Читать книгу Regency Society Collection Part 2 - Хелен Диксон, Ann Lethbridge, Хелен Диксон - Страница 29

The next morning, Frederica set the portrait on an easel. She’d risen early to draw in the hands, and changed the cot into a roman divan and the rough blanket into a dark velvet throw.

In her eyes, he looked gorgeous. She shifted the easel to catch the north light and squinted at the drawing, trying to view it with dispassion, when all she could think about was his hands on her body and the beautiful, terrible passion.

Had she captured the spirit of the man?

A scratch at the door. She jerked around, standing in front of the picture as Snively stepped in. ‘Good morning, miss.’ He raised a brow at the easel.

‘G-good morning, Snively. W-what can I do for you?’

‘A letter came from Dr Travis.’

‘Oh, good.’ She stepped forwards to take it, then stopped. ‘Er…would you put it on the desk?’

‘Certainly, miss. I hope it is good news.’

‘So do I,’ she said with an embarrassed smile, wishing he would go.

‘Should be a nice little nest egg when all’s said and done.’ She’d told Snively about her contract with the doctor. She hadn’t wanted the letters ending up on her uncle’s desk to be opened without her knowledge. Snively, as usual, had been more than happy to help.

‘As soon as I get the fox finished…’ she nodded at the drawings on the desk ‘…he’ll send the final payment.’

The butler set the letter down right next to the rough draft of Robert’s hands. He leaned to his left, looking over her shoulder. ‘Nice. Does him justice.’

Heat flooded her face. ‘I drew it from imagination.’

‘The kind of imagination that brings you home at three in the morning.’

She gasped.

‘Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone, but be careful of that young man, miss. He’s not all he seems.’

Her heart sank. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s just a feeling, miss. But you’ve trusted me before to put you right, so this is my advice. You’ve got through things pretty well up to now. Don’t do anything rash. Your birthday is coming up. Your majority. Everything will seem much clearer then.’

‘How?’

He tugged at his cravat. ‘I can’t say, miss. It’s this feeling I have.’

‘The same feeling you have about Mr Deveril.’

He glanced at the picture. ‘No. That’s a different feeling altogether.’ His craggy face shifted into the small smile he sometimes gave her. ‘It’s very good, that picture, but you better not let anyone else see it.’

‘On that I will take your advice, Mr Snively.’

‘On the other too, I hope, miss.’ He bowed and departed with his usual dignity.

Frederica pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. How could she have been so careless? She whisked the easel into the corner and turned it to face the wall. She covered it with an old shawl.

Dear old Snively, never one to get in a flap. And she could rely on him to keep quiet about what he’d seen, but if one of the other servants had walked in and seen the picture, there would have been a horrible fuss.

Could he have guessed just by looking at her that things had gone much further than her drawing Robert’s picture? Did she look different?

She felt different. More like a woman. For a while, she’d felt desirable too. Their lovemaking had been so utterly wonderful. To her.

‘Don’t come here again.’ He’d sounded weary.

Perhaps she’d disappointed him in some way. That must be it. Before they’d made love, they had been friends. Now, it seemed, they were nothing. He couldn’t wait to be rid of her. When they walked home through the woods, he’d said not a word.

And he’d refused to accept any money. Did he consider she’d paid him with her favours? A rather horrid thought. It sounded like something her mother would do.

Or was it something much more mundane? Did he fear she’d betray him to her uncle? Well, she wouldn’t. Never.

Frederica picked up the letter from the desk. Her hand shook as she read Dr Travis’s words. He wrote first of his delight with the drawings received so far. He was happy to accept them for his book.

Her heart seemed to stop in her chest. He liked her work. It was going to be published. In a book. Dreams did come true. Even if they could not be published in her own name.

He noted that the first instalment bank draft awaited her, or rather waited for a Mr Smith, at the publisher’s office in London. The second instalment would be paid on publication.

Her excitement subsided. It might take months for publication. She’d understood the final and much larger payment would be due on delivery of the last of the pictures. Without all of the money right away she wouldn’t have enough to leave Wynchwood.

She picked up a pen and dipped it in the ink. Slowly and carefully, she pointed out that this was not how she had understood his offer. If she provided everything he asked for on time, should he not be equally as timely?

Feeling rather bold, she sanded the letter and folded it. She’d have to await his answer, before making her own plans. Another delay.

And then there was the matter of her unwanted chaperon. The meeting with Lady Radthorn this morning. No doubt the dowager countess would find her a dreadful disappointment. Too thin. Too plain. The thought of trying on gowns in front of the elegant lady made her stomach churn.

Nothing too expensive, Uncle Mortimer had begged, even as Frederica had begged him to let her cry off from the ball. Not even her lack of knowledge of the waltz had changed his mind. Just sit it out, he’d advised. Tell anyone who asks that I do not approve of such scandalous cavorting.

Scandalous cavorting, like her mother. They’d be shocked if they knew she’d been doing a bit of scandalous cavorting of her own. After all, a bad apple never falls far from the tree, Uncle Mortimer always said. She glanced down at the letters, her key to leaving the tree far behind. Carefully, she tucked the doctor’s letter into her clothes press and her reply in her pocket.

Until the doctor’s answer came, she had a role to play. Uncle Mortimer must not suspect a thing, which meant facing Lady Radthorn.

There was one good thing, though. On her way through the village, she could post her reply to Dr Travis.

Stomach fluttering as if it might fly off by itself, Frederica followed the Radthorn butler’s directions into an impressive drawing room full of family portraits and gilt furniture.

An elegantly gowned middle-aged woman with grey dusting her pale gold hair and a warm smile creasing her patrician face held out her hands. ‘There you are, Miss Bracewell, and right on time, too. I like promptness in a young gel.’

Frederica didn’t know she had an option but to be on time. She took a deep breath and made her curtsy. ‘Good morning, my lady.’ Good. No hesitations.

As she raised her gaze, she saw that Lady Radthorn was regarding her with narrowed eyes and slightly pursed lips.

‘Curtsy is good,’ the elderly lady murmured. ‘Gown is dreadful.’ She cocked her head to one side. ‘Looks nothing like her mother.’

Frederica’s jaw dropped. This woman knew her mother? ‘I b-beg your pardon.’

‘Oh, la, did I say that aloud? John, my grandson, is quite sure I have reached my dotage when I do that.’ She laughed, a bright tinkling sound in the spacious room. ‘Would you like tea? Of course you would. And besides, I want to take a look at your comportment. Nothing like serving tea to separate a lady from a hobbledehoy, I always say.’

Lady Radthorn glided to the bell pull and gave it a swift tug. ‘Do sit down, my dear. My word, you look terrified. I assure you I have not sharpened my teeth this morning.’

Was that a joke? It was hard to tell with such a grandam. Sure her knees were knocking, Frederica crossed the room beneath the critical gaze and perched on the sofa indicated by the lady’s imperious gesture.

The dowager countess took the chair opposite. ‘Now I look at you more closely, I see you have your mother’s lovely skin.’ She touched her own lined face. ‘Poets wrote odes to her complexion.’

Frederica’s heart thudded uncomfortably in her chest, questions stuck in her throat, like a fishbone gone down the wrong way. She swallowed hard. ‘You knew my mother?’ She had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. It was all very well hearing vague rumours from servants and dire warnings from Uncle Mortimer, but the thought of someone actually knowing the person felt like opening Pandora’s Box. She wished fervently she hadn’t asked.

‘Gloria came out the same year as my oldest son.’ She smiled sadly. ‘My poor John.’ She gazed off into the distance, lost in the past. Everyone in the neighbourhood knew that the loss of her son and his wife to influenza had been a huge blow. The current Lord Radthorn had inherited the title as a minor. But that had been years ago.

Frederica shifted in her seat. ‘I’m sorry.’

Lady Radthorn blinked as if clearing her sight. ‘So foolish. What is past cannot be undone.’

Were all those of Lady Radthorn’s generation prone to quote little homilies? Uncle Mortimer spouted them upon every occasion. She clasped her hands in her lap and tried to look calm. ‘True. Some topics are better avoided.’

The dowager looked at her askance. ‘What do you mean?’

Heat licked at Frederica’s cheeks. Oh, why had she said anything at all? ‘The topic of my mother. The Wynchwood Whore.’

Lady Radthorn clapped her hands to her ears. ‘Child! Such language! Where did you hear such a thing?’ She sounded horrified. And disgusted.

It might be one way to do away with an unwanted chaperon. Make her think she was utterly beyond the pale. ‘It is the truth, is it not? The reason why no one in the family mentions her name?’

‘I’m appalled.’

Good. Perhaps she’d send her home.

But Lady Radthorn clearly felt the need to say more. ‘Oh, I’ll admit it was all an embarrassment. But your mother was not…well, not what you said.’

Frederica stared at her open mouthed. Her heart gave a painful squeeze of longing. A yearning to know her mother and not feel ashamed.

It could not be true. The elderly lady was simply being kind, trying to make Frederica feel better. Her mother’s wickedness had been drummed into her for too long for it to be sloughed off as a matter of degree. Her voice shook as she spoke. ‘She had a child out of wedlock. I’m a b—’

‘Lud, child, say not another word.’

Frederica snapped her mouth shut. Now she would be sent home in disgrace.

Lady Radthorn pulled out a lacy handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. ‘What is Wynchwood thinking, letting you believe this poison? Your mother married Viscount Endersley.’

The world seemed to spin as if she’d just stepped off a merry-go-round. ‘My father is a viscount?’

Lady Radthorn coloured. Someone tapped at the door. Lady Radthorn pressed her finger to her lips.

Her mother was married? The stories she’d heard told of a young woman who bedded men on a whim, no matter their origin. A wicked woman.

Just as she, Frederica, had bedded Robert, because she couldn’t seem to stop it from happening. Because she was wicked. Like her mother.

Her hands were clenched so hard, her nails dug into her palms. She opened her fingers and resisted the temptation to wipe them on her skirts while the butler methodically deposited a silver tray loaded with a teapot, pretty china cups and a plate of iced cakes on the table in front of her chair. She wanted to scream at him to go.

She needed to hear the whole story.

‘Thank you, Creedy. That is all,’ Lady Radthorn said. ‘We are expecting Mrs Phillips shortly. Have Digby help her in with her swatches and fabrics.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ He bowed and left.

‘Where were we?’

‘A v-viscount.’

‘Ah, Endersley. Gloria married the old gentleman under duress.’

‘Old?’

The dowager nodded. ‘His only son died unexpectedly and he desperately needed an heir. Gloria had been in and out of love with several young men during her first Season. Her father was in despair, thinking she would never settle on one. Then rumour had it she’d fallen hard for someone he absolutely refused to countenance.’

‘Like a coachman? Or a criminal?’ Or an assistant gamekeeper.

‘Well, as to that, I couldn’t say. There were rumours.’ Lady Radthorn frowned. ‘All the gentlemen adored her and if they knew this man’s identity, they never said. Gentlemen are like that. But your grandfather, Wynchwood, saw Viscount Endersley’s suit as the answer to a prayer. He was rich, you see, and as usual the Bracewells were balanced at the edge of financial disaster. He bore the expense of your mother’s come-out with the idea she would catch a wealthy man. It was her duty to save them.’

‘So she was forced to marry Endersley?’

‘Nobility marries for duty,’ the dowager countess pronounced. ‘If one is fortunate, as I was, love grows after a time. If not…’ she shrugged ‘…one endures.’ She let go a sigh. ‘Gloria was not the enduring kind, I’m afraid. Endersley knew the child she carried wasn’t his when you were born three months early.’

‘I was born in wedlock?’ She could scarcely believe it. All these years she’d been lectured about her place in life. Lowest of the low. Fortunate the family hadn’t cast her off.

‘Few men will accept another man’s love-child as their own. Endersley put the word out that the child Gloria bore was stillborn.’

They’d said she’d died? She felt sick. ‘And my mother agreed?’

‘Gloria was in no case to agree to anything. Milk fever, you know. It killed her soon after you were born.’

Well, at least that part of the story matched what she knew about her mother. Everyone at Wynchwood saw it as justice for her wicked ways. ‘I don’t know why they didn’t drop me off at an orphanage.’

Lady Radthorn’s brow crinkled. ‘I wondered about that myself, to be honest. My guess is Endersley paid the financially strapped Wynchwood off on condition he keep you. As a sort of punishment. It would have been like him to exact some sort of payment. Or Wynchwood might have done it for Gloria. He loved the gel. He was deeply saddened by his daughter’s passing. Went into a complete decline. When he died, the title passed to Mortimer, a distant cousin of his, along with your guardianship.’

The thought of her grandfather grieving for her mother was a shock. It gave Frederica an odd sensation in her chest to think that someone actually cared for her mother. It made her feel a little less of an outcast.

‘If Endersley was not my father, who is?’

The dowager’s wince made Frederica’s heart clench. ‘No one knows.’ Lady Radford shook her head. ‘Gloria couldn’t have been more than eighteen when they announced her betrothal.’ Her old eyes misted. ‘It really wasn’t fair. She rebelled. Said she was going to enjoy herself while she could. Things were different in those days. More free and easy. My son John said there was talk in the clubs. Masquerades at Ranelagh. Footmen. Even a highwayman. It seemed unlikely, but who can say.’

Criminals and servants? No wonder she’d earned the horrid sobriquet from her family. Nor had she given a thought to the result. An unwanted child. ‘She was wicked.’

‘Spoiled, I think. Too adored. I always thought her too finicky to have an affair with a man who was not a gentleman.’

