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Chapter One

England, 1811:

A splash of late afternoon sunshine flashed across bronzed skin reposing amidst rumpled silk bed sheets in the massive carved four poster. A blond courtesan, expert in ways to satisfy a man's sexual desires, nuzzled the groin of the naked aristocrat.

Sally Brockton learned a number of carnal tricks after being taken in by the madam of an exclusive London brothel. She began as a poor, untutored country girl because of her stunning beauty, but she had fought her way out of the gutter by snaring the title of Countess of Devon as Lady Georgianna Ponsonsby after marrying the aging and slightly senile Earl while he was in his cups.

Today she had greeted her current lover in a filmy negligee and kissed him passionately upon his entrance to her ornate bedchamber. He returned her kiss a little less passionately, and that had her worried. She decided to forego her own pleasure for awhile in order to capture his attention..

Now her well-trained hands and lips gripped and stroked the body of the man lying quiescent beneath them.

The tall, handsome, very rich nobleman had undressed unhurriedly only moments ago. He stretched out full length on the bed, then folded his hands beneath his dark curls while he watched his current ladybird fondle him.

"More?" she murmured, rubbing her cheek against his crisp pubic hair, his engorged manhood standing up as rigid and tall as the flagpole on top of Carlton House, the Regent's palace. "Ah, I do love the feel of you, my lord," she said. "I promise I will make you come very soon. Just a little more," she said, continuing her erotic ministrations.

* * *

Alexander Warner, Marquess of Chester, had decided to indulge in an afternoon's carnal sport before he left London for Trury Priory, his ancestral home. He sent a note around to the countess, having learned that the earl, an avid angler, was away from London with a group of equally aging peers to do some gaming, shooting, and fishing in Scotland.

Normally the marquess made sure his bed partner received his full, amatory attentions during their trysts, but this past week had him edgy and discontented for some unknown reason. Perhaps, it was simply that after a month's tenure in Town amidst London's Polite Society, with its stultifying air of propriety and usual round of balls, routs and other festivities, had bored him to tears.

I need a change of scenery, he decided unexpectedly. Perhaps I will leave for the country for a few week's stay.

Of course, he would invite Georgie and Freddy, and a few other footloose friends to join him there, too. He could not be left alone without people to amuse and keep him company no matter where he lived.

A swift coitus pulsed through him by means of Georgie's well-rehearsed talents. The countess eyed the handsome marquess with some trepidation as he purposely extricated himself from her clinging arms and started to rise from the bed. The marquess was prepared to don his clothes again and leave Town as quickly as possible.

"Stay a while longer, my lord." Her voice was husky with unsatisfied desire.

Stepping over the diaphanous dressing gown lying on the floor next to the bed, Alex picked up his discarded clothing, sat down on a nearby chair, and began to dress. After pulling on his Hessians, he walked toward the countess's dressing table and bent toward the mirror. Twisting a cravat round his neck, he quickly arranged the folds with an expertise that might have surprised his valet.

The courtesan lounging in the center of the bed watched him, making no effort to cover her nakedness. Georgianna believed herself to be the epitome of perfection. Lying bare and sleek against the lace-edged, silk pillows, she was draped only in two long ropes of black pearls. Silver blond hair, startlingly blue eyes, and an unblemished complexion, plus a pair of lush breasts, she was claimed by word of mouth in London's men's clubs as an "incomparable" courtesan well before she snared the earl into an unwitting parson's mousetrap. She was still as strikingly beautiful at the age of five and twenty as she had been at the age of eighteen.

Georgianna was not thinking of herself at that precise moment, but of Alexander Warner. He stood tall and magnificent in front of her dressing table's mirror rearranging his cravat. With his back to her, his saturnine good looks reflected back to her in the glass, the angle from which she watched displaying the breadth of his shoulders, his muscular torso, and a waist narrowed above hips in skintight leather breeches. His lean, athletic physique was without an ounce of excess flesh. Indolent in appearance and manner, his attitude was instinctive, developed by his aristocratic upbringing. Even as a young man, he had exuded a feral strength as smooth and sleek as a jungle cat, every action as powerful and as graceful as one of his thoroughbred horses. Both friend and foe of his had learned early to be wary of his quick moves and his rapid temper.

