I. The sooner we can begin loaning funds to the smelting companies and the mining corporations, the sooner we can have our cartel.’

‘And the sooner we have our cartel, the sooner we control the market. Everyone will be in our pockets,’ Danforth remarked shrewdly.

‘Not just the market, but the world,’ Lucien said meaningfully. He didn’t expect Danforth to understand. The man’s financial acumen was daunting on a domestic scale, but he had yet to grasp the implications of the new British mining colonies springing up in the Bolivian and Argentine territories. That was Lucien’s gift to the venture—futuristic foresight.

His eyes strayed to the window. His foresight and exquisite planning would come to naught if he couldn’t control the Cambourne interests. The strength of his cartel and its ability to regulate tin and copper prices would be minimal if the Cambourne mines and other associated industries remained outside the cartel’s umbrella to compete against it with prices.

St Just was an unfortunate distraction, but not insurmountable. He would have to send to London for news about the returning viscount. With nine years in the diplomatic corps, there must be dirt on the man somewhere—real scandal beyond his rakish reputation with women.

Lucien had yet to meet a diplomat who couldn’t be bribed to shape foreign policy. Not that there was anything wrong with greasing palms. Lucien was man enough of the world to know it took a bit of well-placed oil to keep that world running smoothly. But Philippa was another sort altogether. She believed in ideals, like the miners’ school the late duke had let her open.

Lucien rather thought she’d take badly to the news that the dashing St Just was not only a womaniser—a fact openly known in certain London circles—but a man who’d been involved with darker dealings, selling ‘opportunities’, as it were, to become involved in the great British Empire for a price—things like rights to waterways or trade commodities. Those were things that quietly went to the highest bidders and not necessarily those who deserved them most. Such injustice would not sit well with Philippa.

However, until he could manage to tarnish St Just’s sterling image a bit, he’d follow the old adage of keeping one’s friends close and one’s enemies closer. It was time to pay a visit to the garden.

Chapter Five

Philippa didn’t see Lucien approach, but was instead alerted to his arrival by the sudden tenseness in Valerian’s pose and the feral light that lit his green eyes. She tried to slide her gloved hand discreetly from Valerian’s grasp, but the effort was nothing more than an afterthought. The stormy visage Lucien wore made it clear that he had already seen her hand in Valerian’s.

She resented the intrusion. For a short while, she and St Just had been companionable, simply Philippa and Valerian again, like they had been on the dance floor. She’d liked the soft, intimate tones between them as they discussed her marriage to the duke. She’d liked the absence of witty repartee designed to spear the other, the social politics of claiming and possession. With Lucien’s interruption, all that was back, and back in force. The moment Valerian had spied Lucien, he’d become all St Just again—the rakish diplomat who would not be cornered or made to feel guilty for his actions by any man.

‘Philippa, it’s freezing out here,’Lucien said, rubbing his hands together for good effect and trying to minimise Valerian’s presence by ignoring him. ‘What could possibly bring you outside?’

‘We’re reminiscing, catching up,’ Philippa offered smoothly. It was true. They’d been talking of the past, nothing more.

‘My dear, that is why we have a dozen sitting rooms, expressly for the purpose of talking.’ Lucien forced a laugh.

‘Is that true or is it merely an example of hyperbole?’ Valerian put in, shielding his eyes against the wind and making a great show of surveying the manor as if he could count all the sitting rooms and doubted the manor was large enough to uphold Lucien’s boast.

Philippa couldn’t decide what she wanted to do first: laugh at Lucien’s bluff being called—the manor was large by Truro standards, but there weren’t twelve sitting rooms unless one counted the small salons attached to a few of the larger bedchambers—or strangle Valerian for poking at Lucien’s pride so deliberately and with no greater purpose than to antagonise the man.

‘St Just has an interest in gardens. I thought he’d enjoy seeing yours,’ Philippa interjected quickly.

Valerian smiled beside her. ‘Yes, the family seat has extensive gardens over on the Roseland Peninsula. I am eager to get back to them.’

Lucien smiled back. ‘I hope you aren’t in such a large hurry to get back that you won’t stay on with us for a while? Perhaps I could entice you with a visit to some excellent gardens nearby?’ Lucien offered magnanimously. ‘I’ve heard rumour that the new vicar in Veryan, just a few miles from here, has been rebuilding the vicarage and has plans to expand the gardens. I could arrange for you to ride over tomorrow and talk about plants and whatever else you gardening types enjoy talking about.’

Philippa turned to Valerian. ‘Please say you’ll stay. I know the vicarage. It’s lovely and you would enjoy meeting Samuel Trist, the vicar. He’s an avid landscaper. The two of you would have much in common.’ The thought of Valerian leaving, after having only discovered he’d returned was suddenly unpalatable. But he wouldn’t stay if he thought he was beholden to Lucien in any way.

‘Who knows what other pleasant surprises might crop up if you stay long enough?’ Lucien put in, playing the expansive host to the hilt. ‘With luck, you could be one of the first to congratulate me on my good fortune. I have proposed to our dear Duchess this very morning. I thought it was best to start the year off on the right footing, beginning as I mean to go on and all that.’

Philippa felt the colour go out of her cheeks. How dare Lucien call his angry, jealous retort a proposal. She was keenly aware of Valerian’s probing stare.

‘Has our “dear Duchess” accepted?’ Valerian asked of Lucien, although his eyes didn’t leave her.

‘She has—’ Lucien began glibly.

‘She has not accepted the proposal,’ Philippa broke in angrily. Who knew what kind of fiction Lucien would fabricate? If he was willing to risk portraying their quarrel as a proposal, he might be willing to go so far as to say her storming out of the library was akin to ‘thinking it over’.

Philippa stared hard at each of them. ‘I will not stand here and be talked about as if I am invisible. That goes for both of you. However, since my presence is not intrinsic to this conversation, please feel free to stay out here and continue. I’m going in.’

She must have been momentarily mad to think she wasn’t ready for Valerian to leave. Valerian. That was another thing. Some time between his arrival two nights ago and this afternoon, she’d started thinking of him as Valerian again instead of St Just. Out in the garden, he’d been her friend, so reminiscent of the old days, and then he’d become St Just. On an instant’s notice, the mask had slid into place as assuredly as the one he’d worn to the ball last night.

Was that what it was? A mask? Why she was so certain the mask of cold, sharp wit was the facade? It could just as well be that the friend was the front instead.

Up in her room, Philippa threw her cloak onto the bed and paced in front of the window, her thoughts in turmoil. For a woman who’d thought herself well armed against the dubious charms of Viscount St Just, her defences had proven to be woefully inadequate. Already, she was willing to cast off what she empirically knew to be the truth for the old fantasy he’d spun once before in her girlhood.

Why was it so easy to fall back into believing those old myths? Especially when she knew they were myths. Inspiration struck. She would prove to herself that Valerian Inglemoore was not to be trusted with her affections. Yes, if she could visually see the proof with her own eyes, it would be harder to stray from the truth the next time he held her hand or led her in a waltz.

Philippa drew out a sheet of her personal stationery from the escritoire and sat down. Purposefully, she drew a line down the centre of the paper, dividing it into two columns: one for myths, the other for realities.

When she was done filling in the columns, she had three myths and five truths. Myth number one: he had loved her in their youth. Myth number two: he’d meant to marry her. Myth number three: he’d returned and hoped to woo her, to atone for bad behaviour in the past. Yes, those were the things she wanted most to believe about Valerian.

Then there were the dismal truths. Truth number one: he’d blatantly acknowledged their little affaire was nothing but a young man’s fleeting fancy.

Truth number two: he’d never meant to marry her. He’d known that very night he was leaving for his uncle’s diplomatic residence. What else could explain such a rapid departure? He must have been planning it for months, perhaps for even longer than their short-lived infatuation.

Truth number three: he’d never asked her father for permission to court her and certainly not permission to ask for her hand. If he had, her father would have told her, she was sure of it.

Truth number four: he had made no effort to contact her or Beldon in his absence.

Truth number five: he’d come home with a reputation to match the behaviour he’d shown her that long ago night in the Rutherfords’ garden.

The bottom line of her analysis convicted him. With the exception of a few fleeting moments, nothing corroborated the behaviour she wanted to see in him. Nothing supported the items listed in the myth column. Everything supported the facts both past and present. The stark truth was that Valerian Inglemoore was a seducer of women—a very good one at that. So why was it so hard to resist him, even with the truth staring her in the face? And why was it so hard to accept that truth?

Was it possible there was another side to Valerian that he deliberately kept hidden? Perhaps there was a side that he couldn’t afford to expose. There might be reasons for his tightly tied mask, reasons that had to do with his work for his uncle. Philippa drew out another sheet of paper. She had friends in political circles who could find out. All wishful thinking aside, it suddenly seemed of paramount importance she knew the truth about Valerian Inglemoore.