Robert was a gentleman for all his rough ways. It was possible for a man to be of low birth and gentlemanly. Could her mother have fallen for that kind of man? Or was she completely wanton as Uncle Mortimer said?

She desperately wanted to believe Lady Radthorn, but feared Uncle Mortimer, a member of the family, was more likely to be privy to the truth.

The dowager countess was looking at her sadly, as if she felt sympathy for her mother, which was really rather sweet.

Frederica sat a little straighter in her chair, felt a little less guilty about who she was. An odd feeling filled her chest. ‘Thank you,’ she said. And she meant it. ‘You’ve answered questions I never dared ask.’

‘And added some too, I’ll warrant,’ the old lady said kindly.

Not added, just increased her curiosity and dread. Who was her real father?

The widow tucked her handkerchief away and smiled. ‘And now it seems your family has decided to let bygones be bygones and bring you out. You know, I never had a daughter and here you are, attending your first ball, and I am to bring you up to scratch. We are going to have such fun spending your uncle’s blunt. Now, young lady, serve the tea—we have a great deal to do before the seamstress arrives.’

Frederica poured milk into both cups.

‘Ah,’ Lady Radthorn said, ‘a very good start.’

The next hour proved less arduous than Frederica expected despite Lady Radthorn’s constant verbal stream of instructions.

‘Now to deportment,’ Lady Radthorn announced after the butler retired with the tea tray. ‘Let me see you walk across the room.’

It wasn’t her walking that would cause her trouble, it was her speech, though Lady Radthorn hadn’t said a word about her hesitations. The thought of talking to a herd of strangers made her quake in her shoes.

None the less, Frederica rose and walked to the window through which she had an excellent view of the park’s formal gardens. They seemed to stretch for miles. If only she could be out there, instead of in here, even if the grey lining to the large fluffy clouds did portend rain.

‘Straighten your shoulders, Miss Bracewell. Keep your chin up. Breeding shows in every step. Walk as if you are floating on air, not tramping through a field.’

On air? She felt like she was sinking into a quagmire. Still, who could resist Lady Radthorn?

‘Turn,’ the doughty lady said. ‘No, no. Not like that. As if you had a book on your head. Try again.’

Frederica did.

‘Much better, gel. You’ve your mother’s grace if nothing else.’

The compliment almost sent her to her knees.

Her taskmaster tsked. ‘Now you are sagging again. Straighten your spine. Imagine a chord from the top of your head to the ceiling and it is too short. Glide, gel. Glide. As if you were waltzing. You do know how to waltz, or course.’

Oh, God. More evidence of her lack of breeding. ‘I d-d-d—’

‘Do.’ Lady Radthorn flicked her fingers. ‘Of course you do. All young ladies do these days. Wait until you see John, my grandson. He is a wonderful dancer.’

Another knock at the door diverted Lady Radthorn’s attention and cut off Frederica’s words.

‘Mrs Phillips is here, my lady,’ the butler said.

‘Show her in at once.’ Lady Radthorn rubbed her blue-veined hands together. ‘Now we will truly enjoy ourselves.’

And they did, much to Frederica’s astonishment. But who would not be charmed by the array of muslins and laces brought by the seamstress? Best of all, the two ladies consulted Frederica about each item selected, often praising her taste and sense of style. She put it down to her artist’s eye, though she didn’t say that to the two women.

Informed of the urgency, Mrs Phillips had brought several ready-made gowns from which to choose with the idea of altering them to fit. The riding habit was to be made new, as well as an evening gown.

‘Do you think you can manage all of that in three days, Mrs Phillips?’ Lady Radthorn asked, leaning against the sofa back and fanning her face.

The bird-like Scottish lady smiled. ‘Oh, I think so, your ladyship. I’ll gain some help from a couple of lasses I know.’ She turned to Frederica. ‘And it is pleasure, I assure you, to dress such a lovely young lady.’

Frederica’s heart jumped. Lovely? Not possible. It must be flattery because they’d spent so much money. Although Robert could not have found her completely unattractive or he wouldn’t have…Oh, heavens. If Lady Radford guessed at the direction of her thoughts, she’d probably dismiss her as worse than her mother and toss her out on her ear. She didn’t want that. She liked the dowager countess. She was the first person who had taken any real interest in her, apart from Robert. She’d do anything to keep her friendship.

‘Thank you, Mrs Phillips,’ she said. ‘There is one thing we haven’t yet discussed.’

‘Nonsense,’ Lady Radthorn said. She counted off on her fingers. ‘Three morning dresses, two afternoon dresses, a pelisse, an evening gown and a riding habit.’ She frowned at Frederica. ‘That was all your uncle asked for.’

‘The m-masked ball?’ Frederica said.

‘Oh, my,’ Mrs Phillips said, her eyes widening. ‘That’s right. A costume. Oh, mercy.’

‘Masked?’ Lady Radthorn said. ‘What flummery.’

Frederica wanted to giggle at her disparaging tone. ‘Simon requested it.’ She rather liked the idea of pretending to be someone else for one night.

‘Well,’ Mrs Phillips said, ‘if the young lady is wanting to go as Mary Queen of Scots or some mythical beast, I truly will not have time to make all of these other things as well. A poor body can only do so much, your ladyship.’

‘Let me think,’ Lady Radthorn said. ‘I dressed once as Guinevere, and Radthorn was Arthur. All that metal clanking around quite gave me a headache.’

‘I had thought of something less complicated,’ Frederica said. ‘Perhaps a Roman lady. It needs no more than a long length of white sheeting.’

‘Too plain,’ Lady Radthorn said, narrowing her eyes on Frederica as if she was an exotic weed that had shown up in a bouquet. ‘But, yes, something simple. Something to show off your delicate skin and lovely figure.’

There was that word lovely again. Frederica felt heat in her cheeks and a bubble of something pleasant in her chest, as if life suddenly held a great deal of promise. Was this part of Uncle Mortimer’s plot? Woo her with gowns and balls, so she would go like a lamb to the slaughter?

‘What about Titania?’ Mrs Phillips said. ‘From A Midsummer Night’s Dream. A wisp or two of fabric, some wings and daisy crown. Sure, I could do that in an hour or two.’

A wisp of fabric? Frederica shivered. ‘I prefer the sheeting.’

‘Nonsense. My word, gel, it is the very thing. Caroline Lamb would have eaten her heart out for curves like yours. Titania it is.’

‘I—’

‘I’ll hear no more from you, miss.’ Lady Radthorn laid the back of her hand against her high forehead. ‘I am exhausted. Ring the bell for Creedy and a footman to help Mrs Phillips out and then take yourself off.’

When Frederica didn’t move, she sat up. ‘No arguments. Go along, child. Come back tomorrow and we will continue our lessons.’

In short order, Frederica found herself bundled out of the house and into her uncle’s waiting carriage.

She collapsed against the squabs. Titania. And she had hoped to spend the ball hiding out in a corner, avoiding Simon. She would have to hide if all they gave her was a wisp of fabric. And Lady Radthorn thought she knew how to waltz.

There was one person she trusted who knew how, but he had forbidden her to call.

For Robert, the New Year had come and gone with barely a mention. The next day, collar turned up against the wind, he walked to Wynchwood. The faint grey of dawn was already dimming the stars to the east. He’d grown to love the peace of the early mornings, but today he felt tired. Once again, thoughts of Frederica had kept him tossing and turning on his cot and now if he didn’t hurry he’d be late. Damn the girl for plaguing his nights. The lost look she’d given him when he told her not to come back had been a hard bed mate, particularly when all he’d wanted to do was pull her close and offer comfort.

As well as seek his own.

He should never have drunk so much.

Damnation, he should never have dallied with the girl, innocent or no. But he just couldn’t resist, could he? A wastrel, Father had called him. Dissolute. Perhaps the reason it hurt so much was because he’d been right.

Making love to her had been incredible, but he still couldn’t believe he’d jeopardised his position here at Wynchwood for the fulfilment of transient lust. From now on, he must ignore her, or better yet frighten her off.

The trouble with that plan was that she seemed hard to scare. He’d thought she’d run a mile when he called her bluff, but she’d accepted his challenge and he’d forgotten his intentions in the pleasure of her arms.

Never again.

The decision lay on his chest, cold and hard, as he strode across the stable yard where the impending visit of London gentry had already made its impact by way of freshly washed cobbles and repaired stable doors.

Young Bracewell had not been part of his circle of friends, thank God, so there should not be anyone in the party of guests he knew well. For added security, he’d let his beard grow for the past couple of days.

He knocked on Weatherby’s office door and ducked inside at the gruff permission to enter.

A lantern on the bench relieved the gloom and gave Weatherby’s weatherbeaten face a rather saturnine cast. ‘I’d almost given you up, Deveril,’ the old man growled. ‘Did you catch our poacher?’

‘I think I scared him off when I removed his traps last week. It was likely some poor sod from the village adding a bit of meat to his cooking pot.’

‘You are too soft-hearted, my lad. It’s his lordship’s game they’re stealing. If you find him, you’ll deal with him.’

Robert nodded obediently. If I find him.

‘Ah, well, these are the plans for the guests’ hunt. Think you can handle it?’ Weatherby handed Robert a map and gestured him to take a chair.

Robert pored over the map. Weatherby intended to draw out the fox from Gallows Hill and give the hunters a fair run. So Miss Bracewell’s fox had been spared his traps only to end up fleeing the hounds. She would hate that.

Damn. What the hell was he doing, thinking about her likes and dislikes instead of his work? ‘When?’

Bushy brows lowered, Weatherby bent over more maps. ‘Two days from now.’

‘We’ll need beaters from the village.’

‘Right. Let them know. They won’t want to miss his lordship dropping of a bit of blunt their way, or the chance of a stray rabbit or two. Pass the word down at the Bull and Mouth, would ye.’

‘Be glad to.’

Weatherby reached for another plug of tobacco and stuffed his clay pipe. Robert braced for the choking smoke while Weatherby went over the rest of his duties for the day.

A half-hour later, he stepped out into a gusty north wind with the brace of pheasant Weatherby deemed ready for his lordship’s table. Storm clouds gathered overhead. Another day, he’d go home soaked to the bone. But at least he had employment.

He glanced up at the back of the mansion. The diamond panes stared back like empty eyes. Was she up there somewhere, tucked up warm in her bed dreaming of foxes? Or dreaming of him? His body responded instantly.

Damn it. Why could he not get it through his thick head, she was not for him?

He strode across the courtyard and through into the kitchen where a rush of heat enveloped him. The scent of new-baked bread made his mouth water.

Maisie lifted her head from her churn and grinned. ‘Morning, Rob.’

‘Good morning.’

Cook bustled out of the scullery and he handed her the rust-coloured birds. ‘I suppose you are looking for breakfast, lad?’ She set the birds down on the table and planted her hands on her ample hips.

‘If you’ve any to spare.’

Once in a while, Weatherby sent him in here first thing in the morning, knowing he’d be offered a hot meal. Another of the crumbs offered by the higher servants to the lower orders, a greasing of the wheels of servitude. The old gamekeeper had a kind heart beneath his gruff ways.

‘Sit you down, then. Maisie, fetch the butter.’

Robert drew up a wooden chair to the scrubbed pine table. While Maisie scurried about setting him a place, Mrs Doncaster tossed two eggs and a thick slice of bacon onto the griddle hung over the fire, then cut off two thick hunks of bread from one of the cottage loaves cooling by the window.

Moments later, she slapped the bread down in front of him and pointed her knife at the pat of butter set out by Maisie. ‘There you go, then, you big lummox. Eat hearty if you want to keep that frame of yours from caving in.’

Maisie giggled, then grimaced when the cook glowered in her direction.

Robert pretended not to notice. He stemmed his anticipation of a decently cooked breakfast by slowly buttering the bread. ‘It’s getting right busy around here.’

‘Aye. T’ain’t so much the master’s guests,’ she went on in a low grumble. ‘They’s bad enough in theirselves. ‘’Tis all them stuck-up maids and valets what’ll want feeding and waiting on. The master makes no allowance for that.’ Her pudgy hand worked swiftly over the griddle. Deftly, she scooped up the eggs and bacon and dropped them on a plate. She set his plate down with a sharp bang on the table.

At the sound of a throat being cleared from the doorway, the cook turned to face the butler framed in the doorway. ‘Good morning, Mr Snively.’

Another battle in the offing?

The grim-faced butler acknowledged the greeting with no more than a flicker of an eyelash. ‘Maisie, Miss Bracewell is in the breakfast room looking for tea and toast.’

Not in bed dreaming, then.

‘In this house, breakfast above stairs is at eight o’clock,’ Cook muttered, handing Maisie a slice of bread and the toasting fork.

‘Family is served when they want to be served. I will return in fifteen minutes for the tray,’ Snively uttered in awful accents. Receiving no reply, he left.

‘Family,’ the cook uttered with scorn. ‘Hardly. Making out like she’s real family. Well, she ain’t. Mark my words, she’ll come to a bad end.’

A flash of anger shot through his veins. Hot words formed on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed them.

‘Good Gawd, Maisie,’ Cook yelled. ‘Watch what you’re doing. You’ve burned the toast again. Scrape it off quick and slap some butter on it before old Iron Drawers returns and finds nothing ready.’ She turned back to Robert. ‘You mark my words, blood will out. The mother was no better than she should be, and the daughter will turn out the same. Now, if you’re finished, Rob, I gots work to do.’

Seething with rage, he clenched one fist under the table, taking one slow breath after another, angry at her. But worse. Anger he could say nothing in her defence. It was not his place to defend Miss Bracewell. Any sign of interest would fan the flames of gossip.