Like most women,common or aristocratic, Georgianna found the marquess irresistible. Perhaps, it was the lazy appraisal with which he regarded them with a somewhat jaundiced eye. His drooping lids and long, thick eyelashes, his irises the color of slate gray granite, hid his thoughts and reactions while he totally intrigued them. The handsome nobleman had a habit of drawling out his words, enticing those females who were enthralled by simply listening to him. Still, the slight mocking note in the tone of his voice was difficult to identify. Depending upon his mood, he might be serious, sarcastic, or merely jesting. Especially when he cocked a black eyebrow and twisted his lips into an imponderable half smile that had the ladies' hearts fluttering.

Georgianna had seen too many coquetting women pursue Alex Warner relentlessly without success. She had, so far, captured and maintained his interest. She was determined to make certain he did not discard her as many of his former ladybirds had been left to ponder why he never came back. Georgianna learned very early how to please men. Giving the marquess pleasure without demanding her own, she believed, would keep Alex Warner coming back to her bed...or sharing his. After all, the Earl of Devon could not live much longer, and when he turned up his toes, leaving her only a miserly pittance to live on, she wanted to be around to snag a bigger prize.

"When shall I see you again, Alex?" Georgianna asked, observing him as he smoothed and tidied his tousled hair. She heard Warner men were doomed to go gray at an early age, and Alex's ebony tresses, worn in the fashionable windswept style worn by the Regent and his compatriot, George "Beau" Brummell, was heavily touched with silver at the temples.

"I thought we might meet later at one of Prinny's to-do's, but I decided to leave Town instead," the marquess replied. "I expect that affair will be another colossal crush."

"The Regent is bored with war," Georgianna remarked, shrugging her shoulders in a gesture of ennui. "So am I."

"Madam, do you not know that the country is engaged in a desperate struggle for survival. It will be years before we again enjoy peace."

"All that childish war hysteria is quite unnecessary, my lord," Georgianna retorted, slipping her palms down her body to draw his gaze to her naked curves. "The war is all but won. Even Prinny thinks so."

Frowning, Alex snorted uncharacteristically. "I doubt that, m'lady. Men are dying in battle each day while we continue to fight Napoleon and the French." A tinge of contempt seeped into the quality of his grumbling. "If the war is not ended soon by the idiots in Whitehall, even greater courage and more staunch mettle will be needed to end the magnanimous loss of stalwart Englishmen."

In 1805, fearing invasion from Bonaparte's armies near the marquessate in Kent, Richard Warner, Alex's elder brother, joined the King's army. However, the invasion never took place after the French were defeated at Trafalgar. Those rumors continued to be bandied about, however, and many of his own friends had left home to fight the same war his brother had. So, Alex purchased his colors in early 1808, too, and became an integral member of the conflict.

In 1809, Richard was mysteriously killed while attached to Wellington's staff in Portugal. Alex never learned the gory truth of his brother's demise, but by then he knew how deadly and unexpected simply staying alive could be when war and political intrigues attempted to shorten one's life.

Their father died shortly after Richard's demise, and Alex was forced to return to England and assume responsibilities for the marquessate. He pleaded to be able to rejoin his regiment. However, it was too much for Prinny to swallow. The Prince of Wales forbade it when two of the country's highly-placed nobles died within the same year. With the war still going on full force, Alex sold out in 1810 and left the King's army for good.

"Are you never content, Alex?" his current lover, the countess, inquired abruptly, watching his face in the looking glass.

Am I losing my touch? The countess thought.

"By not being content, what do you mean?"

"Discontented with our...arrangement," she answered, her smile wavering slightly. "I always make myself available to you, Alex. I am happy to give up London's frivolities and return to the country whenever you ask."

He knew that was true. She and Freddy Black were, perhaps, his newest, and...closest friends. Turning from the mirror to stand at the foot of the big bed, Alex looked down at Georgianna's voluptuous figure. It was difficult to imagine a more delectable or alluring female, but for some reason, he had enough of their bed sport today. Right now, he was just anxious to leave London.

"Come here, Alex, kiss me again. Make love to me," the wanton countess whispered huskily, reaching out a hand toward the unforgettable nobleman.