Philippa sanded the letter and set it aside, nagged by a growing sense of guilt. She didn’t feel right about the inquiry. It felt too much like spying, going behind Valerian’s back. No, she wouldn’t send it, at least not right away. Now that her initial anger was waning, she was beginning to recognize she had done little to get to know the man Valerian had become.

Before she sent off a letter of inquiry prying into the man’s background, she should try to exhaust more direct routes available to her. After all, she sat at the same dinner table with him and there was the outing to Vicar Trist’s in Veryan tomorrow if Lucien’s request was accepted. Those were prime opportunities to reacquaint herself with Valerian and determine the truth on her own.

The evening was a relaxed contrast compared to the prior two nights. Many of the guests who had stayed over after the New Year’s ball had departed late in the afternoon for short journeys home. In addition to Beldon and Valerian, only two couples remained, a Lord Trewithen and his wife, and the ageing Baron Pentlow and his wife from the Penwith area, who were friends of Lucien’s father and had come to the ball en route from London on their way home.

With the exception of the queer Mr Danforth, Philippa knew the other guests as regular acquaintances from the Cornwall community during her marriage. It was a simple task to make conversation over dinner and have a congenial time with the two ladies after the meal in the music room while the men took their port.

Afterwards, the men joined them for a short night of cards. She and Beldon offered to play whist with the Trewithens. At the far end of the music room, Lucien already sat at the cluster of chairs and sofa, talking avidly with Danforth and Pentlow, to the exclusion of all else, leaving Philippa to consider what to do with the elderly Lady Pentlow.

Unlooked for, Valerian rescued her admirably. ‘Duchess, would you mind if I played the pianoforte this evening? I haven’t a desire for cards at the moment or for business.’Valerian gave a quick nod to Lucien’s group deep in discussion, his tone indicating how inappropriate he felt such a topic of discussion was in this setting.

‘It would be delightful to hear you play again, my lord,’ Philippa said, inwardly laughing at the formality of their exchange, so bland and perfect compared to the heated, more imperfect exchanges they’d exchanged in private.

Valerian inclined his dark head in a gracious nod. ‘Lady Pentlow, if I might impose on you to turn the pages for me? I recall at dinner you said you enjoyed the country pieces. Canton has a decent collection of music, perhaps you could sort through it and select a few.’ Valerian offered Lady Pentlow his arm and escorted her to the pianoforte, bending his head low to catch the woman’s excited chatter.

Philippa watched them go with gratitude. How deftly Valerian had managed the situation. Lady Pentlow was a dear, sweet lady and Philippa hadn’t wanted her to feel left out or in the way. Valerian had sensed the need and adroitly stepped in. Unlike Lucien. For a man she’d considered eminently eligible marriage material, she’d certainly had a lot of uncharitable thoughts about him recently.

Philippa shot a glance at Lucien’s coterie, wondering what they could be talking about that would raise such an interest that Lucien would forgo his guests? Typically, Lucien was an excellent host with an eye for details, showing every guest the utmost courtesy due them in polite society. Tonight, he’d left that task entirely to her. She didn’t mind. She was there to play hostess, after all. Still, such behaviour wasn’t like him and it seemed odd that he would commit such a faux pas in order to talk to Mr Danforth, a man whom Lucien had claimed not to know two days past.

‘Are you coming? We’re ready to play,’ Beldon called from the card table.

Philippa smiled and took her seat. ‘I hope my brother has warned you how competitive he is.’

Their game was lively and they rotated partners at the end of each rubber. The Trewithens proved to be capable players, demanding all of Philippa’s attention. Usually she was quite good at cards, whist and piquet being two of her favourite games. But tonight, too many distractions competed for her attention, not the least being Valerian’s quiet ballads coming from the pianoforte. On occasion, she caught snatches of Lady Pentlow’s trebly voice singing a few lines.

At last the tea cart arrived, signalling the end of the evening. Philippa poured out and then went to stand with Beldon as the group congenially sipped their tea. ‘What do you suppose has Lucien so interested?’ she asked quietly.

Beldon gave a soft laugh, part-teasing, partcynicism. ‘I see the privileges of being a male prevails here. If you’d been allowed to stay at the table, you would have been treated to Mr Danforth’s announcement that he was opening a bank here in Truro, the Provincial Bank of Truro or some such nonsense.’

‘Nonsense?’ Philippa queried. ‘Why would you say that?’

‘You know what these country banks are really like, Phil. They’re investment firms.’

Philippa nodded in agreement. Cambourne had done business with Praed and Co., a bank in Truro that invested in high-risk ventures such as inventions and new technologies. If one was clever, these investments paid off. Cambourne had had good luck with them, but it was no surprise that these country banks went bankrupt far more often than the style of bank one would do with business with in London.

She better understood Lucien’s potential interest now. Lucien was always interested in money. ‘Does Lucien think he’ll invest?’

‘More than that. Mr Danforth has offered Lucien a place on the bank’s board of directors.’

‘For a sum, I’m sure.’ Philippa offered thoughtfully.

‘Definitely for a sum. But Lucien would be in charge of directing the investments. He seems quite taken with the idea.’

‘He’d be good at it. Lucien is no fool when it comes to money.’

‘But not women, at least not you.’ Beldon eyed her over his teacup.

‘Valerian told you?’

‘Hmm. Rather cowhanded of Lucien to think you could be politely coerced, if not into an actual betrothal, then at least as far as a publicly announced engagement. Are you thinking of accepting?’

‘I haven’t given it much thought,’ Philippa murmured vaguely. Marriage to Lucien Canton had been a foregone conclusion until the very unsuitable Valerian had arrived. Now, she believed she’d been rather naïve not to have thought about it more deeply, to look beyond the simplicity of an arrangement between two friends who enjoyed each other’s company. What other reasons could there be for a man with Lucien’s looks and prospects to choose to marry a childless widow when there were so many eligible débutantes available to him?

Beldon looked as if he would press her for more details. She stalled him with a shake of her head. ‘This is not the place for such a discussion.’ Lady Pentlow was starting to nod off in the middle of her conversation with Lady Trewithen. The evening was coming to a close. Her guests would want a good night’s sleep before beginning their respective journeys in the morning. They would look to her for the sign to retire.

Beldon assented. ‘Promise me we will have that discussion soon.’

Philippa smiled at her brother’s protectiveness. Even with childhood long behind them, he had not forsaken his role as a doting brother. ‘I promise. There is something I want to ask you, too, something about Valerian.’

Chapter Six

Beldon returned his empty cup to the tea trolley and said his goodnights to the group as they began to depart upstairs. He wasn’t as ready for sleep as the rest of them. His agile mind was alert, pondering the little dramas of the holiday, and Canton had excellent brandy in the library.

In general, he found people to be an interesting area of study. Younger men of his acquaintance dreaded the routine of a house party unless hunting was involved, but he found them to be intriguing affairs. The gatherings were a constant source of amazement to him, full of the dramas of intersecting lives.

Even in a group as small as the one here tonight, the web was tightly woven—Lucien and that merchant-cum-banker Danforth establishing a business tie together; he and Lucien, friends established through their common tie in Philippa; Lucien and Philippa and the budding drama of Lucien’s proposal; Lucien and Valerian, enemies on first sight. Why? The two men did not know each other. They had only Philippa in common between them.

Philippa was the only possibility. Did Valerian have a liking for Philippa? It was fantastical to think Valerian had fallen in love with his sister at first sight, and yet Val’s animosity towards Lucien had seemed palpable the moment he’d walked into the manor. A hypothesis began to take embryonic shape, events of the past starting to form connections to one another instead of existing as isolated occurrences. But Beldon was interrupted before he could decipher what the link was that bound them all together.

‘A farthing for your thoughts.’ Valerian strode into the library as if conjured from Beldon’s own mind. He’d removed his jacket and waistcoat, shirt sleeves rolled up.

Beldon shifted in the comfortable chair he’d taken up residence in. ‘My thoughts are worth far more than a farthing, old chap. Pull up a chair. Canton has a superb brandy collection.’

Valerian gave a short chuckle at that. ‘Is that his chief requirement in being your friend? Since I’ve met him, his cellar seems to be his primary recommendation.’

Beldon waved his snifter. ‘Well, you have to admit the Veuve Cliquot was superior at New Year.’ He paused, stopping to consider the play of firelight on the amber liquid swirling in the snifter’s bowl. ‘In truth, I’d thought Canton was quite an amicable fellow, a bit aloof at times, but otherwise acceptable, until you showed up. Why do you think that is, Val?’ Beldon studied his friend closely, watching him adopt a comfortable slouch in the opposite chair, his feet resting negligently on the fireplace fender as he pondered the question.

‘Do you want me to answer that question or is it rhetorical? I seem to recall you made a habit of telling us what to think in school.’ A teasing smile hovered at Valerian’s lips before he sipped from his glass.

‘Touché, I am wounded,’ Beldon said. ‘The accusation is true. However, in all fairness, you must admit most of our friends didn’t think. I did them a grand favour by doing it for them.’