The sight of congealed egg on his plate turned his stomach. Either that or the vicious words had stolen his appetite. He pushed the plate away. ‘Quite finished, Mrs Doncaster. Thanks.’

He rose and picked up his hat and coat. For once he couldn’t wait to leave the warmth of the kitchen and get back to his labours.

Outside in the passage, where the servants’ stairs led to the bedrooms above, he took a deep breath and fastened his coat buttons, residual anger making his fingers clumsy.

‘Rob?’

He turned at Maisie’s breathless call. ‘Don’t you have a breakfast to prepare?’ he asked. ‘You’ll be in trouble if it’s not ready.’

‘Snively came fer it right after you left.’ She closed the gap between them. He backed up until he hit the newel post.

‘Cook meant to give you this.’ She waved a small package. ‘Tea.’ She made a dive for his pocket.

He snatched the packet from her hand. ‘Give her my thanks.’

Still blocking his path, she peeped up at him from beneath stubby lashes. ‘They’ll be right busy when the guests arrive. No one will notice me and thee.’ She nudged him with a generous hip. ‘Perhaps we can have our own party. Ee, but I do fancy you, Rob.’ Scarlet blazed on her plump cheeks as she aimed a kiss at his mouth. Jerking back, he fielded her moist lips on his cheek at the same moment he heard a gasp from farther along the passage.

Maisie lifted her chin and glanced over his shoulder. Smirking, she bobbed a curtsy, then sauntered away with an exaggerated sway to her hips. ‘Enjoy yer tea, Mr Deveril,’ she called over her shoulder.

Wincing, Robert turned to face Frederica, feeling just a little too warm for comfort.

Frederica regarded him gravely from eyes swirling with grey shadows. A silent considering stare. He had no idea what she was thinking. A little jealousy would have been nice.

‘She kissed me,’ he said at last.

‘I saw. You are certainly popular.’

Robert huffed out a breath. ‘I thought you were eating breakfast?’

‘Cook forgot the jam.’

Probably on purpose. He gestured for her to pass and turned to leave.

She grabbed his sleeve, glanced up the hallway and back to him. ‘Snively mentioned you were in the kitchen. I wanted to ask you something.’

A pot clattered. They both jumped. Robert raised his eyes to the ceiling and saw no help forthcoming. ‘We cannot talk here.’ They would put two and two together and unfortunately would make four.

‘I’ll come to your house,’ she murmured. ‘Later.’

‘No!’ he whispered.

‘Where, then?’

‘Down there.’ He caught her elbow, feeling once more the delicate bones beneath his fingers. A shimmer of awareness over his skin. He sucked in a breath and released her. ‘The cellar.’

With a nod, she whisked along the hall and down a few steps into the dark. He ducked in after her. ‘What did you want?’ he murmured, aware of her scent mingling with the smell of coal and mildew.

‘I need your help.’

‘Ask your uncle.’

‘He can’t help me in this.’

‘What makes you think I can? I told you it is best we not meet again.’

‘Y-you s-said…’ She gave a little moan of distress. She sounded desperate. His body strained in response, the desire to defend and protect rising rampant.

What the hell? He never let women get to him this way. Yet he couldn’t help it with this one. He softened his tone. ‘Take a deep breath, then tell me what is wrong.’

Her quick, indrawn gasp was like a knife to his heart. She sounded terrified.

‘I need to learn to waltz.’

He retreated up a step, unaccountably disappointed. ‘A dancing lesson?’

She touched his arm. An unexpected sensation in the dark. The heat of it travelled straight to his chest. He flinched.

She snatched her hand back as if she too felt scorched. ‘I must learn to waltz or I will make an idiot of myself. Can’t we still be friends?’

Friends, when the thought of holding her in his arms stirred his blood and drove his brain to the brink of madness?

Somehow he kept his voice calm, glad the dark hid his expression. ‘There must be someone else who can teach you.’

She stilled. He felt her stillness as if her heart had stopped beating and had thus stopped his own.

‘I’m s-sorry,’ she whispered, her voice full of ache, as if her only friend in the world had let her down. ‘I was wrong to ask.’

Now he felt guilty, a pain that bit all the way to his heart. ‘All right.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I’ll teach you. One lesson.’

He heard her sigh of relief. ‘Thank you. When?’

‘Tonight. My house.’ Footsteps sounded in the passageway. He moved deeper into the dark of the stairwell, protecting her from casual sight with his body. One of her breasts pressed against his arm; the scent of her hair, vanilla and roses, a heady combination, filled his nose. His body quickened. Demanded more. Somehow, he kept his hands off her. Breath held, he waited while the footsteps passed them by. No outraged shout of surprise broke the silence. Nothing but her rapid breaths against his neck. One move that even suggested she wanted to kiss him and he wouldn’t be able to resist. She drew him, more than any woman he’d ever met. He worried about her, when he didn’t want to care. People he cared for always let him down. He knew that and yet he could deny her nothing.

He was in over his head and drowning.

The sounds faded. He leaned close to her ear. ‘Whatever you do, do not let anyone see you leave the house tonight.’

She nodded.

His body shaking with the effort of not kissing her senseless, he released her, strode up the stairs and, with a quick look to make sure all was clear, made the two steps to the back door and out into the yard. He released a shuddering sigh of relief.

Was he mad? Had he actually agreed to meet her again?

She’d looked so vulnerable, so afraid, he couldn’t say no. Not and sleep at night.

He’d promised. One dance lesson, but nothing more.

God save him, he’d seek other work. Somewhere far away.

Wrapped in sacking, Pippin’s hooves made little sound on the frosty earth. Thick clouds obliterated any light from above, but Frederica found her way to Robert’s cottage with ease.

A faint chink of light shone through the shutters. She slid from Pippin’s back and tied him to a tree. His hot breath warmed her chilled cheeks as she patted his neck. ‘I won’t be long.’

Her heart set up a steady thud in her ears. Suddenly unsure, she crept to the door and tapped softly.

Nothing. Perhaps he’d gone out and left a candle burning. Or perhaps he’d changed his mind.

She rapped louder and backed up into the shadows. If the door didn’t open by the count of three, she’d leave.

The sound of a bolt being drawn through metal held her suspended between fleeing and staying. Her heartbeat drummed against her ribs.

Light spilled onto the ground in front of the door from his lantern.

God. He was just so beautiful. His shirt, open at the throat and tucked into tight-fitting buckskins, revealed a glimpse of crisp, dark hair at the base of his throat. The dark shadow on his jaw gave him a disreputable air. Frederica swallowed, trying to find enough saliva to speak.

Shaking his head, he started to close the door.

‘It is me,’ she croaked, stepping closer.

‘I’d begun to think you weren’t coming after all. Come inside before you are seen.’ He leaned forwards, clasped her hand and pulled her over the threshold, and she stumbled into the room.

He’d tidied up. The bed was neatly made, no sign of supper dishes or clothing. The chair and table were pushed back against the wall, leaving an open space in front of the merrily blazing hearth. He’d been waiting for her. Her heart gave a little lurch of happiness.

She twirled around.

His face held a pained expression. He was looking at her legs. His eyes widened as he took in her attire, a pair of Simon’s old breeches and one of his shirts. ‘What in hell’s name are you wearing?’

‘I rode. I thought it would be easier than skirts.’

‘Good God.’

‘I borrowed some of Simon’s breeches. He’s grown out of them. And one of his shirts,’ she said. ‘I had to saddle Pippin myself and I need help to mount a lady’s saddle. I know I look dreadful.’

‘I wouldn’t say dreadful.’ His gaze reached her face and in the firelight, his eyes seemed alight with embers. ‘Certainly…unusual.’

A giddy swirl hit her brain as if the air in the cottage had turned to steam and she laughed, albeit a little breathlessly. ‘I always ride astride when I can. I can go so much faster without fear of falling off.’

‘You ought to be spanked.’ He looked as if he might like to undertake the task himself.

She felt hot all over. He wouldn’t, would he? ‘You promised me a lesson.’

‘In waltzing.’

She eyed him warily. ‘Yes.’

His jaw flexed and his mouth flattened. ‘Then let us begin. First, have you ever seen a waltz performed or tried it yourself?’

She shook her head.

He huffed out a sigh. ‘Then we will begin with the basics. A waltz is a gliding dance in three-four time. When danced well, it is a sensual experience for dancers and watchers alike. Performed badly, and it is simply two people galloping around in circles.’

He ran his eyes from her heels to her head. No doubt expecting her waltz to be of the galloping variety.

‘Where did you learn?’ she asked.

Her question seemed to catch him off guard. He blinked a couple of times as if trying to come up with a story. He gave a small dismissive gesture with his hand. ‘In my misspent youth.’ His smile was bitter.

The waltz was considered scandalous by many. He must have had a misspent youth. A flitter of excitement skated through her abdomen. ‘Show me.’ Her body trembled, awaiting his touch.

He narrowed his eyes. ‘First, let me see you move. Go and sit down in the chair by the hearth.’

Puzzled, she strode across the room and dropped on to the seat.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Forget you are dressed like that. Pretend you are wearing the most elegant of gowns. Do it again. This time don’t swagger, glide.’

She went back to the centre of the room and walked slowly to the chair and lowered herself into it.

‘Better,’ he said. ‘You are the most beautiful woman in the room. You do not dance with just anyone. Your partners have to be worthy.’

She batted her eyelashes at him and smiled. She didn’t feel particularly beautiful, only rather silly.

He shook his head. ‘No. Ignore me. Feel it inside yourself. Feel light. Ethereal. Beautiful. Calm. Be completely unconscious of anyone except the person seated beside you.’

‘There isn’t anyone.’

He glared at her. ‘Pretend you are talking to someone.’

When she shook her head, he growled something under his breath. Seconds later he had picked up a broom and stood it next to her chair. ‘You are an artist. Use your imagination. This is Lady Stuck-up. You are not visibly aware of anything but her gossip. Yet you know the world is looking at only you.’

She closed her eyes for a moment, imagined a ballroom full of glitter and members of the nobility. She straightened her spine, opened her eyes, but let the images remain. Her companion, a luscious blonde in a diamond tiara and sky-blue gown, spoke in soft tones. Music played in the background. Eyes followed each nod of her head. Aware of Robert’s approach, she pretended not to see him, but smiled at something Lady Stuck-up said.

‘Miss Bracewell,’ Robert said, ‘may I ask you to honour me with the next waltz?’

She slowly turned her head to look up at him. A small, devastating smile curved his lips. He held out a hand.

She hesitated for a moment. Would she, the most beautiful woman in the room, dance with this man? Perhaps she would do him the honour, this once. With a slight incline of her head, she rested her hand on his palm.

He stared at her for a moment, as if lost. He was certainly a good actor, playing to her role of coquette.

He raised her to her feet, placed her hand on his sleeve and drew her into the centre of the room, his guiding hand almost imperceptible as he steered her to her place, yet full of energy and demand.

How did he do that? She tried to look unconscious of his powerful presence.

He swirled her around, then placed one of her hands beside his lapel, and kept the other firmly grasped. She felt pressure from his other hand between her shoulders. ‘The orchestra plays the opening bars,’ he murmured. ‘Listen to the rhythm. One, two, three. One, two, three. Feel it inside your body.’

He hummed a tune in a light tenor and a shiver raked her shoulders.

‘Step back, step side, step around,’ he said as he moved in a circle.

Stiff and awkward, she tried to follow his movements. She stumbled. His strong arm held her up.

‘S-sorry,’ she said.

‘You are fine. Follow my lead. Relax.’

‘If I could just see what you are doing with your feet…’

An eyebrow went up and he gave her a rueful smile. ‘And I used to envy the dancing masters their job.’ He released her and she stepped back. After a second’s pause, he crossed the room and bowed to the broomstick. ‘Dear Lady Stuck-up, would you be so good as to demonstrate to Miss Bracewell?’

Frederica giggled.

He shot her a warning glance. ‘Remember, you are a haughty diamond of the first water, not a schoolroom miss.’

Frederica lifted her chin and stared down her nose at him. His look of approval gave her confidence. She maintained her indifferent expression as he picked up the broom and twirled around the room. At first, she wanted to laugh, but as she watched his lithe body and manly grace, her blood quickened and her insides fluttered in a rush of pleasurable thrills.

Silly girl. He isn’t interested. He’d made it quite plain. She wiped her palms on her breeches. Watch his feet. Learn.

Gradually the pattern became clear, and she tapped her foot in time to his soft hum.

He stopped and cast poor Lady Stuck-up to the corner. He grinned at her. ‘Do you see?’

‘I think so.’ Oh, she hoped so, or he’d think her such a dolt.

‘Very well, we will try again.’ Once more he encircled her in his arms. A tremble shook her frame.

‘Don’t be nervous. Remember, you are a willow, you are elegant, you glide, you do not hop like a frog.’

She chuckled at the image.

He frowned and she resumed her haughty pose.

‘Above all, you are bold and confident,’ he instructed.

As bold as her mama. The thought bolstered her courage. She took a deep breath.

‘First the opening.’ He hummed a few bars, then with the gentlest touch, he led her into the dance.

This time, she felt his directions, subtle tugs and pushes of hand and arm and body guided her steps. She floated as if immersed in the River Wynch’s swirling eddies.

‘Very nice,’ he said.

She stumbled.

He laughed. A wonderful, warm sound. It touched her heart with the sweetest echo of pain.

‘Next lesson,’ he said. ‘How to converse with your partner. Keep the music in your mind, let your feet listen to it.’