Thinking better of the proffered invitation, Alex shook his head. He picked up his jacket from the brocade-upholstered armchair and shrugged himself into the jacket's sleeves. Magnificently tailored by Weston, it hugged his torso without a wrinkle.

Alex Warner was so deliciously handsome, such an uninhibited lover. Georgianna ran avid, devouring eyes over his manly physique. Her mind suddenly switched to thoughts of her ancient husband, the Earl of Devon. Her spouse seemed quite headed into senility. The aged earl had begun wagering too deeply--on cards and dice--even signing the betting book at White's filled with outlandish propositions. And, he gambled and lost--consistently. He thought nothing of wagering hundreds of pounds on the turn of a card or a throw of the dice on those silly pledges at his men's club. Georgianna found out just recently that he bet fifty pounds to another member that Lord Turnbull, whom both men knew, would arrive at White's inner sanctum as usual, no later than ten o'clock that evening. Turnbull walked in a few minutes after ten, caught in a traffic crush that delayed him. The old earl had grumbled but paid up.

Georgianna started to worry where Freddy Black and she would end up. If Devon's fortune disappeared and it could no longer be manipulated or subtly bilked, the former lovers might no longer enjoy their toplofty living style. Freddy and she would end up in the suds--possibly thrown out onto the street or even sent into the Fleet--debtor's prison. The earl's known relatives had already given the upstart courtesan--now Countess Devon--the cut direct.

Half siblings and then lovers, the pair grew up in Derbyshire. At the tender age of seventeen, however, Georgianna had deserted her poverty-ridden family, assumed a new name, and made her way to London to seek her fortune. Christened, Sally Brockton, Georgianna elevated herself into a position of prominence with her beauty, wit, and charm. She had serviced wealthy, old, and middle-aged men who visited the highly acclaimed brothel on Curzon Street for several years. With the help of the brothel's madam and mentor, Georgianna had finally attained her pursuit of wealth and claimed a transient position in England's Polite Society.

Georgianna seduced the Earl of Devon into marriage two years ago when he was in his dotage. On hard advice of his solicitors, a marriage contract was written in such a way that she would receive--at least to her mind--only a token stipend on which to live when the earl stuck his spoon in the wall. Everything else--his title, wealth, and income from several estates--was entailed to a second cousin.

Ponsonsby was in his middle seventies when Georgianna married him, hoping against hope that her meal ticket--and Freddy's--would continue a bit longer.

Frederic Black had read of his sibling and former lover's elevated status in the London Times. He made himself known to her when he returned from the Peninsula with a slight war wound and claimed himself a hero. Soon after, he and Georgianna resumed their former carnal relationship. Georgianna introduced him to the earl and to everyone else she knew as a childhood friend, never mentioning their real relationship. She brought Freddy and Alex Warner together, too, lending her half-brother a certain cachet with ton members, although some had alluded to Freddy's un-noble birth. A brother-in-arms, returned from the Peninsula, Alex soon welcomed Frederic Black into his coterie of acquaintances and hangers-on.

Now, seeing the marquess readying himself to leave, Georgianna begged again, this time more passionate in her wheedling. "Don't leave me yet, Alex, please."

"I've been caught in that trap before, my lady," he replied with an amused smile. "You are always persuasive, but I must leave you. So, say goodbye until we meet again, Georgie. I thank you for an...afternoon's comfort."

"I want you to love me, Alex. I need comforting, too." She paused, pursing her lips beguilingly. "I shall make it worth your while again if you stay."

"You cannot always have what you want, Georgie," Alex chided. "I have an appointment," he said, fabricating a lie, because he simply wished to be shut of her now.

"An appointment? Where? Here?" Sharply, Georgianna snapped the words out. "Or in the country? If it is with another woman, I will tear her eyes out!"

"Now, now, Georgie. Behave." His chuckle deepened, his expression enigmatic. "I will see you soon enough. Why not visit me at the Priory this weekend? I believe Freddy had gone there already."

The marquess strode toward her bedchamber's door.