‘Then carry on. Clearly, you have ideas.’

Beldon set his drink on a small side table next to his chair. He leaned forwards in earnest, elbows resting on thighs. ‘Tell me the truth, Val. I don’t have all the angles worked out yet, but I think you have a penchant for Philippa.’

It was telling that Valerian didn’t meet his eyes, but chose to look straight ahead into the waning fire. ‘Philippa is an attractive young woman who is intelligent and confident. I am certain many men desire her. She would be an asset to any peer’s household—’

‘More to the point,’ Beldon broke in, not swayed by the general terms of Valerian’s response, ‘you desire her and you have for some time. This is no incident of love at first sight. You’re both past the first blush of such fantasy. How long have you carried feelings for her, Val?’ How had such a thing as his best friend’s affections escaped his notice? Beldon felt a twinge of betrayal. He and Val had been closer than brothers and yet Val had not confided in him. Still, such an omission from Valerian was apparently not amiss. He’d not shared his plans to join his uncle until the night of his departure.

Valerian straightened and turned to face him, this time not avoiding his gaze. ‘I’ve loved her since we were young together. I was head over heels for her by the time she made her début.’

‘You didn’t tell me,’ Beldon said slowly, his mind whirring to adjust the pieces of this puzzle, how it fit against the backdrop of what had transpired. ‘Did she return your affections?’ There was a pit growing in his stomach. It was a horrible feeling to know that the two people he was closest to had fallen in love and he hadn’t known or been told.

Valerian must have sensed the direction of his thoughts. His answer was simple. ‘Yes.’

There it was. Valerian had not kept the secret alone. They had conspired together to keep the secret from him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

Valerian shrugged. ‘How could I? Cambourne had offered for her.’

‘And you stepped aside?’ Beldon asked sharply. ‘That doesn’t sound like your typical behaviour at all.’ The Valerian he knew had championed the underdog at school, standing up for the principle of right, even when the odds were against him. He’d earned more than a few bloody noses for not knowing when to back down. In fact, the Valerian he knew didn’t believe one ever backed down. What had changed that when it came to Philippa?

Valerian tossed him a warning glance. ‘Beldon, I must ask you to stop your inquisition right now. The hour is late. In my experience, late hours are good for confessions between friends, but not necessarily for understanding them. Be satisfied to know that I have loved Philippa for years from afar. Be satisfied also to know that I would still claim her if she would have me.’ Valerian rose, putting an end to the conversation.

Beldon put out an arm in a restraining motion. ‘You can’t leave me on tenterhooks, Valerian.’ He gave a snort. ‘No wonder you were such a fine diplomat.’

‘Go easy on me, Beldon,’ Valerian said wistfully. ‘I have the utmost confidence in your mind’s ability to solve the rest of the riddle in short order and I will be waiting to confirm your conclusions.You know I value our friendship too much to ever cheat you out of the truth.’

Beldon nodded. ‘I know. Sleep well, Val,’ he said in all sincerity.

‘Aren’t you coming up?’

‘No, I want to sit a while longer.’ Beldon held up his half finished snifter. ‘Wasting fine brandy is a sin of the highest order.’

‘Enjoy,’ Valerian said from the door. ‘Remember, I did answer your question.’

‘And gave me a hundred more to think about in return.’ Beldon offered him a sardonic toast. He would sleep shortly. Valerian was right in one respect. Part of the riddle in terms of Valerian’s dislike of Canton was appeased. They both wanted Philippa.

Beldon would wager it was for vastly different reasons. Valerian loved her. And, well, love was not a commodity Lucien Canton was known to trade in. Canton wanted her for something else.

For a long while, Beldon had entertained the idea that Canton appreciated the intelligent companionship Philippa offered. She understood the man’s talk of finances and business since she’d been well groomed by Cambourne for appreciating that aspect of the Cam-bourne holdings. The duke had believed a woman should understand her worth and seen to it that Philippa had.

After watching Canton and Danforth tonight talking over the new bank, Beldon had to wonder if Canton’s interest in Philippa was and had been financial. He’d not thought of it before, since Canton was not without his own wealth or the ability to increase it on his own. Canton had no obvious need to find a wealthy bride.

Valerian’s sudden reappearance had certainly acted much like a clarifying solution, throwing the muddied depths of their lives into sharp relief. If it was up to him, Beldon much preferred that Philippa married Valerian.

Valerian was a man of honour, a man who could be trusted to do right even in the most dire circumstances, which brought his thoughts for the evening full circle.

Why had Valerian stepped aside when Cambourne offered for Philippa? What would Valerian have seen as a more honourable pathway than the chivalry of fighting for his heart’s desire? Who or what had Valerian been protecting that would have compelled him to set aside Philippa and leave his own country? They had not spoken of his abrupt departure, but Beldon felt certain the two were connected.

Beldon smiled to himself in the near-darkness. The fire had died down to mere embers. He loved a good mystery and this was proving to be an excellent one. He’d need his sleep in order to be fresh for the trip. He could hardly wait. Who would have thought such a seemingly innocuous jaunt to view plants at a vicarage could provide so much drama? Oh, yes, the morning promised to be very interesting indeed.

Cornwall could always be counted on for oddities when it came to weather. When the rest of Britain’s estuaries froze, the streams near Truro and Falmouth were full of migrating eider and goldeneye ducks. When many parts of Britain thought the dark winter would go on endlessly, the sheltered south of Cornwall celebrated an early arrival of spring. So it was that the weather for the trip into Veryan was mild for January, even though the day before had been plagued with bitingly cold winds.

The last of the guests were gone by eleven o’clock after a late breakfast that would preclude the need for lunch, and the group of four was seated comfortably in Lucien’s shiny black coach with large glass window panes by half-past the hour for the short trip. Philippa would have preferred to ride, since the distance between Veryan and Truro was negligible and the weather promised to remain true. But Lucien insisted on the coach.

‘What’s the point of having such a splendid vehicle at one’s disposal if one does not make use of it?’Lucien said.

Philippa secretly thought it more likely Lucien preferred the attention the elegant equipage drew as the coachman tooled through Truro. ‘Still, there aren’t many days in the winter when the weather holds for a long ride. It seems a shame to waste one of them,’Philippa replied.

‘Ah, but that’s just it, my dear. I doubt this weather will hold.’ There was a slightly condescending tone to his voice. ‘Certainly, the skies appear safe at midday. But I predict clouds and rain before tea this afternoon.’

Valerian stirred in his seat across from them, a glint in his eye that made Philippa uneasy. ‘You sound quite sure of your prediction, Canton.’

‘I am, St Just. I’ve spent the better part of the year these last few years living here,’ Lucien boasted.

Valerian nodded, gesturing to Beldon and Philippa, ‘I’ve spent, as the rest of us present have, the better part of our lives living here, and I say the weather will hold.’ Valerian glanced out of the window and tilted his head to catch a view of the sky. ‘In fact, I would go so far as to say the sun will show itself by two o’clock.’

‘Care to wager on that?’ Lucien responded.

Philippa stifled a groan. The weather was supposed to be the one safe topic of English conversation. Wasn’t that the rule one learned growing up? Somehow, Valerian and Lucien had turned the weather into a competition as if either of them could control it. Although, if she had to place her bets, she’d bet on Valerian. Lucien knew mining, but Valerian knew the climate. His estate on the Roseland Peninsula contained some of the rarest plants and flowers known to grown in Britain.

‘Twenty pounds,’ Valerian said. ‘The sun shines by two o’clock with no rain until after five, I win. Canton here wins if the sun fails to shine and it rains by tea at four o’clock.’

Beldon broke in, drawing his attention away from the window where it had been riveted for most of the trip. ‘Who wins if the sun doesn’t shine and it doesn’t rain? Or the sun shines, but the rain comes early?’

Oh, lord, not him too? Philippa sent her brother a beseeching stare. Worse, Lucien and Valerian looked as if they were seriously contemplating the developments. By the time they reached Veryan, the two of them would have concocted such an elaborate wager it would be impossible to determine a winner.

‘A draw then,’Valerian declared resolutely. ‘If there’s any discrepancy, it becomes a draw.’

‘Fair enough,’ Lucien concurred.

Philippa shook her head and shot Valerian a scolding glare. He fought back a smile and discreetly turned his head to look out of the window at the passing landscape.

The vicarage was a place of organised chaos when their coach pulled in. Samuel Trist, the new vicar, broke away from a cluster of workmen and strode through the soft mud and dirt to greet them, smiling excitedly. ‘You’re here! This is a great pleasure. I was delighted to get your note yesterday.’

Philippa liked the man immediately. He was tall and lean, moving with a loose-limbed gait. Even though he’d known they were coming, he still wore the cotton flannel clothes of a workman and mud-spattered boots. He stripped off his gloves and ran a hand through the shock of flax-coloured hair that stood on end. She recognised his type immediately. He was the kind of man who forgot all else when set on a project dear to his heart.