Now her feet had ears?

‘You dance divinely, Miss Bracewell.’

‘As do you, Mr Deveril.’

‘Uh-uh.’ He shook his head at her with a smile. ‘A mere gracious thank you will do. And if you make a misstep, never apologise. After all, the man is in charge of the dance. If you falter, his is the error.’

And so it went, over and over, his chiding and guiding, her occasionally stumbling until a ridiculous conversation about the price of corn escalated to nonsense.

And she was doing it. Dancing the waltz, gliding and twirling and talking nonsense.

They laughed as he swirled her around in a complex set of steps and brought her to a breathtaking halt.

He stared down at her, his dark eyes full of laughter, his handsome face the most relaxed she’d ever seen it. Her breath caught in her throat.

His expression softened, eyelids lowered, his lips took on a sensuous cast. Unable to bear the uncertainty, she slipped her hand up to his neck and raised her mouth to his.

Who kissed whom, she wasn’t sure, but the kiss was blissful, gentle and infinitely sweet. His chest rose on a deep breath and the pressure against her mouth increased. His tongue traced the seam of her lips and she opened for him.

The taste of him filled her mouth, the scent of him invaded her pores and, swept up on a tide of sensations, she clung to him.

Strong hands caressed her back, her hips, her ribs. So delicious. Her skin warmed and cooled as his touch trailed a sensual path of delight. One hand cupped her buttocks, pressed her against the evidence of his arousal, while the other strayed to brush the underside of her breast, then slid up to cup her fullness. Her breasts tightened.

She gasped.

On a groan, he broke away.

She clung to his shoulders. ‘Don’t stop. Not now.’

He held her close, cradled against his chest. ‘We must not.’

She stroked his jaw, felt the springy beard, which softened its angular lines. ‘How can it be wrong when it feels so wonderful?’

In the old days, the words would have been all the permission Robert needed. But this wasn’t the old days. She was too young, too inexperienced and he was the wrong man. ‘No. You came here to learn the waltz. Now you must go.’

‘But I want you, Robert.’ She flung her arms around his neck, ran her tongue around the edge of his ear.

His body shivered. She’d learned his sensual lessons too well. ‘You say that now. But what about later, when ardour cools?’

‘I don’t care about later.’

This was desire talking, her newly discovered feminine power. How many times had he seen it happen to débutantes in their first Season? Not that he had ever partaken of such forbidden fruit. No matter what she said, she was still innocent in so many ways. While she might have lain with some youth without experience, or some blundering man, she’d not yet been jaded by sordid affairs.

‘Please, Robert.’

The agony of denial made his body clench unbearably. Lust for a woman had never ridden him this hard. There had always been another waiting in the wings. This one was out of bounds.

She’d lain down with him once, a small voice whispered. Why not again? One last time. What difference would it make? The insidious whispers drove a wedge between his conscience and his desire. Only the growing sense that if he succumbed he would never want another woman held him back. Was she indeed some other worldly being who held his soul enthralled? The devil’s spawn.

My God, was he losing his mind? He pushed her away. ‘Answer me this, then?’

Eyes hazy, she blinked. ‘What?’

‘Who was your first lover?’

‘My f-f-first…’ Her mouth, red from his kisses, trembled.

‘You said you were ruined. By whom?’

Her lashes lowered, hiding her eyes. ‘A lady doesn’t tell.’ Her voice was a low seductive murmur. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Did he break your heart? Is that why you are so reckless? Are you using me to…to get back at him?’

‘No.’ Her shocked denial rang true. Tears glistened. ‘If you don’t want me, just tell me and have done.’ But now there was heartbreak in her voice.

He’d been too harsh, his tongue too rough. Unable to bear the pain and confusion in her gaze, he pulled her close, kissed the top of her head, inhaled the scent of her hair, her unique essence, soothed her back and shoulders with his hands. ‘I confess I find you irresistible.’

At last she relaxed and he tipped up her chin to look into her face. ‘I’m sorry. I should not have asked. I’m trying to do the right thing, instead of what I want.’

She smiled. ‘Right for whom?’

‘For you, of course.’ He cupped her face in his hands and took her lips with his and felt his soul rise to meet hers as she returned the kiss.

When he finally broke the kiss and pulled away to look into her face, she smiled. ‘I want this,’ she whispered.

After such a declaration, she’d be hurt if he refused. He could see it in her face. She’d feel scorned. Rejected. He couldn’t do it. He took a deep breath. Then he would bring her pleasure she sought without taking his and let her go in good conscience. It was the only thing to do and retain a shred of integrity.

Mentally, he shook his head. The right thing to do would be to bundle her out of the door, but it was as close to right as he could get without destroying his fragile little elf. He picked her up and carried her to his cot.

He lay her down on the bed and stretched out beside her.

He captured her sweet mouth in a kiss. She responded by sweeping his mouth with her tongue, then drawing his into her mouth with a gentle suck. His member throbbed a demand.

He unbuttoned her shirt and exposed one perfect breast. God. No stays. Had she planned his seduction? Did he care as he gazed upon her breasts, a perfect fit for his palm? He rubbed the nipple with his thumb and watched it tighten to a rosy bead, heard her indrawn breath with a surge of blood to his loins.

He bent to suckle and she squirmed beneath him, arched her hips against his thigh in silent demand for more. Not so silent. The little cries in the back of her throat, the sounds of wanting, of desire, filled his mind, stole his thoughts, robbed him of control.

His shaft strained against his trousers, pressing for escape, seeking a far sweeter, hotter confinement.

To survive this torment, he’d have to bring her to a climax fast. Still sucking and nipping at her breast, he skimmed his hand between her open thighs, pressed down hard and circled.

At once she cried out, wove her fingers in his hair and quivered. Almost there. Please, God, let her be almost there.

He sucked her other breast, pressing and grinding against her woman’s flesh, the heat of it burning his hand, dampness seeping through to his fingers.

So hot. So wet. He needed to be inside her.

His fingers tore at the buttons of his falls. One side undone.

No. He squeezed his eyes shut. He’d lost control with her the first time. This time he would master his urges. He went back to his firm massage of her, only to discover her fingers finishing the job on his buttons, her hand burrowing beneath his shirt and cupping him.

Her nails grazed his balls and his body tightened. Her fingers wandered, explored the base of his shaft. He thought he would explode in her hand.

‘It feels so hot,’ she said. She curled her hand around him. ‘And so hard here. When you are so s-soft under—’

He reached down and grabbed her hand and pulled it free.

She stared up at him. ‘Don’t you l-like me to touch you?’

Heaven preserve him when she looked at him with those huge, seductive eyes. ‘Touch me elsewhere.’ His voice sounded harsh, but only because he was hanging by a thread. Her wince cut him to the quick.

He kissed her fingertips. ‘I love it when you touch me there, but it will end too soon. For both of us.’

‘Oh. I see.’ She rubbed her hand over his chest. Through his shirt, his skin tingled with need to feel her skin to skin.

Dear God, he hoped she didn’t see how much power she had in the palm of that little hand to bend him to her will. ‘Yes. Like that.’

He swooped in for a kiss, anything to take her mind off her exploration of him, and resumed his ministrations with his hand. She sighed and moaned into his mouth. Her teeth grazed his tongue and she sucked his bottom lip. Ah, no. He was too close to the edge. He drew back.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

He shook his head. He no longer knew what he was doing. ‘Pleasuring you.’

‘Take your clothes off,’ she whispered. Her breaths came short and fast. She undid his shirt buttons and tugged the fabric free of his breeches. He whipped the shirt off over his head. Her fingertips traced the contours of his chest, then circled his nipples. ‘Now your breeches and boots.’

He inhaled a deep breath, saw the heat in her gaze, the anticipation in her tongue licking her lips and sighed.

Why fight it? It would be the last time. He swore it. In seconds he’d stripped out of his clothes. When he turned back, she had her shirt off and was wriggling out of her breeches. In the light from the fire, the triangle of light brown hair at the apex of her thighs glistened with her moisture. For him.

His wood nymph, his exotic, wild woodland creature, glowing in firelight, begging for his touch. An unexpected blessing. A pure light in his blighted life.

Lost. He was lost. And he never wanted to be found.

He tugged her breeches over her feet and flung them aside. Ripped off her stockings in feverish haste. He covered her with his body, thrust inside her. Her heat, the tightness of her flesh, squeezed around the pulsing of his blood inside her body.

A sigh of fulfilment whispered hot breath in his ear.

Pleasure ripped through him, unbearable, the tension too hard and too fast. He surged against her, holding his weight with trembling arms, aware of her joy in the far-off reaches of his mind, but stretched to breaking point with his need for completion.

He came into her, hard and fast and rough, and she met each stroke with a thrust of her own that sent him spiralling to the stars. Together they rode all the way to heaven and the abyss beyond.

He collapsed beside her, face down, and finished against the rough blanket, blissfully satiated, yet wanting more. Disgust welled up inside him. He was what he had always been. A seducer. A rake.

She snuggled into the crook of his shoulder.

‘Happy now?’ he murmured for something to say, to divert his thoughts from his own sense of disappointment that he was not a better man.

‘Very happy,’ she said softly.

Moisture leaked from his closed eyes and he brushed it away. Because she was happy? Or because he might never again experience such joy?

While Frederica slept, her even breath a symphony to his ears, Robert watched shadows and licks of flame dance on the ceiling. How to extricate himself without doing her damage? More damage, he thought bitterly. In the old days, he would have sent round a string of pearls with a footman. Jewels were his speciality. This child of nature had no need for baubles and trinkets to enhance her beauty; she needed protection from a cruel harsh world.

And he wanted to be the one to fight her dragons. Even if he was not her first, he wanted to be her last.

Marriage.

Shocked, he inhaled a deep breath. Surely not. He’d never wanted to wed. Never wanted to be tied down to one woman. Was this simply a case of him not being ready to let this one go?

He didn’t recall ever feeling this need for possession. Or the urge to protect.

Frederica stirred.

Robert glanced down and found her looking up at him. ‘Time to go?’ he asked.

She sighed. ‘Soon. Robert?’

‘Yes, love?’ He liked the way the word tasted on his tongue, but it was as far as he dare go for the moment.

‘What if I can only dance the waltz with you, here in this room? What if I trip over my feet?’

He pulled her close, felt her fear in the faintest tremor beneath her skin. He kissed her forehead and the tip of her nose, inhaled the musky scent of their loving and the essence of her, outdoors and fresh air with a trace of vanilla. ‘You will be fine.’

He’d find a way to make sure of it. ‘Come, let us get you dressed.’

The next morning, still feeling blissful, Frederica strolled into the breakfast room and found Snively hovering over the sideboard.

She lifted the lid of a silver platter and helped herself to a couple of gammon rashers. Goodness, she was hungry this morning. Today she would see the results of the dressmaker’s efforts at Lady Radthorn’s. The riding habit and the gowns would be a boon for her travels. Poor Uncle Mortimer. All that expense for nothing. One day, she would find a way to pay him back. In the meantime she’d do her best to make sure the ball went off without a hitch and keep her own plans a secret.

‘Is everything ready for our guests, Snively?’ she asked. ‘Do you have all the extra help from the village you need to decorate the ballroom?’

‘Yes, miss. All is arranged, as we discussed.’

Frederica smiled. There was no one as well organised as Snively. Or so willing to aid her over the years. She would be sorry to leave him behind. ‘Thank you so much for your help. You will let me know if you have questions, will you not? Lord Wynchwood will have an apoplexy if we run into problems.’

He afforded her a quick smile. ‘All will be well. Oh, I should let you know that his lordship asked that we move your things to the second floor in the morning.’

She stared at him. ‘My things?’

‘Yes. Next to the other lady who will be staying here. He thought it made more sense with company in the house. I’ll set someone on it in the morning.’

So they felt a little guilty at hiding her away. ‘I do not want my desk moved. Or my easel.’

A twinkle lit his eyes. ‘Don’t worry, miss, I’ll see to that part myself.’

She grinned back. ‘You are a dear. By the way, is there any mail for me this morning?’

‘Michael is not yet returned from the village. If there is anything for you, I will see it reaches you directly as always.’

‘Thank you.’ She selected a slice of toast and went to her usual place at the table facing the window. Beneath a clear blue sky, a hoar frost sparkled like crystals on the lawn. Impossible to catch that glitter with a paint brush. She sighed.

Snively brought her a cup of tea. He glanced at the door and back to her. ‘Miss Bracewell, are you thinking of leaving Wynchwood?’

Her heart jumped, heat flashed under her skin, followed by cold. She stifled her gasp and tried to look unconcerned. ‘Whatever d-do you m-mean?’

‘I’ve known you a long time, miss. I’ve watched you grow up. I know what goes on in this family and I’ve never seen you so happy, or so excited. Not since your uncle let you ride the gelding. You are up to something. And it’s my opinion that you are planning to take the money from your drawings and run.’

Heart pounding, she folded her shaking fingers in her lap. Snively had always been her ally in this house, but as her uncle’s employee, would he see it as his duty to betray her? His eyes remained kindly but concerned. Dare she give him her trust?

‘L-leave? Why would you think so? For the first time, I am to attend a ball and I am to have a whole new fashionable wardrobe in honour of our guests. What can you mean?’

He frowned and stepped back, shaking his head. ‘If I spoke out of turn, miss, I beg your pardon. I just wanted to be sure you will be here for your birthday. I have a gift for you, you see.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘For me?’ No one ever gave her gifts on her birthday. Unless you counted her annual new gown as a gift.