Swiftly, Georgianna sprang from the bed, naked except for the two long ropes of pearls, their dark opalescence looping around her slender torso and swinging loose. Alex turned when he heard her following him. The blazing, late afternoon sun pierced the undraped windows overlooking Berkeley Square, painting patches of ruby fire across her bare skin. Her thick, pale tresses flowed down her back in a waterfall of corkscrew curls.

A penetrating, musky odor scented the room after their hour of sexual play, mixed with an exotic perfume exuding from Georgianna's pores. She stretched her arms up to Alex and drew his head down to her coaxing lips, seeking his agreement for a round of delicious intercourse with the marquess's well-endowed genitalia.

"I adore you Alex! I told you often enough. Yet you never tell me what I wish to hear," she pursued with a pouting tone. "What more do you want from me?"

Women, even more beautiful than the countess, had asked him the same question. He was surprised by such simplistic inquiries. Always, he found himself at a loss for the answer, unable to put his wishes into words. He knew something was missing. If he only knew what it was, he would hold on and capture it.

"Have you nothing to say?" The countess asked relentlessly, adding force to the equation. "Tell me the truth. Are you bored with me, Alex? Do I fall short of what you want? Somehow--"

He overrode her words. "That is absurd, Georgie. How many times have I told you that you are the most alluring and exciting woman I know."

When they began their affair, Alex decided she was eminently lovely, delectable, desirable--all those things. He also knew what she said had been the truth. Their bed sport and frequent couplings were not enough to satisfy him even after spending almost a month in her bed. It could not be his fault. No, of course, not. He was only thirty, in excellent health, and as virile as any man in his prime could be who adored having daily sex. It must be her fault.

Alex's many carnal encounters over the years often left him cold and wanting something more, missing an element he did not fully understand. Little did he realize that absence of true love in his frequent couplings might never match his youthful yearnings.

Unable to sabotage Alex into protestations of love, Georgianna did everything possible to force him into considering marriage when her husband turned up his toes. Although spoiled by the attention of a bevy of wealthy men, anxiety boiled through her when she didn't get her way. And today she was unhappy about how the marquess was behaving. She had to keep him dangling. She had no wish to upset the applecart she and Freddy planned for themselves.

Gazing up at Alex, Georgianna's cobalt eyes and rosy cupid's bow lips were only inches away. Her lids looked heavy; kohl-enhanced lashes curling against the fragility of her petal soft cheeks. Fire glinted in those blue eyes when she rubbed her pert breasts against Alex's textured wool jacket. An urgent, animalistic moan escaped from her throat. The sensations exploding over her pale skin and rose tinted nipples were not feigned. She was already wet with love juice.

Georgianna had been obsessed by nymphomania long before she arrived at the London brothel. Men thought they were the ones who paid for satisfaction, but she devoured them, as well. A reigning courtesan at the brothel, young and old with lots of gold coin to burn flocked to her expensive, sexual massages and salacious expertise. Georgianna needed intercourse the same way she needed to breathe--on a daily basis. She entertained both Freddy and the marquess whenever she could--morning, afternoon, or nighttime.

Now, Alex bent and bussed the courtesan's cheek with a lack of passion, then took hold of Georgianna's delicate wrists and gently removed them from around his neck.

With an unperturbed expression, Alex scooped her up unceremoniously, walked to the four poster, and dumped her and her enticing buttocks on the feather mattress in the center of the big bed. Smiling at her seductive but losing antics, he said, "Try to behave with some decorum, Georgie. If I do not see you on the weekend, I shall endeavor to return in a few weeks. That is, of course, unless Ponsonsby is back from his fishing trip."

So saying, he strode through the doorway, down the steps and out of the Berkeley Square town house.

Chapter Two

The servants in the Priory and the workers on the estate had always been fond of the former marquess's youngest son. Alex had been a prankster as a boy but often suffered from his father's uneven discipline. Without a mother to coddle them, their father disciplined both sons by prodigious use of a Malacca cane, the youth's backside bent over a polished desk in the marquess's study with the boy's trousers lowered. The fourth marquess wielded it fiercely against those bare buttocks. Their behinds stung and turned black and blue when either son spoke out of turn or rode their horses too recklessly.