‘It was kind of you to let us come on such short notice,’ Philippa said, giving him her hand as she stepped down, glad for her sturdy half-boots and short-skirted walking dress of simple merino wool. She’d guessed correctly that anything more formal would be out of place, although Lucien had quietly disapproved of her informal attire.

‘Watch your step there. Some of the mud is a bit squishy yet,’ Trist advised.

‘Reverend Trist—Viscount St Just. He enjoys horticulture. I immediately thought of your place,’ Lucien said, making the introductions. Lucien surveyed the scene. ‘Quite the ambitious project you’ve got going.’

‘Yes, this is just the beginning. The vicarage had become seriously run-down during my father’s last years. I took over as vicar and decided the place had to be brought up to standard. I want something more fashionable, more up to date.’ Samuel gestured for a man to join them. ‘This is my foreman on the project. He can show you the plans while I show the viscount around. There’s not much out here yet in terms of a formal garden, but I have my hopes.’

Reverend Trist turned to Philippa, seeing that Beldon and Lucien were already poring over the new plans for the house. ‘Your Grace, will you join us?’

Trist walked them through the garden, talking of plants and herbs. He stopped to check the tight, close-budded rhododendrons. ‘Will only be a month and these beauties will pop open.’ He stopped at the edge of the garden. ‘Now here is where I’ve planned a lane of trees.’ He gestured to lines of seedlings strategically placed. ‘There’s copper beeches and evergreen oaks.’ Something twinkled in his eye. ‘Look over there.’ Samuel Trist pointed. ‘That is my pride, a Chilean Pine.’

Valerian was immediately taken with the tree. ‘What a curious species. May I?’ He strode towards the tree, studying it intently with gentle hands. ‘Philippa, come see this!’All formality was forgotten in the wake of his excitement over the exotic tree.

The tree was indeed a curiosity. Dark green in colour and covered with stiff needles, the tree had arm-like branches that stuck out haphazardly, becoming a complex tangle of maze-like arms that took up vast amounts of space. ‘Why, I think it would puzzle even a monkey to climb it!’ Philippa exclaimed, laughing at the intriguing shape of the tree.

‘Perhaps that’s what I’ll call it,’ Samuel Trist said, joining in her merriment. ‘A monkey-puzzle tree. That certainly sounds more exotic than “Chilean Pine.”’

‘I’ve not seen anything like it,’ Valerian said, his tone nearly reverent.

‘I might boast enough to say that if I can get it to grow, it’ll be one of the first planted in Britain,’ Trist said.

‘I’d like to get a cutting of this and have a go at it myself,’ Valerian said. Philippa didn’t miss the excited sparkle in his eye as he contemplated a new plant.

Trist nodded, glad to have found a fellow enthusiast. ‘I need to get back to the vicarage, but feel free to walk farther. There’s a grotto I am currently filling in to make a folly and I’ve got stakes laid out where there will eventually be a man-made lake. The walk is a bit rough this time of year, your Grace. You’re welcome to come back with me,’ he added.

Philippa flashed a look at Valerian. She should go back. Returning to Beldon and Lucien was the safest path to travel. There was no temptation there, just polite conversation. Valerian had proved to be the opposite. In the short time since his return, he’d managed to tempt her passions and her temper, two irreconcilable forces.

It was something of a mystery to her how she could resent the passion he awoke so easily and yet she had continually courted opportunities for him to stoke those same flames.

Valerian’s sharp gaze seemed to sense her hesitation as she weighed her choices. ‘Come with me, Lady Duchess. The weather promises to remain fine and you remarked in the carriage how much you wished to be out of doors. If the path proves too hard, we can turn back.’ He held out his arm in a gesture that brooked no refusal. How could she gracefully decline a gentleman’s arm without turning it into an outright rejection?

Reverend Trist was staring at her, confirming her suspicions that she’d contemplated her situation too long.

She smiled and said with forced brightness, ‘Thank you, St Just. I think a walk is the perfect idea.’

She took Valerian’s arm, telling herself that the bachelor vicar couldn’t see her inner turmoil over the decision or even that he suspected anything amiss. Women took a man’s arm all the time. But it did not escape her notice that the vicar glanced from one to the other before he set off towards the house, trying to understand what had really transpired. Philippa wished him luck with the conundrum, although she doubted he’d succeed where she had failed.

‘Shall we?’ St Just turned them towards the stone-strewn path leading to the folly site, which Philippa thought was aptly named in light of the fact that she’d had very little luck with Valerian when it came to gardens. The last time she’d been alone in one with him, he’d left her with a broken heart that had taken years to patch. She wondered what he’d leave her with today. She could already feel the seams of that patch starting to unravel against all logic and her better judgement.

Chapter Seven

‘You hesitated, Philippa,’ Valerian said matter of factly, guiding her around a large stone in the centre of the path. ‘Did you fear being alone with me?’

‘Don’t overestimate yourself.’ Philippa fought the urge to give an unladylike laugh. ‘I recall the last time we were alone, you ended up with my hand across your face. If either of us should fear being alone with the other, it should be you.’

Valerian tossed her a sideways glance. ‘I must correct you. That wasn’t the last time we were alone. Yesterday, I thought we did very well together. I thought our conversation was quite civil. As for the other time you are referring to, I am still not sure if the slap was meant for me or if I was merely an available target for your own personal frustration.’

The man’s arrogance was phenomenal. But she was thankful for it. Fighting with him was better than wallowing in silence with her fantasies about the man she wished he was. ‘Enlighten me. What would I be frustrated about, if not your outlandish assumption that I was inviting your attentions out there on the balcony?’

They called an implicit truce while Valerian helped her over a small pile of scrim. The path smoothed out and argument resumed. In a detached part of her mind, Philippa thought the scene would be quite funny if played out on stage—their courteous behaviours being interspersed with the contradiction of the verbal spears they hurled.

‘Outlandish?’ Valerian repeated with calculated incredulity. ‘I believe “outlandish” refers to being odd or strange. My dear, I regret to inform you my “assumptions” were anything but “outlandish”. You did not find my “assumptions” strange or odd in the least. Perhaps you’re looking for a different word?’

‘I don’t know what that would be,’ Philippa snapped.

Valerian gave a shrug and a sigh. ‘I don’t know either. Perhaps a word denoting “liking” or “appreciation”? After all, you did like my kisses. Point of fact, you liked them so much, you managed to kiss me back quite thoroughly before you managed to slap me. By the way, I find that deuced unfair—slapping me for your kissing.’

‘No gentleman would ever speak to a lady in such a manner!’ Philippa fumed. The man was more than arrogant. He was a positive boor. ‘How dare you make such assumptions!’

‘Oh, that word again, “assumptions”,’ Valerian parried with feigned blitheness. ‘I think before we go any further we should define precisely what you mean when you say “assumptions”. I’m starting to believe you and I use the word differently.’

Philippa’s temper flared again. ‘If this is your idea of diplomacy, Britain is lucky not to be engaged in a conflict of major proportions.’ She regretted her words instantly. Valerian’s face went strangely blank for a moment, his eyes giving the impression that his thoughts were suddenly far away. The impression was so fleeting that the next moment Philippa wondered if she hadn’t imagined it.

‘But this is not a diplomatic mission, my dear, it is a walk to a folly with an old friend who, frankly, seems a bit confused about her feelings.’

‘You dare too much.’ Philippa stopped and withdrew her hand from his arm, her voice as stiff as her spine. The cad had gone too far. She would argue with him about stolen kisses or ‘assumptions’ or whatever he wanted to call them, but she would not countenance this effort to make their past history her fault. Neither would she let him portray her as a wanton widow eager to bed down with any handsome house guest.

‘You cannot come back into my life after what you did and expect to be forgiven on two days’notice. Neither can you expect me to engage in whatever kind of affaire de coeur you are used to carrying on with women of your acquaintance.’ She knew very well the kind of women who peopled Valerian’s diplomatic circles.

To her satisfaction, Valerian did have the decency to look penitent. ‘Are you finished?’ he said quietly, the toe of his boot digging out a muddy hole in the ground.

For a moment Philippa felt awful. She’d been too harsh. She’d let him get the better of her. But she found her resolve. She would not be won so easily. He had to be accountable for his actions. It was best for both of them to know how she felt. ‘Yes, I believe I am finished.’

Valerian’s voice was subdued. ‘Suffice it to say, I didn’t want things between us to end that way.’ He shook his head as if to dispel unpleasant memories. ‘I didn’t want to make you cry. I don’t expect you to forget what passed between us. However, I would welcome any forgiveness you’d be willing to offer. Over the years, have you ever thought once that maybe I had my reasons and those reasons had to remain secret? After all, you knew me to be a man of honour, Philippa.’

Philippa shook her head in denial, her voice matching him in despairing softness. ‘No, Valerian, I know no such thing.’