He shrugged. ‘I understood it to be a special day. Your age of majority, so to speak.’

He looked so uncomfortable she wished she’d told him the truth. ‘How kind of you, Mr Snively.’ The birth of an unwanted child had never been a cause for celebration. She couldn’t help her sarcastic little laugh. ‘I think my uncle prefers we not make too much fuss.’

A sheen of perspiration formed on his wrinkled brow. He looked as if wild horses were tearing him in two. He once more glanced at the door and leaned forwards and lowered his voice in a conspiratorial manner. ‘If by some chance you change your mind, Miss Bracewell, promise me you won’t go without speaking to me first. Please? I swear I’ll tell no one else.’

He’d never ever let her down. She gave him a reassuring smile. ‘If I were to leave, I promise I will tell you beforehand.’

‘That is all I can ask, miss.’ He bowed and stalked out of the room, and somehow she had the sense she’d hurt his feelings.

Dash it. She’d told him of her longing to study in Italy. He must have guessed she would use the money from her painting to achieve her ambition.

Surely he wouldn’t interfere. He’d always helped her in the past. Still, she needed to be careful. She didn’t want her uncle guessing her purpose before she was ready. And if Snively had guessed, someone else might too.

The following day, the drawing room after dinner seemed eerily silent. Even the walls seemed to be listening for the sound of the carriage. Frederica let go a long breath.

‘Stop your sighing, girl,’ Uncle Mortimer said. His eyes gleamed over the top of his book, softening the stern words. ‘It is good to see you so anxious to meet your cousin again, I must say. You are going to make a fine couple. Do this family proud.’

If only he knew. ‘Simon said they would be here this afternoon. He’s late.’

‘They’ll be here. The hunt is tomorrow.’

She frowned. ‘We don’t have enough horses for two extra people.’

‘Don’t be absurd, child. They will bring their own. Behind the carriage.’ He made a sound in his throat like disgust. ‘We’ll have the stabling of them for a week, though, I’ll be bound. They won’t think to leave them at the inn in the village.’

‘We have lots of room.’

‘It isn’t the space, girl, it’s the cost. And there will be grooms to feed as well as valets and ladies’ maids.’

‘Just one of each I should think, Uncle. At least, that is all I have provided for.’

‘Hmmph.’ Uncle Mortimer returned to his book.

About to let out another deep sigh, Frederica stopped herself just in time. She picked up her embroidery and eyed the design. It would have made a lovely addition to the drawing room. It would never be finished. Working right-handed just took too long.

The sounds of wheels on the gravel and the crunch of horses’ hooves brought Uncle Mortimer to his feet. ‘Here they are at last.’

‘Will you greet them at the door, Uncle?’ she asked, putting her needlework aside.

‘No. No. Too draughty. Snively will bring them in here.’ He stood, rocking on his heels, his head cocked to one side, listening to the front door opening and voices in the entrance hall.

The door flew back. ‘Uncle,’ Simon cried, his round face beaming. ‘Here we are at last. Did you think we were lost on the road?’

Uncle Mortimer shook his nephew’s hand and patted him on the shoulder. ‘I knew you’d come, dear boy. Eventually. I just hoped you’d not be too late. Need my rest these days, you know. Not been quite the thing.’

The instant gravity on Simon’s face was so patently false, Frederica wanted to laugh.

‘I know, Uncle. The ague. You wrote to me of it.’ He turned to Frederica. He had to turn his whole body, because his shirt points were so high, his head would not turn on his neck. In fact, he didn’t appear to have neck or a chin. His head looked as if it had been placed on his shoulders and wrapped with a quantity of intricately knotted white fabric to keep it in place. It made his face look like a cod’s head. His valet must have stuffed him into a coat two sizes too small to make him so stiff and rigid.

He bowed. ‘Coz. I hope I find you well.’

Good lord, he had put on some weight around the middle, and was that a creak she heard? Some sort of corset?

‘Y-yes, Simon. V-v—’

‘Very well,’ Simon said. ‘Splendid.’

Frederica’s palm tingled with the urge to box his ears.

Simon turned himself about and looked expectantly at the door. ‘I want you to meet my friends, Uncle. Great friends.’

Snively appeared in the doorway. ‘Lady Margaret Caldwell and Lord Lullington, my lord.’ He promptly withdrew.

Pausing on the threshold, the lady glittered. Dark curls entwined with emeralds framed her face. More emeralds scintillated in the neckline of her low-green silk gown as well as at her wrists and on her fingers. Her dark eyes sparkled as they swept the room, seeming to take in everything at a glance. Lady Margaret held out her hand to Mortimer, who tottered forwards to make his bow.

All Frederica could do was blink. It was like looking at the sun. Compared to this elegant woman she felt distinctly drab even with her new blue gown.

Lady Caldwell sank into an elegant curtsy. ‘My lord. How kind of you to invite us to your home.’

Uncle Mortimer flushed red. ‘Think nothing of it, my lady. Nothing at all.’

The lady turned to Frederica. She tipped her head to one side. ‘And you must be Simon’s little cousin.’ She held out her hands and when Frederica reached out to take one, Lady Margaret clasped Frederica’s between both of her own. ‘How glad I am to make your acquaintance. I vow, Simon has told us all about you, hasn’t he, Lull?’

The viscount, a lean, aristocratic and tall man in a beautifully tailored black coat, finished making his bow to Uncle Mortimer, then raised his quizzing glass and ran a slow perusal from Frederica’s head to her feet. ‘Not all, my dear, I am sure,’ he said with a lisp.

Frederica felt her face flush scarlet.

‘Simon,’ exclaimed Lady Margaret, ‘Lull is right! You didn’t tell us your cousin was so charming. Absolutely delightful.’

Simon stared at Frederica, opened his mouth a couple of times like a landed fish, then nodded. ‘By jingo, Lady Caldwell, you are right. New gown, coz?’

‘A whole wardrobe of new gowns,’ Uncle Mortimer mumbled.

The burn in Frederica’s face grew worse.

Viscount Lullington lounged across the room and took Frederica’s hand with a small bow. His blue eyes gazed at her from above an aquiline nose. She had the sense he was assessing her worth. ‘Delighted to meet you, Miss Bracewell. Simon has indeed been a songbird regarding your attributes. And I see his notes were true.’

Oh, my. Had he just issued a compliment? And if so, why did his soft lisping voice send a shudder down her spine as if a ghost had walked over her grave?

Swallowing, Frederica curtsied as befit a viscount. ‘I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord.’

He patted her hand. ‘Call me Lull. Everyone does.’

Not she. She backed up a step or two, looking to Simon for guidance.

He rubbed his hands together. ‘Here we are then. All ready for the ball. It will be such a grand time.’

‘Oh, it is sure to be, isn’t it, Lull?’ Lady Margaret took the seat by the fireplace and Frederica returned to the sofa. The men disposed themselves around the room, Lullington beside Lady Margaret and opposite Frederica, Simon beside the window and her uncle in his favourite armchair.

‘Without a doubt,’ Lullington said, his gaze fixed on Frederica.

Frederica took a slow deep breath. ‘W-would you like t-tea?’

‘We were waiting to ring for tea until you arrived,’ Uncle Mortimer added. ‘Didn’t expect your arrival so late.’

‘By Jove,’ Simon said. ‘What a good idea. Tea. Just the thing.’ He looked at Lullington. ‘If you think so, Lull? Do you?’

It seemed Viscount Lullington now pulled Simon’s strings. Not a pleasant thought.

‘Oh, yes, please,’ Lady Caldwell said with a brilliant smile. ‘We stopped for dinner when we realised the hour was far advanced, but I would die for a dish of bohea.’

All eyes turned to the lean viscount. He nodded his head. ‘Very well. Tea for the ladies. For myself, I’d prefer brandy.’

‘Me too,’ Simon said.

Frederica got up and rang the bell.

Lady Caldwell smiled up at her. ‘I wonder if, while we wait for the tea, you could show me my room. I am desperate to freshen up.’

Oh, dear. She should have thought to ask. ‘S-s-s—’

‘Surely, she will,’ Uncle Mortimer said. ‘Show our guest upstairs, Frederica. Don’t take too long. My head aches if I drink tea too late in the evening.’

Aware of Lady Caldwell’s rustling silks, her lush curves and exquisite face, Frederica found her tongue tied in knots. She would have liked to ask the woman about London, about the museums and the academy of art, but feared her words would only make her a fool. So they walked side by side in silence until they reached the bedroom.

Frederica opened the door and Lady Caldwell breezed in. ‘Ah, Forester,’ she said to a stiff-looking grey-haired woman standing over a brass-bound trunk, shaking the creases from a gown of a soft rose hue. ‘Here you are.’ She turned to Frederica. ‘Come in, my dear. Fear not. Forester’s bark is much worse than her bite.’

Forester played deaf.

Since the words of a polite refusal escaped her, Frederica stepped inside. She perched on the upholstered chair by the door, while Lady Caldwell headed for the dressing room.

‘Do you need help, my lady?’ Forester asked.

‘Fiddle-de-de. If I cannot make water at my age, you best send me to Bedlam.’

Forester’s lips pressed together, but she made no comment, continuing to remove items from the chest and put them away, opening and closing drawers, putting scraps of lace here and handkerchiefs there. Such delicate items and so many? Had their guests come for an extended stay? Uncle Mortimer would not be happy.

A soft chuckle made her turn. ‘You are gazing at my wardrobe in awe, Miss Bracewell.’

‘You have a g-great many gowns.’

Her ladyship laughed. ‘So I do. Lullington and I are on a progress, do you see? We are going to visit everyone we know for the next month or two, until the Season starts again. London is flat, there is absolutely nothing to do.’ She sat down at the mirror on the dressing table, patted her hair and pinched her cheeks.

‘Are you engaged to be married, then?’ Frederica asked, then turned red and was glad Lady Caldwell had her back to her as she realised just how impertinent her enquiry sounded.

‘La, but you are a country miss,’ Lady Caldwell said with a musical laugh. ‘I left my husband in London. I am travelling with several companions. I have my maid, as do the other ladies who make up our party. The rest of them are staying at Radthorn’s house, as you know, and so for now you are my chaperon. Not a breath of scandal, I assure you.’

The thought of trying to chaperon the sophisticated Lady Caldwell made her want to giggle. The whole arrangement sounded odd, but then Lady Caldwell was clearly a woman of the world.

From out of the trunk Forester pulled a dark blue riding habit with gold epaulettes and lots of frogging.

‘Do you ride out with us tomorrow, Lady Caldwell?’ Frederica asked.

‘Oh, my dear, you must call me Maggie or I vow I shall feel like an ancient crone.’

Put entirely at ease, Frederica laughed. ‘No one would use that word to describe you. And thank you. Please call me Frederica.’

Maggie clapped her hands. ‘To answer your question, yes, I will join the hunt. Do you go too?’

She nodded. That had been a bone of contention between her and Uncle Mortimer. In the end, she’d agreed, but only if she could stay well to the rear and avoid being present for the kill.

‘I shall look forward to keeping you company.’ Maggie rose to her feet. ‘I can’t wait for this masked ball. I love dressing up, don’t you? Of course you do. What woman wouldn’t? And wait until you see the wonderful men Radthorn has brought with him.’ She put a delicate hand to the centre of her chest and gave a languid sigh, then laughed and held out her hand. ‘Come, let us go downstairs. Tea must have arrived. I think you and I are going to get along famously.’

Oh, yes, they’d be great friends. Maggie would talk and Frederica would listen and everyone would be happy.

What would her new friend think if she learned that Frederica was an artist? A wanton? And about to go out into the world alone?

Robert tightened Pippin’s girth and looked up at Frederica, the first of the riders out of the stable. No longer the secretive little mouse she’d been a day or so ago. The sea-green riding habit was of the very best quality. Its tailored lines suited her slim figure and matched the colour of her eyes. He’d never seen her look so elegant or so happy. She looked utterly charming. Glowing.

Bloody alluring.

He wanted to drag her back to his cottage and hide her away.

‘Th-thank you, Robert,’ she whispered.

Aye. She’d whisper, with her London guests nearby. And that was just how he wanted it. He touched his cap and pulled it lower on his forehead, keeping a wary eye out for Lullington. Of all the cursed ill luck, he had to be one of the guests. And Maggie, too. He was still having trouble believing it.

He shouldn’t have reported for work this morning. He should have sent word of some infectious disease the moment he’d realised who young Bracewell had brought along as guests. But that would have left poor old Weatherby in the lurch.

A visiting groom led out the next animals, a sweet little chestnut mare called Penny and a large black gelding. The mare whickered a soft greeting to Robert. He bit back a curse. Who’d have thought the horse would remember him? Maggie, in a dark blue habit, strolled into the courtyard on Lullington’s arm. Robert watched covertly as a groom threw her up. She was too busy conversing with the viscount to notice him, a mere servant. Thank God.

Instead of leaving the task to the groom, Lullington saw to Maggie’s tack, his hand touching her thigh lightly in an intimate gesture as he finished. So Maggie had gone to Lullington. Perhaps that’s why the viscount had been keen to see Robert disgraced. They had often vied for the same females, usually to Lullington’s disadvantage. But unless things had changed, he’d not be able to afford the kind of baubles Maggie liked to add to her collection.

Lullington sprang into the saddle unaided. ‘Hey, you there.’ He pointed his crop at Robert. ‘A stirrup cup for the lady.’

Head lowered, Robert touched his hat and went for the tray of pewter cups set on a bench by the door. Normally Maisie would be out here passing the good cheer around, but something had happened in the kitchen and Snively had assigned Robert the task.

He handed a cup up to Maggie, who nodded a thank you.

Lullington looked down only long enough to grasp his goblet. He leaned closer to Maggie. ‘God,’ he lisped in a low voice, ‘did you see the hack Bracewell is riding? A slug.’

Maggie’s answering laugh struck a chord in his memory. It was what had attracted him to her in the first place. Merry and meaningless laughter. Now it left him cold.

He took a cup to Frederica, who bestowed thanks by way of an intimate little smile.

Robert prayed Lullington didn’t notice. Damnation, but this was hell.

The last rider out of the stable was the young master on a showy bay. It was Robert’s first real look at Frederica’s cousin. Clearly greener than grass and still with his mother’s milk on his lips, he was just the kind of youth dangling at the edges of society to be impressed with Lullington’s smooth style of address. Still, even the daring viscount would not dare gull the lad under his own roof.

Bracewell jobbed at the horse’s mouth. It reared in protest. Its wicked flying hooves narrowly missed Pippin. Frederica manoeuvred neatly out of the way. ‘Take c-care, Simon.’

Robert caught the bay’s bridle and soothed it with some whispered words. ‘Stirrup cup, sir?’ he asked Bracewell, who seemed unconscious that another had taken control of his mount.

‘Yes, by Jove. Good man.’ Simon beamed. ‘I say, Lullington. Good hunting weather, what?’

‘Is it?’ Lullington replied, looking up at the clear blue sky.

‘You wag,’ Bracewell said. ‘Always ribbing a fellow. What do you think, Maggie? Are you ready to take the first brush today?’

Frederica winced, causing Pippin to dance sideways.

Lullington, who had drawn close, caught her bridle. ‘Steady there,’ he said to the horse, his gaze fixed on Frederica. ‘My word, Miss Bracewell, you look simply ravishing this morning. I am quite determined not to leave your side—you present such a pretty picture.’

Robert gritted his teeth and handed the last of the stirrup cups up to Bracewell. If he had known Lullington was to be ensconced under the same roof as Frederica, he might have whisked her off to Gretna Green and to hell with the consequences.

No, he wouldn’t. Any more than Lullington would. The man was simply enjoying himself putting a pretty miss to the blush. Robert knew, because he’d done it himself. The last thing the viscount wanted was a wife as poor as himself.

He just hoped Frederica would see through the viscount’s charm to the rake beneath.

She hadn’t seen through Robert, though. The thought gave him a cold feeling in his chest.

Gun over his shoulder, Weatherby marched into the courtyard and approached Bracewell with a touch to his hat. ‘Hunt is meeting at the Bull and Mouth, Master Simon. Ye’ve a half-hour to get there. Deveril here will send the beaters off ahead. You’ll have a good day’s sport, I promise ye.’

Robert ran around, collecting the goblets from the riders.

‘We’re off,’ Maggie said, her face a picture of eagerness. ‘We don’t want to miss the start.’ She trotted out of the courtyard and down the drive, with Bracewell right behind.

Frederica grimaced as if she’d like to miss the whole thing, but the viscount still retained his grip on her bridle. He gave it a jerk. The little gelding tossed his head, then broke into a canter with Lullington at Frederica’s side.

Ire boiled in Robert’s gut. How dare he touch her horse? It was as if he’d taken possession. Robert kept a tight grip on his urge to shout a protest. Lullington couldn’t do her much harm if the party stayed together.

When Frederica leaned back and gave the viscount’s black a sharp slap on the rump with her crop and the black took off at a gallop, he couldn’t hold back his smile. For all her appearance of frailty, his Frederica was a woman to be reckoned with.

His? What the hell was he thinking? That was one thing she could never be. Not in any way, shape or form. And there were going to be no more midnight visits.

He’d made certain. He still felt a sharp pain between his ribs every time he recalled the hurt look on her face. What if they could be friends, as she’d asked? Would it ever be enough? Would he be able to resist her appeal? Damnation, he missed her like the devil already.

It wasn’t as if he’d seduced an innocent, he reminded himself, but there were different kinds of innocent. And she was the most vulnerable to a man like him.

‘Don’t stand there daydreaming,’ Weatherby growled. ‘Get off, lad. You need a half-hour start on the pack or they’ll overrun the fox before midday.’

‘We don’t want that,’ Robert said wryly and set off through the kitchen garden at a jog. He’d take the short cut and be gone from the inn long before the Wynchwood party appeared.

The hounds and red-coated hunters streamed up Gallows Hill far ahead of Frederica and Maggie, but Frederica didn’t care.

‘Hurry up, Frederica,’ Maggie called back, twisting in her saddle. ‘We are falling behind.’

That’s the idea, Frederica thought, but she urged Pippin to a greater burst of speed. The gelding, who’d fretted at being held back, took the bit and surged forwards. Frederica kept a sharp eye out for rabbit holes.

Fortunately, her slow pace had annoyed Viscount Lullington. He’d galloped ahead, promising to return to see how she was doing the next time the hounds were at a stand.

She caught Maggie up and matched Pippin’s speed to the chestnut. They rode side by side over the brow of the hill. Hopefully, they would not see her particular fox this morning.

Far ahead, the hunt master blew the view halloo. It seemed her wish was not to be granted.

‘Here we go,’ Maggie yelled, her eyes brimming with excitement. ‘Come on, if you want to be in on the kill.’

Ugh. ‘You go ahead. Pippin is lame. He must have picked up a stone. I will need to dismount and take a look.’

Maggie gave a little grimace of disappointment. ‘I’ll send Lull or your cousin back to find you if you don’t catch us up.’

Frederica waved her crop and watched Maggie fly off down the hill.

Pippin’s ears pricked forwards. He strained at the bit.

‘I know, old fellow. But we don’t want to be there when they catch the fox. Wait a few minutes and then you can gallop.’

A lady in dark green and two men in hunting pink, members of Mr Radthorn’s party whom she’d met at the village inn, straggled up to her. She waved them on. The last thing she needed was some well-meaning gentleman poking around in Pippin’s hooves. He’d soon realise her excuse was a hum.

She had Pippin walk slowly down the hill, listening to the retreating sounds of baying hounds and the hunting horn. Leaning forwards, she patted her mount’s neck. ‘What do you think? Are they far enough ahead?’

He tossed his head as if he understood every word.

She laughed. ‘Very well.’ She dug her heel into his flank and he sprang forwards into a gallop, straining at the bit. Oh, dear. He seemed determined to catch the other horses. The hedge at the bottom of the hill came up fast. Too fast. She hauled on the reins, trying to turn his head. Too late. They were going to have to jump it. Not a good idea in a lady’s saddle.

Her heart picked up speed. She eyed the closing distance, judged the horse’s pace and steadied herself. Not that the saddle provided much support.

Pippin gathered himself. And they flew. She was going to make it. Beautiful jump. Clean. Clear. The horse landed. Frederica hit the saddle with a bump and jolted sideways. She was flying again. Straight at the ground.

Ouch. She landed on her bottom. Hard. She couldn’t breathe. She’d crushed her ribs. Panicked, she clutched her chest. She couldn’t inhale. She was dying.

‘Steady,’ a deep voice said. ‘Take it easy.’

A huge rush of air filled her lungs. Her head swam. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. Then Robert’s anxious face filled her vision. ‘Where are you hurt?’

Grateful to feel the air sawing in and out of her lungs, she managed a weak smile. ‘Winded.’

‘Are you sure that is all?’ His hands, gentle, clinical, ran over her arms, legs, back. ‘Does it hurt when I touch you?’

‘No. It feels lovely.’

He repressed a quick grin. ‘Not another word.’

‘Why aren’t you up front with the villagers?’

‘I was. I noticed you hanging back, then Lady Caldwell showed up without you. One of those idiots should have stayed behind.’ He sounded furious.

‘I’m not a child, you know. I’ve ridden these fields alone all my life.’ She glanced around for Pippin. Not a sign of him.

‘Still chasing the leaders,’ Robert said.

‘I don’t know what got into him.’

‘Overexcited, I suspect.’ Robert held out a hand and pulled her to her feet. ‘Can you walk?’

She took a couple of steps. Her legs felt like blancmange and her bottom hurt, but she wasn’t injured. ‘A little stiff and sore, but I’m fine.’

‘Too bad.’ His dark eyes sparkled. ‘I was hoping for the excuse to carry you in my arms.’

‘Now why didn’t I think of that?’

‘Because you don’t play those kinds of games,’ he said. ‘Good thing too.’

There was no one in sight. The only thing in the middle of the field was them and an oak tree. An oak tree with a very wide and gnarly trunk. As they passed it, a wicked thought popped into her mind. ‘Oh, I’m not feeling quite the thing.’ She headed for the tree trunk and leaned against it with her arm covering her eyes.

‘Are you feeling faint?’ he said, peering into her face.

She let her arm fall and laughed up at him. ‘No.’

He cursed softly. ‘Do you know how beautiful you look?’

‘No. But I’m hoping you are going to tell me.’ Had she said that? Was it he who made her recklessly wanton, or was it all her bad blood?

He gave an unwilling laugh, his white teeth flashing in the black of his curly beard. ‘It seems you do play those games.’

‘Why have you given up shaving?’ she asked.

He stroked his chin with strong square fingers. Mischief shone in his eyes. ‘Don’t you like it?’

‘I’m not sure.’

He placed his hands against the rough trunk, his broad forearms bracketing her head. She drew in a quick breath at the jolt in her stomach. He leaned in for a kiss and she flung her arms around his neck and melded her body to his. After the strain of the morning, it felt wonderful to be in his arms.

He groaned and deepened the kiss, his mouth working magic against her lips, his hands crushing her close.

He broke away, and she was pleased to see he was breathing just as hard as she. ‘Robert—’

‘Someone is coming. Listen.’

Hoof beats approaching fast. ‘Dash it all,’ she muttered.

His dark eyes gleamed. ‘You owe me the rest of that kiss, but for now, start walking.’

They stepped out from behind the shelter of the tree as a black horse and rider leading Pippin stopped to open the gate to the field.

‘Your rescuer arrives,’ Robert said drily.

‘Viscount Lullington.’

He nodded. ‘Watch that man, Frederica.’ His voice held such deep loathing, she couldn’t help but glance at his face. His eyes were narrowed and his shoulders tense.

‘Do you know him?’

His lip curled. ‘I know men like him. He’ll take any advantage.’

‘Oh, he’s not interested in me. He’s in love with Lady Caldwell.’

‘That kind loves only one person. Himself.’

‘Why, Robert,’ she said, her smile growing, ‘are you jealous?’

He glanced at her, his eyes dark, almost bleak. ‘What right do I have for jealousy?’

With a sinking sensation, she realised he’d made no promises to her. ‘Just do not trust that man.’

The viscount was almost upon them. She turned to face him as he leaped from his horse and strode to her side. He appeared not to notice Robert. ‘Are you all right, Miss Bracewell?’

Wishing him elsewhere, she forced a smile. ‘Perfectly fine. Pippin decided I needed a walk.’

He grinned. ‘I am all admiration. Your spirit does you credit. I expected tears and gnashing of teeth.’

Federica could almost hear Robert grind his teeth. She gestured towards him. ‘I was fortunate Mr Deveril came along or I might be less sanguine.’

‘Good man,’ the viscount said. He dug into his pocket and flipped a coin to land at Robert’s feet.

Robert stared at it, his face rigid, pride in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders, then he bent to retrieve the coin from the dirt. He touched his cap and walked away.

She felt sick and faint. As if he’d been shamed and it was all her fault. She longed to call out an apology, but Robert’s long legs carried him off at a rapid pace.

Meanwhile the viscount was all kind concern. ‘Are you sure you are not hurt, Miss Bracewell?’

Heart aching, she forced herself to answer calmly. ‘P-perfectly sure.’

Lullington looked at her face and then at the retreating Robert. ‘Has he been with your family long?’

‘Just a few weeks,’ she said.

‘He seems like a competent fellow, if rather bold.’

She glanced up to find him staring at her intently, his pale eyes seeming to see into her mind. His gaze dropped to her mouth and he gave a tight smile. ‘Now, Miss Bracewell, do you think you can re-mount this beast?’ He pointed to Pippin.

Aware of prickling heat creeping up her face, she nodded. ‘I can.’

‘Pluck to the backbone. Let me give you a hand.’

He led her to Pippin and she noticed how soft the leather of his gloves and how long and languid his fingers were. A shudder ran down her spine as if she’d brushed past a cobweb in the dark. Such nonsense. He was a dandy. A nobleman. She was wrong to compare him with the hard-working Robert.

With Maisie looking on, her face a picture of envy, Frederica twisted to look at her back in the mirror. Wings. Made of the sheerest material and dusted with sequins, they looked almost real. The gown made her look taller, more shapely. ‘It is supposed to represent Titania from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Mrs Phillips did a wonderful job.’

‘You look like a fairy an’ all, miss,’ Maisie said. ‘My ma used to tell me about them. Don’t walk in the fairy circle, she always used to say. Toadstools, they was.’

With a smile, Frederica ran her hands down the front of her sheer gown of browns and soft greens.

Maisie went to work with the hairbrush and Frederica let her thoughts wander. What would Robert think if he saw her now? Would he approve? Or would he stare at her with those fathomless dark eyes and tell her that she looked like a damned peacock? Pretty, but useless.