‘So be it,’ he said quietly in tones that passed for the barest of whispers. He offered her his arm again and they trudged forth in silence, but Philippa was not immured from the hurt that had flitted across his face at her words. She was not a cruel person inherently or by design and she regretted her words, although she did not regret thinking them. They represented the empirical truth as she knew it. Still, a part of her did not welcome hurting Valerian, and that part worried her very much.

They did not speak again until they reached their destination. ‘Ah, there it is, Trist’s folly, or what there is of it,’ Valerian said with a modicum of gallantry to cover the silence that had sprung up between them.

‘Yes, there it is.’ Philippa offered half-heartedly. She wasn’t thinking of the stone grotto slowly being renovated, but of a different folly; this one being a handsome man with broad shoulders who was busy stripping out of his expensive coat and rolling up his sleeves a few feet away from her to better explore the rocks that lay haphazardly about the grotto.

Philippa found a flat slab of granite and sat down, to wait and to watch. Handsome is as handsome does. The nursery-room warning clanged in Philippa’s head. Valerian had certainly proved the adage true. He’d stolen her débutante’s heart with hard, full-mouthed kisses and soft promises that roused her budding sense of passion. Then he’d disappeared from England without a backwards glance or even a letter. Still, the old memories, memories that predated heartbreak and harked back to a better time, persisted, a time when she’d believed differently.

She’d enjoyed watching Valerian in gardens before. He would wander around in silence and then suddenly remark, ‘wouldn’t this be a lovely place for a fountain?’ or ‘a maze would be a splendid addition here’. In their youth they’d often used the pretence of looking at landscapes to steal a private moment. Only, it hadn’t been so much a pretence since Valerian made a regular habit of mentally rearranging everyone’s garden.

The recollection made her smile now while she watched him stroll about the grotto. Watching him, so absorbed in his study, she could almost believe time had stood still. Errant strands of his hair were being blown in his face by the light breeze. He bent occasionally to study the stones that seemed to intrigue him. The expensively cut shirt moulded his strong physique to perfection across the expanse of his shoulders and the exquisite muscles of his back.

Valerian turned towards her, a hand pushing his hair back from his face. ‘Come and see this prospect. The view from the north-west corner is outstanding. I think I’ll tell Trist he should build rockeries, too. The quartz-veined rock from Carne Quarry at Nare Head would be handsome here.’

At his words, a stab of yearning speared through Philippa, causing a near-physical pain. Hot words and devastating past aside, in that moment he was the old Valerian, the one she’d thought she’d loved, and she wanted him. This was no lustful coveting of his body. No, she wanted more than sex from him, although she wanted that, too. She wanted Valerian Inglemoore body and soul, the way she thought she’d had him when they were younger. She wanted to know what he was thinking the moment he thought it. She wanted to anticipate his every desire. It had been years since she’d felt a longing so complete, so intense, and never with anyone but him.

Time stood still, then fractured into a kaleidoscope of half-forgotten memories. She was in his arms, although she hadn’t the faintest idea how she’d got there or when he’d moved. His lips were on hers, full and demanding. His mouth possessed her and she returned it with a possession of her own. Someone was crying, and she had the vague impression it was her own sobs. Valerian’s hands were rough on her body and his breath was ragged as he ravaged her mouth. She did not care. They were both frantic.

He was a master at this, kissing her with insistency, his tongue probing her mouth, his teeth nipping her bottom lip and sucking hard. His hands moved from her waist to expertly cup and caress her breasts, kneading them through the fine wool of her gown until they were erect with need.

Philippa caught fire. All she could do was wrap her arms about his neck and press into him until she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began. But it wasn’t enough. She wanted to throw off her clothes and let his hands range free on her body no longer hampered by the fabric of her gown and the undergarments beneath.

She could feel his body rise, burning hot and hard. His erection was full and insistent against the folds of her skirt. His hands had moved to gather up the material of her dress and she could feel his body, taut with desire and anticipation. No wonder he’d had half of Europe on its knees.

All reason fled. She cared not a whit for the hardness of the granite slab beneath her back or for the painful ghosts of the past. She cared for nothing save the heat of Valerian’s body as it covered hers in an attempt to assuage the need that coursed through them both.

Valerian, green eyes forest-dark with desire, hesitated for a moment. ‘Philippa, are you sure?’

‘Val, I want…’ She met his eyes, searching for what it was that she so desperately sought—that her Valerian existed, that this moment was the moment she’d thought to claim so many years ago. But it wasn’t there, not really. This was wrong, no matter how right it felt. And she remembered why. She had loved him. He had shared her passion, but not her depth. He’d scorned her and sent her off to marry another man.

‘Yes, what do you want?’ Valerian panted.

‘I want to believe,’ she said softly, her arms twining around his neck, pulling him down to her in mute apology. ‘But I can’t. Not yet.’

‘I can make you believe again, Philippa,’ Valerian vowed. ‘Let me try,’ he pleaded, every ounce of his muscle straining in desire as he held himself in check.

She held him there, full against her. She couldn’t deny that she wanted him, but she didn’t want him, not as a fiction. ‘Don’t do this. I won’t have it. You had your dalliance with me years ago. I won’t be played for the fool again.’

‘You were never my fool, Philippa.’ He raised himself up on his arms, drawing back from his seduction only slightly. His eyes shut as if in an attempt to hold back the memories. ‘We had a great passion between us once. We can have it again,’ he coaxed. ‘I want you, Philippa.’

Philippa felt the old animosity flare against her passion. ‘I was the one left crying in the Rutherfords’ garden. I thought you were going to propose and you knew I thought that.’When she had him, if she had him, it would be with an understanding of the truth of who he was. It was the only way she could protect herself from being hurt a second time. If she learned nothing else today, she’d learned that being hurt again was a distinct possibility.

A distant ‘Halloooo!’ reached her ears and the reality of their situation hit her. She’d done the most foolish thing of all—she’d almost let Valerian make love to her in the open, where they were no doubt visible to all sundry passers-by.

Valerian groaned a miserable ‘Oh, God,’ as he moved to stand, fumbling with his clothes. ‘We have company.’

Philippa struggled up to see Beldon and Lucien tramping towards them. Good lord, how much had they seen? She and Valerian had been kissing in plain view of anyone coming in that direction. That was the problem with follies and prospects. They thrived in wide open spaces.

‘I don’t think they saw anything,’Valerian whispered reassuringly in her ear as if he could read her mind. Out loud, he called to them, ‘What brings you out here?’

‘Lucien’s come to concede!’ Beldon called back good naturedly.

Philippa’s cheeks went scarlet. She didn’t need a mirror to know her face was burning with mortification. They had seen. Beldon’s reference made it perfectly clear.

‘Steady, love.’ Valerian chuckled. ‘I don’t think Lucien’s coming to concede on that point.’

He made a show of pulling out his pocket watch and flipping it open. ‘Concession accepted, Canton. It’s two o’clock and the sun’s been out for ten minutes.’

If her cheeks could have reddened further, they would have, this time from anger. While Valerian had been seducing her with sweet words and kisses, half his mind had been on the ridiculous wager and she’d lost half of hers for falling temporarily to his seductive efforts—further proof that Valerian Inglemoore was no more than the sum of rumours and her past experience made him out to be.

‘How’s the prospect from here?’ Beldon asked, striding to the area marked off with string where the folly was slated to be.

‘It’s lovely.You can see all the way to Truro,’Valerian said vaguely. ‘Philippa hasn’t seen it yet. Now, we can all see it together.’ He led the way to the outcropping, very much aware that Philippa lagged behind, shooting not-so-subtle daggers at his back.

He could imagine with a fair degree of accuracy what she was thinking: how like a man to turn the situation so adroitly. One would never guess he’d been lying on top of her, proclaiming to be in the throes of passion and making impossible promises literally moments ago. Here he was, playing tour guide and looking for all the world like a man whose sole interest in coming up here had been to see the sights.

Well, she was wrong about that. He’d seen the opportunity to get her alone when the vicar indicated he had to go back. That had been the end of his inspiration. He’d taken the opportunity, but done nothing with it except compound Philippa’s distrust. He’d meant to tell her Beldon knew about their past romance. He’d meant to confess the reasons for leaving her. But events had taken a different direction and they had ended up on the granite slab, apparently against Philippa’s better judgement.

Her ‘better judgement’ rankled. It was one thing to know, to suspect, what she thought of him. It was another thing entirely to hear her articulate those ideas out loud. She thought he wasn’t a man of honour. She thought she couldn’t believe in him again.

And maybe she was right.

Valerian fought back a wave of self-doubt. He’d failed to help those people in Negush too, failed to find a way to peace before all revolutionary hell broke out. People who believed in him notoriously came to bad ends. It was not an accomplishment he was proud of.

Valerian cautioned himself to control his dark thoughts. He could not give in to the megrims that accompanied his guilty moods. This was not the place for it, on top of an overhang on a house-party outing. It would be the height of bad form to come down with one of his devastating headaches—compliments of the Phanariot revolutionaries.

Gathering his concentration, Valerian had to admit that the prospect did not disappoint. Once the actual folly was built, it would have a breathtaking command of the Truro area. The vicar would be pleased with the results. Beside him, Beldon took a deep breath and exhaled expansively. ‘Ah, there’s nothing like clean Cornish air. I swear there’s no place on earth as grand as this.’

Valerian smiled at his friend’s Cornish pride. It helped to lighten his mood. He too had loved growing up and living here. But Lucien seemed inclined to argue, suddenly much less ‘Cornish’ since he’d lost the weather bet.

‘I think I prefer the Lake lands with their mountains. Much more rugged, more challenging. Makes the mountains here look like rolling hills.’

Valerian raised an eyebrow, indicating that he disagreed wholeheartedly. ‘While I was away, I saw many different terrains—mountains, seaboards. Some places were blistering hot and others were cold enough to freeze a man’s thoughts. When I couldn’t tolerate the climates, I would think of Cornwall.’ His eyes strayed to Philippa as he spoke the last. He had meant more than ‘Cornwall’ in the comment. The startled look on her face suggested she guessed as much.

Encouraged, he went on, blurring out those around them. ‘I would think of the gardens, especially the gardens at Pendennys Hall and Roseland and all my plans for it. I’d imagine walking in the gardens in those places, sometimes making plans, other times finding peace.’ Did she remember their walks? Their talks? They’d shared many secrets in their time.

Philippa broke away from his gaze and turned to stare out over the land. He hoped she’d heard the hidden message: I thought of you; I treasured memories of our time together. Most importantly, you and you alone sustained me when I kept no hope for myself. Although he doubted she’d fully comprehend how dark his life had been, how far from the light he’d wandered.

Beldon coughed discreetly, drawing his attention with an over-loud voice. He must have drifted off in his thoughts. ‘Contemplating the weather again, Val? Lucien and I were wondering how you knew it wasn’t going to rain.’

Valerian gave a negligent shrug of his shoulders, all glib aristocrat once more. ‘Well, for one, I didn’t say it wouldn’t rain, only that it wouldn’t rain before tea time. As for that, I do believe it will rain after six tonight and before nine o’clock. Double or nothing on that, Canton?’

Canton eyed him suspiciously and Valerian knew he’d be packing his bags tonight. It was a sure sign it was time to leave when one was reduced to the subterfuge of wagering on the weather in order to distract the host from the reality that his guest was bold enough to seduce his hostess right under his nose. Oh, yes, it was definitely time to go home.

Chapter Eight

Philippa was going home. Danforth’s stultifying conversation at dinner decided it by the time the duck was served. She would leave in the morning. From the looks of things at the table, she wouldn’t be the only one.

Immune to such uncharitable thoughts, Mr Danforth held forth ceaselessly about his bank throughout dinner, although it was exceedingly obvious no one was paying him serious attention except Lucien. But even Lucien appeared to have his mind on other things. Philippa didn’t want to dwell too long on what those things might be for fear of discovering she was at the heart of them.

She was certainly at the heart of Beldon’s absorption. Beldon, who was normally very adept at dinner conversation, seemed lost in his own thoughts, letting his gaze drift between her and Valerian.

Valerian had apparently used up his quotient of good behaviour the night he’d squired Lady Pentlow. It was clearly not in evidence tonight. Valerian was in one of his blacker moods, not even making an effort to follow the conversation beyond sprinkling it with an occasional pointed comment regarding the risky nature of country banks. ‘Venture capital is all well and good, but let’s call it that instead of calling it “banking”,’Valerian drawled over the last course.

Lucien took offence, which was probably what Valerian had been planning, Philippa thought. ‘Exactly how is it not banking, St Just? We do what any other bank does. We loan money to those who wish it. We hold money for those who wish to deposit sums with us.’

Valerian sipped his wine thoughtfully. ‘With the exception that you invest deposited sums in high-risk ventures without the benefit of safe investments to act as ballast should the risk fail. Frankly, you and I both know there is a significant chance people could not get their money back. It’s why folk of our status bank in London at Childs or Coutts. Don’t you find it telling that certain classes of people are rather limited in the banks they have access to?’

Philippa didn’t like the gleam in Valerian’s eye, but could find no way to intervene without giving the impression she was championing Lucien. For starters, Lucien didn’t need a champion. He could handle himself well enough in a financial conversation. For the rest, she didn’t want to give any impression to Mr Danforth that she’d be willing to invest in his provincial bank.

‘St Just, are you implying that I would deliberately swindle investors by making promises I could not uphold?’ Lucien was all cold ice, piercing Valerian with a stare that said he was merely a comment away from pistols at dawn. Philippa stifled a groan. The Provincial Bank of Truro was about to erupt into scandal and the doors weren’t even open. She shot her brother a quick plea for help, but Beldon was enjoying himself too much.

‘I am suggesting that there is something of a history of short-lived provincial banks, that’s all,’Valerian said easily, his long fingers caressing the stem of his wine goblet. ‘Their limited livelihood comes from the tendency to invest in risky enterprises. Odds are usually against them. It wouldn’t be the first time something went amiss.’

‘It would be for me, Viscount,’ Lucien said evenly. ‘I have yet to invest foolishly. Those who follow my lead reap the profits of their trust. Don’t they, Pendennys?’ He looked down the table to Beldon for confirmation, putting Beldon in a tight spot.

‘That is certainly true, in my experience,’ Beldon acquiesced. But Philippa noticed he didn’t bother to elucidate further on the point. She could tell Lucien was disappointed. She knew Lucien had hoped Beldon would expound on the British-Bolivian mining colony in the Americas that the two of them had invested in. Beldon had sold his shares a few months back, reaping an enormous profit. It was left to Lucien to blow his own horn.

‘Pendennys and I had a lucrative opportunity in Bolivian silver. We took a large sum in the proceeds when we sold. I’d be glad to guide any investments you might consider making as well, St Just. Your man of affairs is welcome to contact my secretary any time,’ Lucien said with cold magnaminity.

He turned to the rest of the table. ‘Since it is just the four of us, I’d like to suggest dispensing with cigars and brandy. It’s been a long day with departing guests and the trip to Veryan. Perhaps, gentlemen, you would enjoy a game of billiards. St Just, if you’d like to play the pianoforte, feel welcome. Make free with my home. I find I have business to discuss with my gracious hostess. If you will excuse us?’

It was all skilfully done and moments later everyone was dispersed, leaving Philippa and Lucien to talk alone in his library.

The meeting was not at all what she was expecting. The last time they’d spoken, Lucien had been angry. Since then, they’d only spoken in the company of others. She’d anticipated a continuation of their former conversation. She’d anticipated an angry, self-righteous Lucien Canton. What she encountered was a very different face.

‘Sherry, my dear?’Lucien solicited from the sideboard, pouring himself one of his special after-dinner wines.

‘No, thank you. I have packing to oversee, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to keep this short,’ Philippa insisted, taking a seat in a deep-wing backed chair near the fire.

‘I am sorry to hear that. My valet reported you were preparing to leave. I’d hoped you would stay on after everyone had left. We haven’t had much time together this week,’ Lucien said in sincere tones, taking the seat opposite her.

He drew a deep breath and exhaled, relaxing. ‘This is nice, sitting with you by the fire. Two chums, taking their ease together, eh, Philippa?’ He gave a charming smile, looking and acting more like the Lucien she’d known over the past three years than the arrogant man of the last few days. ‘We are still friends, aren’t we?’

‘Of course, Lucien,’ Philippa said quietly. In truth, as upset as she was about Lucien’s behaviour, she could not logically throw out years of steadfast friendship with him over the matter of a few days and events; events she was responsible for. She imagined she might behave quite the same as Lucien had if she’d been in his place. No one liked being usurped in one’s own house and there was no denying that Valerian hadn’t hidden his dislike of Lucien Canton.

Lucien cocked his head to one side, studying her intently. ‘My God, you’re a beautiful woman, Philippa. The shot-blue silk becomes you.’

Philippa blushed. ‘Thank you. But I am sure that isn’t what you called me in here for,’ she prompted gently. She wanted to be in her room, watching the maid pack her things. When she’d returned from Veryan, she thought some of her things had been moved, that her escritoire had been looked through, gently, of course, but still it felt like a violation. The letter she’d written, but never sent to London regarding Valerian was in a different spot than she’d recollected. For an unexplainable reason, the incident felt like more than just negligence on the part of an unobservant maid cleaning the room.

‘Yes, our business.’ Lucien nodded. ‘I need to thank you for acting as hostess. Everything went splendidly, as I knew it would. I had time to talk business with my guests and you took care of the rest.

‘I also need to apologise. I have not looked after our relationship as I should. I was reckless and selfcentered. Such behaviour caused me to jump to poor conclusions.’ Lucien reached for her hand and closed his fingers around hers.

His hand was warm and she thought the gesture was meant to convey reassurance. But she wasn’t reassured at all. She had the distinct feeling they were being watched, and coupled with the fact that Lucien was not a man who would admit to such shortcomings, something was afoot, although she couldn’t put a finger on it.