She couldn’t prevent a small smile. Yes, that was indeed what the blunt, unpolished man would say. And after tonight, after her one and only ball, she would never look like a peacock again. Why, she might even dance the night away on the arm of a handsome gentleman. She sighed. If only that gentleman could be Robert, it would be the best night of her life.

A knock sounded on the door. ‘Who is it?’

‘Maggie. May I come in?’

‘Please do.’

Maggie looked simply ravishing. A vision. Frederica felt quite dull and plain as she took in the gauzy trousers and soft veils of midnight-blue covered in sequins. The dress of an exotic eastern harem girl. Bangles jingled on her wrists and around her ankles, and a heavy gold choker fringed with coins hugged her elegant neck. Her eyes, rimmed with kohl, peeped over the top of a goldedged veil.

The brush was held suspended over Frederica’s head as Maisie let her mouth hang open.

‘You look beautiful,’ Frederica said.

The dark-eyed siren ran her gaze over Frederica. Her finely plucked brows shot up. ‘Oh, my dear. You are simply divine.’ She floated across the room to finger the fabric. ‘Look how cleverly she dags the hem and so much fabric. If I had only thought of it.’ She shook her head. ‘But no. My curves were never meant to play a wood sprite. I would look like a gnome. My dear, you will be the belle of the ball.’

‘Fine feathers make fine birds,’ Frederica said with a laugh, quoting one of Mortimer’s favourite sayings.

Maisie began brushing again.

‘And modest too. So refreshing. My dear, you must come to London. They will adore you.’

Until they discovered who she was, then she would be ostracised. Uncle Mortimer had made that very plain. And that was why she did not understand why Simon’s parents were going along with his uncle’s betrothal plans. But apparently they were. There was only one way out, she’d realised in the dark of her room late last night. She’d have to tell Simon she was a fallen woman. He’d be so disgusted, he’d have to cry off.

She’d offer to save him a whole lot of embarrassment by disappearing.

She could do it without getting Robert into trouble. No one would need to know who had debauched her, any more than they knew who had debauched her mother.

All she needed was a few private words with Simon and she would be free to live her own life.

Unfortunately, Simon spent all his time glued to the viscount’s side while Lord Lullington looked bored nigh unto death.

Tomorrow, after the ball, she’d find a way to get Simon alone.

While Maisie finished brushing Frederica’s hair, Maggie wandered around the room, touching the bed, pulling open the curtains to stare out of the window, strolling back to the dressing table. Restless energy rolled off her in waves.

She spun about. ‘How will you wear your hair?’

‘Miss always has it in a knot,’ Maisie said.

Maggie tilted her head to one side. ‘Wear it down.’

‘Too fine,’ Frederica said. ‘It doesn’t have a scrap of curl.’ Unlike the older woman’s luxuriant waves.

Maggie picked up the headdress, a simple wreath of silk flowers in yellow, pink and white, wound around with ivy leaves. ‘You are wrong. Pin it up at the sides so it falls down your back and leaves your neck and shoulders bare.’ With a hairpin, she caught one side up, then added another. She popped the circlet on Frederica’s head so it settled high on her brow. ‘Like so. What do you think?’

It made her look young and vulnerable, and…well almost pretty. ‘I like it.’ She smiled at Maggie’s reflection. ‘I really do. But it will not stay.’

‘More pins,’ Maggie cried. ‘Fasten those pieces we pulled back to the circlet. That will hold them in place.’ Once more she looked at Frederica like a bird eyeing a worm. ‘Earbobs.’

Frederica blinked. ‘I don’t have any.’

Maggie looked surprised. ‘No? I know. I will lend you some of mine. Sapphires?’ She shook her head. ‘Diamonds. Nothing but diamonds will do. You will provide the colour and they the light.’

‘Oh, no, I couldn’t.’

‘But you shall.’ The lady had a determined gleam in her eye and a stubborn set to her jaw.

And Frederica could not think of a reason to refuse. She smiled. ‘Then thank you.’

‘Oooh. This is so exciting. Wait a moment while I fetch them.’

‘What a nice lady,’ Maisie said as Maggie scurried out of the door. ‘And pretty too.’

How nice to have a friend for the first time in her life. There had been a lot of firsts just lately. ‘Very pretty. Thank you, Maisie, for your help. I am sure there are lots of things you are needed for downstairs. You can go now.’

‘Aye. Mrs Doncaster is fair fit to burst she’s that busy.’ Maisie packed up the pins and tidied the dressing table.

‘I suppose Cook did not want to lose you to me this afternoon.’

Maisie grinned. ‘Mums the word on that, miss. Oh, and by the way, I was to tell you that your uncle wants to see you in the library before the other guests arrive.’ She bobbed a curtsy and headed for the door, standing back for a moment to allow Maggie to enter carrying a leatherbound case, before she hurried away.

‘Here you are, my dear Frederica.’ She set the case down on the dressing table, and pulled forth a string of the most gorgeous diamonds, a delicate strand of little teardrops with earbobs to match. She fastened the necklace around Frederica’s throat and stood back to admire. ‘Perfect. Now the earrings.’ Frederica turned back to the mirror and gasped. ‘It is lovely, but I can’t wear something so valuable.’

‘Nonsense. It is not half as lovely as you, my dear. You will outshine everyone.’

Frederica swung around to face her. ‘Oh, no! How can you say such a thing?’

The other woman sighed and patted her hand. ‘I’m not much prone to think of others, but for some odd reason I like you.’ She laughed. It sounded a little brittle. ‘And Lull will be so proud of me when I tell him, he will no doubt buy me the pearls I have been after.’

Frederica couldn’t help laughing at her naughty grin.

‘And now I must be off,’ Maggie said. ‘My poor Forester is quite in a fit about my headdress. Apparently, it needs work.’ She stood in the doorway and blew a kiss. ‘I will see you downstairs.’

Frederica felt rather as if a whirlwind had blown in and out of the room. She took a deep breath. Time to visit Uncle Mortimer. Hopefully he would not be too shocked at this gown.

Simon and Uncle Mortimer rose on her entry into the study. They looked quite splendid. For once, Uncle Mortimer was not wearing his old-fashioned frock coat. Although not in costume, he looked magnificent in a black coat with silver buttons and satin knee breeches. He’d even powdered his best wig. She made her curtsy. ‘You wanted to speak with me, Uncle?’

As Mortimer looked her up and down, his pink nose quivered. Oh, dear. Perhaps she would not be attending the ball after all.

‘I say, coz,’ Simon said, his eyes bulging worse than usual above his mountain of neckerchief. ‘You look splendid. Where did you get the jewels?’

‘Lady Caldwell l-l—’

‘Lent them to you,’ Simon said. ‘Most obliging. Is she not the most delightful of creatures?’

Uncle Mortimer grunted, but gestured her to sit. ‘We need to talk about this evening.’

She perched on the chair. ‘Yes, Uncle.’

‘Mind your manners and behave as you ought. Do not mention your mother and things should come off well enough.’

She stiffened. ‘I don’t know why Simon wishes to marry me, when you are all so ashamed of my connections.’

Simon’s mouth opened and closed. He gulped. Small beads of perspiration lined his loose top lip. ‘Really, coz. A pleasure.’

If that was the truth, why did he sound so anxious?

Uncle Mortimer glowered at him before turning his attention back to Frederica. ‘You should be grateful he is willing to make the sacrifice.’

‘Good for the family name,’ Simon added, looking as grave as an undertaker.

‘Gratitude is in the eye of the beholder,’ Frederica said, her anger making the words come out in one go.

Mortimer’s mouth dropped open. ‘Damn stupid saying.’ He pointed a shaking finger at her face. ‘Listen to me, young lady. One wrong word out of you, one syllable astray, and you’ll find yourself in the workhouse. Do I make myself clear?’

‘I say. By Jove, Uncle. A bit harsh, what? I’m sure m’cousin don’t need reminding of our charity. She knows her place.’ Simon gave her one of his pleading looks. He hated a fuss. Frederica wanted to take each end of his stupid cravat and pull hard.

She certainly wasn’t going to get any sense out of him at this moment. He always did what Mortimer said, but if he thought he had any say in her life now or in the future, he was in for a surprise.

She bowed her head to hide her thoughts. ‘I understand, Uncle.’

Mortimer looked her up and down. ‘What is Lady Radthorn thinking? You are almost naked. I’ve a damned good mind to lock you in your room.’ If truth be told, he’d probably like to drag her into his underground tunnel and feed her worms. Or feed her to the worms.

‘No need to make a fuss, Uncle. I’m sure it’s all the crack,’ Simon said, surprising Frederica. ‘You should see what the ladies wear in London.’

‘I doubt they are ladies,’ Uncle Mortimer grumbled.

She wasn’t exactly a lady either. She pressed her lips together to stop from smiling.

Finally composed enough to raise her gaze, she caught both men looking at each other with a sort of satisfied smirk. Now what were they up to? ‘Will there be anything else, Uncle?’

‘I’ll be watching you, girl. Closely. Behave well, and who knows, perhaps Simon will take you to London to see the sights one day.’

Never.

‘Off you go. Be downstairs in the hallway ready to meet the guests at seven o’clock with Lady Radthorn.’ He flicked his fingers in dismissal.

Doubts about her plan assailed Frederica as she left the room. Simon was so far beneath Uncle’s thumb, he’d probably accept her despoiled state without a murmur, if Uncle Mortimer insisted.

In that case, there was nothing else she could do but run.

Robert cut across the Wynchwood lawn. Light streaming from the downstairs windows made it easy to see his way. Clearly Lord Wynchwood intended to impress his neighbours and his London guests.

Preferring to check out the lie of the land before venturing into the lion’s den, Robert pushed through the shrubbery beneath the ballroom windows and from the shadows peered into a room packed with every imaginable creature and assorted figures from history.

All the local gentry were invited, according to Weatherby, as well as the guests down from London. A few years ago he would have been one of them, though he rarely attended such dull affairs. Now here he was, an outsider skulking in the bushes.

Invitation or not, they ought to be honoured by his attendance. He’d found the perfect costume, too—a highwayman. The only person he feared might see through the disguise was Maggie. She might recognise his voice. He’d practised keeping it coarse and rough and with the beard and the waxed moustaches he’d devised from locks of his hair, he defied even his mother to recognise him.

The scrap of black silk he had fashioned for a mask covered the top half of his face. He pulled his borrowed tricorn hat down low on his brow for further concealment.

He took a deep breath. Now or never.

Careful to avoid attracting attention, he worked his way around to the front door, timing his entrance with the arrival of a carriage full of guests. Out stepped a Roman dignitary and his toga-clad lady, a male dressed as an Oriental in loose, flowing robes, who he immediately recognized as Radthorn, and a woman in a Tudor ruff and enormous skirt. Robert followed them in. Snively didn’t give him a second glance as they were directed to the antechamber where the ladies could change their shoes and leave their cloaks.

‘Really, John,’ the Tudor lady whispered having passed off her wrap to Maisie, ‘are you sure the Bracewells are quite the thing?’ She wrinkled her nose at the faded wallpaper above grimy panelling. ‘It is a little dingy.’

Lady Bentham, Robert realised. A merry young widow and John’s long-time mistress. John always said his grandmother was up for a lark. She had to be if she permitted him to house his mistress under her roof. If the old lady knew, that was.

Radthorn glanced around, his gaze passing over Robert without a gleam of recognition. ‘Old friends of the family. I haven’t been here in years.’ A smile flashed from beneath his drooping moustache. ‘It hasn’t changed a bit.’

Robert let his breath go. If his erstwhile best friend didn’t recognise him, then it appeared he was safe.

‘Why on earth was Lullington so insistent we all come?’ Lady Bentham asked. ‘It is going to be dreadfully dull.’

Radthorn shrugged. ‘You know Lullington. Young Bracewell owes him money and he’s not going to let him escape without paying up.’

Robert felt a flash of embarrassment. He’d left a great many debts in his wake. Devil take it, he would pay them no matter how long it took.

John took his lady’s arm and with many curses from him and much laughter from her, he helped her tilt her enormous hoop to allow her to pass through the doorway and they headed for the ballroom.

His heart racing more than he liked, Robert trailed them. The Roman tribune and his lady followed hard on his heels.

‘Oh, my,’ Lady Bentham said, stopping at the entrance to the grand room that ran the length of the back of the house.

Robert wasn’t surprised at her reaction to the swathes of cloth draping the walls and hundreds of candles. He’d spent most of the day helping with them.

‘She’s beautiful,’ Lady Bentham continued. ‘Who is she?’

Robert’s jaw dropped as he saw that she referred not to the decorations, but to the lady. A vision of loveliness, a glittering queen of the fairies. Frederica. He choked back a gasp.

Dressed in something floating and sheer, she looked enchanting. It didn’t take much to imagine the slender limbs beneath the skirts, or the high, pert breasts skimmed by the low-cut bodice. An ethereal queen of the fairies. He half-expected her to use the gossamer wings cunningly attached to the back of her gown and fly off on a breeze.

Every man in the room had the look of a rabid dog as they gazed at her. Only by dint of will did he stop himself from rushing to her side and covering her with his highwayman’s cloak.

Her face glowed. Beneath her mask of silk and sequins, her lips were parted in excitement. Yet her eyes held the shadows of absolute terror. Pride filled him. Pride at her beauty and her courage. The beast inside him wanted to proclaim her as his own.

He clenched his jaw instead.

‘I had no idea she was so lovely,’ Radthorn said, in an awed whisper. ‘Simon’s cousin. I met her on the hunt this morning. She is making her début under my grandmother’s guidance.’

Lady Bentham dug him in the ribs. ‘Stop salivating.’