‘You have nothing to apologise for,’ Philippa offered, hoping quick absolution would end the conversation. But Lucien wasn’t finished.

‘I have everything to apologise for. I didn’t understand how close you and St Just were, that he was your friend as well as your brother’s. I misunderstood your desire to simply spend time with an old friend. He had your time, Philippa, and I didn’t. It made me a bit jealous and jealousy can cloud a man’s judgement, make him see things that aren’t there or put incorrect constructions on what is there. I am guilty of doing that. I spoke harshly to you on New Year’s Day. You were right. Jealousy does not become me and, indeed, there is no place for jealousy between us.’

Lucien ended his pretty speech and reached inside his evening coat. ‘I have something for you, Philippa.’ He took out a square, blue velvet box and opened the lid to reveal a sapphire pendant on a thin gold chain, tasteful and expensive. It had not come from a local jewellers. ‘I made a shambles out of things New Year’s Day. No woman wants to be asked to wed in a haze of anger.’

‘You don’t have to do this. You don’t need to atone for anything,’ Philippa began to stall. Right now would be the perfect time for Mr Danforth to burst in and start babbling about his bank. The odd man hadn’t bothered to follow any protocols of polite conversation at the dinner table, why not put all that lack of couth to good use and barge in now, when it would be useful?

Lucien was prosing on about his growing sentiments for her and she supposed she’d better pay attention. ‘Although I regret my behaviour during St Just’s visit, I do not regret what his visit has caused me to see. That is, I want to spend my life with you. We are well matched in status and intellect. In you, I see more than a wife and mother to my heir. I see a partner. Would you consider doing me the honour of marriage?’

He was even down on one knee. Philippa was struck by how different her response to this scene might have been had it occurred a month earlier. She might have said yes immediately, as a logical conclusion of their long-standing friendship. Companionship was worth marrying for, even in the absence of passion. Her first marriage had been based on mutual companionship and it had not been a poor experience. But now, everything was somehow different.

Still, she was not foolish enough to toss away a modicum of happiness and security on a whim. Neither was she so much of a sapskull that she would ignore the assets of marriage to Lucien Canton. As her friend, he deserved more from her than an out-of-hand dismissal.

‘Lucien, you pay me a great honour. It deserves thinking about. Rest assured that your proposal will be in the forefront of my thoughts as I return home to Cambourne.’

‘Then take this pendant as a token of my esteem and my affection, Philippa. It will serve as proof that I am in your thoughts.’ Lucien was too gallant to refuse as he fastened the sapphire pendant around her neck. ‘Now, off to your packing, my dear. Rest well. I will be up to see you off in the morning.’

The wall panel to the left of the fireplace slid open and Mandeville Danforth came out of hiding. ‘That’s quite a room you’ve got back there,’ he chortled. ‘Right out of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s time.’

‘That went well, I think,’ Lucien said, uninterested in Danforth’s thoughts on the priesthole.

‘Yes, indeed. Although, she could have said “yes”,’ Danforth was quick to point out.

‘At least she didn’t say no. St Just has turned her head, but how far is hard to say. We’re not the only ones making inquiries in London. She’s thought about it. My valet found a letter in her room. Still, her doubts about St Just are enough for us to exploit if we must.’

‘We must. It is a foregone conclusion,’ Danforth corrected. ‘She must marry you or sell you all her mining rights and ancillary companies. You have to control the Cambourne interests. I don’t see her selling.’ Danforth’s eyes narrowed in thought.

‘We could stage another accident, perhaps several of them, that would convince her to sell.’ He began to plot.

‘No.’ Lucien cut him off sharply. ‘Properties with accidents don’t inspire investors to cough up their pounds. It would do us more harm than good in the long run. Besides, she’s stubborn and sabotage would take too long. We need those properties by late summer.’

‘Then it looks as if the Duchess should reconcile herself to being a June bride,’ Danforth said in a tone that suggested Philippa Lytton would find herself at the altar, whether she wished it or not.

Lucien raised his glass. ‘Here’s to the end of my bachelor days.’

Chapter Nine

She was glad to be home! Philippa put down her pen and looked up from her ledgers, taking a moment to stretch her back and survey the glorious view spread before her through the long windows of the library. Not even the fine mist that blurred the landscape could dim her appreciation. The vast lawns spread before her, green even in winter. The pond floated on the horizon, filled with ducks. In good weather, she would have been tempted to throw open the windows in order to hear their squawking.

In all, she’d been gone two months; first up to London for the Little Season and the Michaelmas session of Parliament, wanting to support some early discussions on mining reform; then to Richmond for Christmas and Lucien’s for New Year. Now she was home for three months before she’d need to return to London after Easter.

Home. Her kingdom where she reigned supreme. She did the ledgers, she oversaw the transactions of daily business, she visited the tenants, the fields, the home farm, the mining interests. Here, she was not ruled by any man.

Philippa knew how rare her situation was. It had not come easily, but at the price of sacrificing a youthful dream. She’d wanted to marry for love, the passionate romantic kind of love found in fairy tales and Minerva Press novels. Instead, she’d married the man of her family’s choice and found a quiet companionship with him.

Perhaps that was better. Her experience with Valerian had been quite illuminating about the quality and strength of romantic love. It had its limitations. But companionship had its limitations, too. Cambourne had been kind and generous with a giving that extended far beyond his purse. He’d educated her in business and finance, delighting in her interest in his estates.

In the beginning she’d become interested to keep her mind off Valerian’s desertion. She had to do something to fill her life. Later, she’d seen the genuine need to take an active part in the life of Cambourne’s holdings. She’d built the school for miners’ children and it had become one of her favourite projects.

Then Cambourne had died so suddenly, firing her involvement in legislation concerning mine safety. Oh, yes, there was no disputing that her life was full these days. She’d remade herself admirably as the young Duchess of Cambourne and then again a few short years later as the Dowager Duchess. But re-fashioning oneself was hard work and she had no desire to do it again.

Philippa fingered the sapphire at her neck. She’d worn Lucien’s gift today out of a need to honour her word. There was no one to see her, no one to hold her to her commitment. But she knew. She’d told Lucien she’d consider the offer. Wearing the pendant was a reminder of what she’d promised. She owed at least some consideration of his offer. Although, if he could read her thoughts, he’d probably wish she hadn’t felt so obliged. Marriage to Lucien would definitely require some re-fashioning.

Most likely, she could get her solicitors to design a betrothal contract that would protect her property, but it would be difficult. Not even a dowager’s possessions were safe from a new husband’s rights. She would have to give him something. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him precisely. It was more the issue of having to give up the control she was so used to having.

Control would be given up in other areas, too. Lucien would expect her to stay with him wherever he went. The year would be divided up between Truro, London, his father’s estate, and then Cambourne. There wouldn’t be time to live as she liked. Her interests would give way to his and when his father eventually died, Lucien’s responsibilities would increase. Becoming the future viscountess to Lucien Canton would require quite a lot of re-fashioning, leaving very little room to be the Dowager Duchess of Cambourne—obliterating it, in fact.

And for what?

Security? She didn’t need security. She had it aplenty with her own holdings.

Finances? She was far wealthier now than the Pendennys family had been during her growing-up years. Marriage to Lucien didn’t enhance her wealth in any meaningful way.

Companionship? Certainly they rubbed along well together, but that was already something she enjoyed with him, not something she needed marriage to gain.

Love? Definitely not. In spite of his protestations the night before she left, Philippa knew without question that Lucien didn’t love her any more than she loved him. She appreciated him, but one didn’t marry for appreciation. She wasn’t sure Lucien was capable of a great love, the kind of love you married for, because you knew with a pure certainty that this was the one person in the entire world whom you could find fulfilment with.

There were none of the usual reasons that women typically married for. She couldn’t think of a single reason why she would want to marry Lucien and give up all she had. It all provoked the question—why Lucien had asked in the first place? Surely he knew?

But Lucien needed the one thing she didn’t. He needed an heir and he was approaching thirty-five in a couple of years, the magical age when heirs finally decided it was time to start their nurseries and look to their futures. Perhaps he’d looked about for a wife and decided she would be better suited for him than one of the débutantes peopling London’s marriage mart.

That was a conclusion she could understand. Lucien would not tolerate an insipid wife. He would want someone with intelligence and social skills. It was the only conclusion that made sense. Like her, Lucien didn’t need additional wealth. Being a man and his father’s heir gave him inherent security. He didn’t need to marry for companionship.

Philippa sighed and took off the necklace, carefully laying it in a desk drawer for the time being. She’d take it upstairs later. Lucien would be disappointed in her answer and it could very well scotch their friendship. He would want to know why. He would try to resolve her misgivings with promises he’d mean to keep, but that social pressure wouldn’t allow him to—like the right to live her own life. He would say, laying out his assets like a balance sheet, ‘Why not me? Do you think someone better will come along?’

In fact, she did. At least she hoped. She’d married once for the sake of her family. If she married a second time, it would be for her. For someone who considered herself to be fairly conversant in the realities of the world, she was hard pressed to let go of her romantic notions.

It didn’t mean she had someone specific in mind and it absolutely didn’t mean she was holding out to see if Valerian could be brought to heel. He’d already proved he couldn’t be. But his kisses were hard to forget and served as potent reminders that one did not have to settle for the convenience of lukewarm companionship.

Philippa rose from the desk. The drizzle had stopped. She would change into a habit and take a ride between showers. When she came back she would write to Lucien and tell him of her decision. There was no sense in waiting. Bad news didn’t get better over time and the longer she waited to dispel him of his matrimonial notions, the more likely it was that he’d build up his expectation of being accepted.

Expectations being what they were, Lucien was not all that troubled by the arrival of Lady Cambourne’s letter at the manor in Truro the first week of February. In fact, he was precipitously jubilant. The New Year had got off to a perfect start.

Danforth’s bank had been well received by local men with money to invest. Cornwall was rich in many resources and not all of them came out of the ground. Industry bred invention. Plenty of men like Dabuz, Bolithio and Williams had seen the need for other industries like tin-smelting and gunpowder. Dabuz and Fox swore that smelters and gunpowder works were more profitable than the actual act of mining. From the amount of funds at their disposal, Lucien was inclined to agree with them.

It had been the simple work of a few dinner parties to corral the financial resources needed to start investing and buying. These men were as avaricious as he was. They immediately saw the merit in banding together to form a cartel that controlled the outside world’s access to tin and regulated the prices at which that outside world would have to pay for the commodity.

They’d also seen how important it was to control the mining interests in Britain’s new South American colonies. If those resources were allowed to compete against the cartel, it would diminish the profit. But if those colonies were controlled by the cartel, then the prices would be controlled as well.

Lucien had hand-picked the men who would serve on the new bank’s board of trustees and all had agreed buying up shares in the largest British mine in South America would be the first place they’d start with the building of their overseas control. Monopolies and cartels were tricky things. It wouldn’t do for there to be a large broadcast of their intended plans until they had some leverage.

So with his finances firmly in hand, Lucien had complete confidence that all else would fall into place, too. The letter from Philippa had arrived as if on cue. Just that morning at a bank meeting someone had asked about the Cambourne mines. He’d given the man an enigmatic smile and said vaguely something to the intent that he hoped to have more concrete news to share shortly. Then, like magic, the letter had arrived.

Lucien ripped open the envelope and scanned the contents, reading it twice and then again a third time to make sure he understood its contents correctly, his blood turning to ice.

Damn Valerian Inglemoore.

Lucien crumpled the note in one angry fist. The man’s name hadn’t been mentioned once in the missive, but he could read between every line. Although Philippa would deny it, St Just had turned her head. Whatever the man had once been to her, whatever claims, spoken or unspoken, had lain dormant between them during her marriage and his long absence, they had been awoken once more.

The man had kissed her at least once since his ill-timed return, making Lucien highly suspicious that St Just’s tenure away from fair Albion’s shore could be directly linked to Philippa’s marriage. Lucien didn’t like surprises. It galled him there was something of that nature he didn’t know about Philippa.

Lucien’s secretary knocked and asked for the day’s correspondence. Lucien sent him away. ‘No letters to write today. Take time to work on cataloguing the library.’ The door shut on the office.Alone again, Lucien took out a sheet of crisp paper. There was one letter to write, but it was too private to entrust to another pair of eyes.

Lucien dipped his pen into the inkwell and began to write. St Just stood in the way of his bid to build a mining empire; for that, the man must be ruined.

Something had ruined the relationship between Valerian and Philippa, Beldon mused, and not for the first time since he’d parted ways with Valerian at Roseland three weeks ago.

After seeing Philippa off in her coach bound for Cambourne, he had ridden with Valerian to Roseland, stayed a few days to see his friend settled and then turned for the Pendennys lands outside St. Mawes.

Today, as he rode home from his weekly visits with the tenants and his meeting with the vicar, the subject dominated his mind, perhaps because he had little else to think of. He was a social creature and this was a lonely time of year for him. There was small need for him to be in London and Philippa was busy with her own interests before she had to be back in town.

It wasn’t that he didn’t have options. He could go up to London anyway and Philippa would always welcome him at Cambourne. Roseland was close by and now that Valerian was home, he’d probably ride over to Roseland on occasion to ease the isolation he felt rambling around alone in the big Pendennys country house.

Certainly, he had options, but, in truth, his own estate needed his attention too. He’d worked too hard to save it from genteel poverty in the years since his father’s passing. Of course, he couldn’t take all the credit. Without the generous loan from the Duke of Cam-bourne, all the effort in the world could very well have been useless. When he’d first starting going over the ledgers, that fact had become glaringly apparent. Cam-bourne’s wealth had kept the Pendennys family afloat. He’d silently thanked the fates Philippa had married well, if precipitously, and at such a fortuitous time.

Beldon drew sharply on the reins, bringing his horse to a rather sudden and jarring halt. The answer to his riddle hit with full force. Cambourne’s money had been the ‘something’ that had come between Philippa and Valerian.

He kicked his horse into a hard gallop, covering the remaining distance home as fast as he dared. Once home, he raced into the estate office, pulling down old ledgers from the shelves. Beldon didn’t even wait to take off his coat, only taking time to strip off his gloves so as to turn the ledger pages better.

Hours later, when he’d finally removed his outer wear and his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves and eaten sporadically from the tray the housekeeper had sent up after she realised the young baron would not be swayed from his task long enough to eat in the dining room, Beldon had his answer.

The office was a mess, with books open to various pages strewn across any available surface. Ledgers from nine years ago had simply been a starting place. He’d had to go back further to determine why the Pendennys barony had needed the funds so badly in the first place.

What he found had been devastating. The office had paid the price of his sleuthing and so had his memories. It was almost like learning the life he thought he’d had was only an illusion. His father had not confided in him, not really.

He’d known about the loan from Cambourne, naturally. But he’d thought very little of it beyond the exorbitant expenses of a few years. Philippa’s Season and début were costly affairs coming on the heels of supporting his time away at Cambridge with Valerian. At the time, his father had only said that the wars with Napoleon had placed the economy under undue stress.

Beldon had believed him. When he’d taken over the reins of the barony, he’d not looked back far enough in the ledgers to see that while there was truth in what his father had offered as an explanation for Cambourne’s loan, there was also much else. The Pendennys finances had been in a slow decline for years. He could trace a string of investment losses and a decline in the production rates of the mines. Too much money had gone out and too little had come in to cover the losses.

The loan had been used to shore up the failing coffers and Beldon had used part of the funds later to diversify the family holdings. In anticipation of a future where the copper and tin mines wouldn’t produce as much ore, never dreaming that future was already coming to pass, Beldon had bought a tin smelter. Later, he’d invested wisely with the Perran Industries gunpowder works. Both had paid off handsomely. A tin smelter was to the mines what a miller was to farmers. Grain needed to be ground into flour and tin—well, tin needed to be smelted. The smelter would continue to pay out long after his own mines had exhausted their resources.

Beldon pushed a hand through his hair, leaning back in his chair. It was all embarrassingly clear now. They had been in dun territory and Philippa had been married to Cambourne in order to save the family—in order to save him, really. He was the heir. Without her marriage, there would have been little to inherit but trouble. All his life, he’d thought he was protecting his younger sister, watching over her at balls to see that she didn’t dance with the wrong sort of gentleman, making sure she went nowhere unescorted, and all the while she had been protecting him. There was a certain amount of guilt that went with that realisation.

Had she known? He remembered vividly the night he’d found her in the Rutherfords’ garden. She’d been crying although she wouldn’t admit it. At the time, he thought it had been the shock of the sudden engagement to Cambourne. Had she known why their father had favoured the match?

Beldon remembered too his brief encounter with Valerian that night. Valerian had been brusque and out of sorts. His friend had paused only long enough to tell him that Philippa was in the garden. The next weeks had been chaos. Valerian had gone and Philippa’s wedding had to be planned. He’d had little time or reason to ponder the turn of events or even to see his friend’s disappearance in connection with the wedding.

In retrospect, Beldon began to think it was highly plausible that Valerian and Philippa had met secretly in the garden and that she was crying for a different reason. He couldn’t quite puzzle out that bit yet. Still, on one hand he had more answers. Cambourne’s money had likely come between them. Cambourne’s money had not been a serendipitous godsend as he’d always believed, but rather a calculated move on his father’s part to save the barony.

Beldon took stock of what he had: some answers, more questions, and one damning hypothesis beginning to form—if the move to woo Cambourne had been planned, then Valerian had to have known, otherwise he would not have willingly stood down from his claims on Philippa’s hand.

The mantel clock struck midnight, late hours for the country. It was time for bed. He had a long day ahead of him, beginning with a ride over to Roseland.

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