Robert had never seen John look so besotted. He wanted to strangle his friend with his bare hands. He kept them loose at his sides.

The Roman couple pushed forwards. ‘I say there, what’s the hold up?’

The last thing he needed was an altercation. Robert extricated himself from the little knot at the door and swaggered in best highwayman style to his chosen location behind a pillar. From here he would observe yet remain unnoticed.

Like every man in the room, he found his gaze drawn to the slight figure in earth tones and diamonds. Like every man in the room, she filled his heart with a strange kind of wonder. He could see it in their eyes. How could any woman look so lovely, so pure, so unattainable?

A sprite come to taunt them all.

How could the man at her side, a cherub-faced idiot in a lion suit and a foolish grin, think himself good enough? Hell. Robert wasn’t good enough, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him from claiming the first waltz.

He knew the moment she saw him, because she smiled brightly enough to outshine the hundreds of candles. A dozen men around him gasped and clutched their assorted chests of steel and wool and silk, but only he caught the full force of her wide-eyed astonishment.

He bowed and gave a slight shake of his head.

She covered her laugh with her fingers and looked away. His heart thudded wildly. The music started. A cotillion. The lion held out his arm. She placed her hand in his paw.

A growl of protest rumbled in Robert’s chest. He almost stepped out from his pillar. Mine. The possessive thought reverberated in his mind, yet he held still, narrow eyed, watching.

The scent of violets wafted beneath his nose. A voluptuous maiden in a veil and the garb of a sultan’s consort drifted to his side. ‘Oh, my,’ she said. ‘I do like a tall, strong highwayman. Who are you? Ten String Jack?’

Damnation. Maggie.

‘No, yer ladyship. I be the ghost of Mad Jack. Hung I was, up on Gallows Hill yonder.’

Maggie recoiled. ‘Lud! How gruesome.’ She eyed him up and down. ‘You know, I have the strangest feeling I know you from somewhere.’ She smiled her radiant, sophisticated, charming smile. A smile as bright as the gold coins on her bangles. The smile she used to hide her disappointments in the life she’d been handed by her parents. Married to an old man as a girl.

He grinned back. ‘No, yer ladyship. I live in these parts. You ain’t never heard of me.’

‘Oh, you foolish creature. I know we have met. Who are you?’

He flashed her a leer and waggled his brows. ‘If ye guess right, I’ll kiss you. Else ye’ll wait until the unmasking.’ When he’d be long gone.

‘Maggie?’ Lullington’s imperious voice jerked her head around.

The viscount, splendid as the Sun King in a gold mask and his lean body tightly encased in a suit of white embroidered with gold, crooked a finger. ‘Dance, my lady?’

‘Coming, Lull.’ She hurried off, but not before she cast a glance over her shoulder at Robert. He couldn’t resist. He bowed his appreciation. She really was a lovely sight. The loveliest woman in the room save for one.

Not that Frederica’s partner did her justice. Pompous ninny. The man knew the steps and performed with dignity, but without grace or feel for the music. The idiot spent most of his time nodding to the other members of the set, or shouting raillery to the other square when all his attention should have been fixed on his partner.

Popinjay.

The back of Robert’s neck prickled. Someone was watching him. Nonchalantly, as if seeking refreshment, he turned away from the dance floor. A swift glance found Radthorn’s puzzled gaze fixed on his person. Robert pretended not to notice and, walking with a limp, headed for the refreshment table. Glass in hand, he looked again. John’s attention was now wholly engaged with a grey-haired lady in the full regalia of the last century and looking as if she had simply pulled out one of her old gowns and wigs. Her long chin reminded him of John’s. This must be the doughty grandmother of whom John had spoken often and with great affection. The woman who had taken Frederica in hand.

Thank God the old dear hadn’t spoiled Frederica’s natural grace and spirit and turned her into a simpering miss like the one dressed as a shepherdess, crook in hand, heading his way.

Robert swung away. He prowled the circumference of the ballroom, avoiding Maggie and the shepherdess with spectacular success until Maggie cornered him beside the orchestra.

‘Dance with me,’ she said, batting her kohl-rimmed eyelashes.

‘Nay, lass,’ he growled.

She pouted. ‘La, sir. You are very rude.’

Flags of colour flew in her cheeks, a sign of her rare temper. Not good.

He pointed to her flimsy sandals. ‘I are mortal afeared of stepping on your pretty little toes.’

She pointed her foot. ‘They are pretty, aren’t they?’ She gazed at his feet. ‘And you are wearing very large boots.’ She reached up and tapped his chest with her flail. ‘But I’ll not take it as an excuse, sir.’

He grinned his defeat. ‘Then, my lady, your wish is my command.’

He led her into a set still in need of couples and she spent the whole of the dance throwing names at him. When they promenaded down the set, she laughed up at him. ‘Why won’t you tell me?’

‘It’s a masked ball. You ain’t supposed to know.’

‘Infuriating man.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘That voice…Are you related to a member of the ton?’

‘Arr, missy. I’m related to the King of Thieves. Aladdin.’

She shook her fist at him, then groaned as the music concluded. ‘I give up, but I will see you later.’

Chuckling at her boldness, Robert stalked back to his pillar. Nearby, Lady Radthorn was engaged in a heated discussion with the master of the house.

‘Of course it is necessary. Do you want the world to think the Wynchwoods are country bumpkins?’

‘I have no reason to care what the world thinks,’ Lord Wynchwood said, wiping his brow. ‘You are giving me a headache.’

‘Then do as I ask. You requested my help, now you will accept it. We invited all these people from town. They expect to waltz.’

‘No.’

‘Oh, you are past bearing.’

‘And you are overbearing. And foolish.’

The two of them stared at each other in silence. Any man with an iota of common sense would have known Lady Radthorn would not be gainsaid.

Lord Wynchwood sagged. ‘All right. I’ll give the instruction. But my niece will not waltz. She will stand right here beside me.’

‘Nonsense. The gel must dance.’

Robert permitted himself a small smile and positioned himself within easy range of his lordship. The Roman, with whom Frederica had danced the last set, returned her to her spot beside her uncle and Lady Radthorn, who continued to argue that Frederica must dance.

Before anyone could instruct her either way, Robert strode forwards and led her on to the floor to the opening bars of the waltz.

‘I say,’ her uncle called out.

‘Too late,’ Robert murmured.

Frederica laughed up at him. ‘True to your profession, sir?’

‘Aye,’ he murmured finding her laugh enough to set wild music soaring in his blood. What was left of his mind he needed for dancing.

She glided in beneath the light touch of his fingers. In his hovel, she’d been earth, grounding him in the here and now. In the ballroom, with the candles playing rainbows among her diamonds and shimmering in the ocean colour of her eyes, she was pure sprite. She floated beneath his fingers, her lips curved in a smile of joy. He felt as if he could fight demons and win.

‘R-Robert?’

‘Hush,’ he murmured into hair scented with vanilla and roses. ‘I’m Mad Jack tonight.’

Her smile grew. ‘Mad indeed.’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘You remembered my story.’

‘I did.’

Her face dropped. ‘But the fox…’

‘Safe and sound. Probably up on Gallows Hill, watching the lights and the dancing and wondering whose chickens to steal.’

A gurgle of laughter curled around him. ‘How?’

‘I trapped the other fox down in the meadow.’

They circled the floor. Despite feigned indifference, he noticed eyes watching him and wondering. Fans fluttered as people asked who he was. He dare not request more than one dance.

‘You will be in d-dreadful trouble if you are discovered, but I’m so glad you are here. I had quite decided not to waltz. But I would have been sorry.’

‘Me too, sweetheart. You deserve to dance all night.’

He swung her in a dizzying circle, her body, as pliant as a willow, moved in perfect harmony. She felt right in his arms, as if they’d been made for one another. Why had it taken so long to find her? And why now, when he could do nothing about it? After tonight she would be the toast of London. The ton despised anything different, except the truly unique. Those they embraced with fervour. For a while. Look at Byron and Brummell. His little wood nymph might well be next.

He caught sight of John watching her with a smile of admiration. His gut clenched. Before long some smooth-talking dissipated rogue would sweep her away with soft words and flattery.

He had no way to prevent it. He could not ask her to give up her life of privilege.

She sighed sweetly. ‘I’m so glad you came here tonight.’

He inhaled her scent. ‘I couldn’t stay away.’ He would have been worried knowing how nervous she was.

She glanced up at him and he saw shadows in her gaze. His gut clenched. Something was wrong.

‘Meet me in my room, when this dance is over,’ she whispered.

He stared at her, startled. ‘Are you mad?’

‘I owe you the rest of that kiss, remember?’

Arousal gripped him fast and hard. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

‘Please.’

Her husky voice sounded so full of longing, he wanted to kiss those lips right at that moment, lose himself in her magic. He fought the urge to crush her close and smiled down at her instead. ‘For a few moments with you, I’d dare anything.’

‘My room is on the second floor.’

‘I know. I helped with the move this afternoon.’

Her cheeks turned a delicate rose. ‘I will make some excuse. Say I need to pin my gown. But R-Robert. Please. Be very careful.’

‘Always.’

For the last few moments of the dance, he lost himself in the depths of her sea-witch gaze and allowed himself to dream it would never end. The music came to a close all too soon.

His arms ached when she stepped out of their embrace. His heart felt empty. Yet he must let her go. He led her back to her uncle.

‘Where did you learn to waltz?’ the old man asked, his chins wobbling and his face a furious red. ‘Disgraceful dance. I am shocked.’

‘Oh, my dear,’ Lady Radthorn said. ‘You looked lovely. Quite lovely.’

Other men approached. Robert could smell their interest. Soon she would be surrounded. Flattered. He wanted to draw his ancient pistol and hold them at bay. Instead, he bowed to no one in particular and withdrew.

On his way across the room, he sidestepped the shepherdess. Fortunately, since Lullington had Maggie’s full attention on the dance floor, he strolled out of the ballroom unnoticed by anyone but Frederica.

The promised kiss had him hot with lust. Careless of who saw him, he ran up the stairs and slipped into her chamber.

Would she dance a set with another of her admirers before she joined him, or would she come right away? He paced around the bed and back to the fire. Five minutes passed. Then another. Damn it. It was all a tease.

The door opened. He dove for the shadows at the head of the bed.

‘R-Robert?’

Joy flooded his veins. He stepped forwards and held out his arms.

She rushed into them and put her mouth up for his kiss. And kiss her he did. Long and sweet, full of his heart and his soul. It wasn’t enough. ‘Oh, sweetling,’ he murmured against her mouth, ‘I have wanted to do that all night. You ran a terrible danger meeting me here.’

‘It is all right. No one thought anything of it.’

He led her to the chair by the window and sat with her on his lap. He kissed her again, sincerely, tenderly, fiercely.

‘R-Robert,’ she gasped, when he at last permitted her to take a breath. ‘What is the matter?’

He forced himself to speak. ‘I just had to tell you how beautiful you look tonight.’

She wound her arms around his neck. ‘Thank you. And thank you for being the first to waltz with me. I wasn’t nervous at all.’

He smiled down at her. ‘I had to see my pupil’s début.’

‘Thank you.’ She kissed his cheek.

He stroked the silky tresses floating down her back. ‘I’d risk anything for a moment alone with you. I felt so bad sending you away, but if your uncle ever found out about us, I fear what he might do to you. I can’t bear the thought of bringing you harm.’

‘I know.’ There was sadness in her voice. ‘And if my uncle finds out you’ve been meeting me, you will lose your position.’

He felt like he’d destroyed something precious, but he had no choice. ‘I don’t care about that, but our worlds are too far apart. I can’t offer you the life you deserve. We have to end this here.’

She rested her head on his chest, her sigh a balm to his heart. ‘Run away with me.’

Shock ripped through him. And longing. He almost said yes, then he imagined the kind of life he could provide, dragging her from one estate to another, never sure of a roof over their heads. ‘You’d lose everything—position, your family. I have no means to support you.’

‘I don’t care. I hate them.’

God, why was refusing her so hard? He’d never before felt as if he was cutting off his right arm when he gave a woman her congé? What was it about this one that had buried itself so deeply under his skin? ‘I care.’

‘Why don’t you just admit that you are tired of me?’ Her voice was husky with emotion, but when she gazed into his face her eyes were hard and bright. ‘If I hadn’t come to ask you teach me to dance, you would not have sought me out, would you?’

He squeezed his eyes shut for a second. He considered asking her to wait until he was well established and become his wife.

A wife? Had he lost his reason? He never stayed with a woman for more than a month or two. It wasn’t in his nature. No. He had to be cruel to do the right thing. ‘No. I never would have sought you out.’

She pushed away from him.

He let his arms fall away. Felt the chill as she slipped off his lap to stand before him.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘If that is what you want, then there is nothing more I can say. I wish you well, R-Robert Deveril.’ She headed for the door.

For a single mad moment, he considered telling her his story. Of unburdening himself. Oh, hell. What kind of man placed his problems on a woman’s slight shoulders? A weakling. ‘You’ll thank me one day,’ he said.

She paused with her hand on the doorknob, not looking back. ‘Will I?’

He cracked a hard laugh. ‘Probably not. Go ahead. I will follow in a moment or two.’

She turned then, her eyes drinking him in as if for the last time. ‘Take care, R-Robert.’

He grinned. ‘Don’t worry about me. Enjoy the rest of your ball.’

‘It won’t be the same.’ On that wrenching admission, she slipped out into the hall and closed the door.

His heart felt as if someone had torn it in two and stamped on the pieces.