Richard, the eldest, was opposite in spirit from his brother. He was serious-minded, usually well-behaved, his demeanor straitlaced, trained since boyhood to assume his father's title. Rarely did Richard feel the caning on his lanky buttocks. The marquess later forgot about discipline when he learned of his sons' lusty, immoral escapades. It was the marquess's considered opinion, like his father's before him, that rank youths were expected to sow their wild oats by fornicating with discreet partners. The marquess firmly believed his offspring would settle into proper behavior when the time was ripe.

As it turned out, the youngest son, Alexander, was the first to marry. He may have wished to wait a while before being leg shackled to Lady Harriet Reed, but she soon bedazzled him with sweet kisses.

And more.

They met accidentally, Harriet out riding and escorted by a pimply-faced groom. Alex was out for a solo jaunt. They succumbed to mutual attraction at the onset, Alex believing it was because of his handsome good looks, charm, and worldly persona.

Lady Harriet Reed, only daughter of a viscount, was a petite blond, and fragile-looking. Alex was entranced by Harriet's ethereal beauty, assured that he had found his true love. For days Alex's eyes and his thoughts were dazzled by her. Then, one day, Harriet managed to elude her groom. The pair of young lovers met in an unused barn on Trury Priory's grounds. Unable to keep his hands off of her, Alex grabbed her shoulders and kissed her, pushing his tongue into her open mouth. He may not have been as experienced as some, but he knew how to please.

"I should not let you do these things to me," she had whispered, her blue eyes gazing into his heated orbs, "but I cannot help myself, Alex."

Then quite abruptly, Harriet pulled away from him and yanked at his clothes, exclaiming urgently, "Oh, do hurry, Alexander!"

She was unbuttoning her riding jacket, pulling it open as she tugged at a lightly-boned corset and silk chemise, exposing her small, pale breasts with their rosy nipples. "I want you to touch me there, Alex. Please," she implored, bringing one of his hands to her bare bosom and pressing a warm breast into his big palm.

Alex had a moment or two of conscience, but his body had already swelled to monstrous proportions beneath his skintight breeches, anticipating the carnal pleasures to come. His hands itched to fondle the soft weight of her breasts. He succumbed quickly to her entreaty and rubbed thumbs again and again over her prominent nipples. When a sharp point dug into his palm, his erection jerked upward, his groin tightening.

Harriet clamped her eyes shut and moaned, low and long.

Alex dipped his head toward a breast and licked the pouting bud.

Harriet squirmed, moaning even louder. "Umm, oh yes! Oohh!" she exclaimed.

Alex sucked on her so hard he wondered if she might give milk. When he switched to the other breast, she grabbed his head with awesome strength for a girl her size and pressed his mouth hard against her.

"Oh, Alex! I love that. Suck me harder. Do more things to me."

They had stumbled to a corner of the barn and fell onto a pile of new, sweet-smelling hay. Harriet now writhed with ecstasy. Alex pinched her nipples, sucked them a while longer, then pulled up the hem of her voluminous riding skirt, pushing it above her hips and out of his way.

He had lain with some willing town girls, but he had never ravished a lady of his own class. And Harriet Reed was a blue blood, a peer's daughter. He knew there would be consequences, but he thought himself truly in love. His blood simmered as flames traveled through his randy body, on the verge of plunging between Harriet's willing thighs.

She frantically plucked at his jacket, trying to help him get rid of it.

"I'll take it off," Alex gasped, yanking his arms out of his coat and throwing it onto the hay along with his waistcoat.

"Hurry," she exclaimed. "Take off your shirt, too!"

Alex stripped away his shirt and cravat, leaving him naked above the waist.

Harriet clamped onto his biceps and dragged him on top of her. She looked wild-eyed, staring up at him, pupils immense in her cobalt irises, her cheeks rosy with heat; her breath coming in whisper-like pants.

"Now, Alex! Come inside me!" she demanded, made frantic by his kisses and the things he did to her breasts.

She scared him a little when she bit his bare shoulder, leaving half-moon teeth marks on his pristine flesh. Blood seeped toward his broad chest.

Alex's erection grew inches long, big around, and hard. With a strangled sound, he pushed a finger inside, between Harriet's thighs, to test her readiness.

"Harriet! Are you ready?"

"Yes! Oh, yes! Hurry!"

When Harriet exhorted him to, 'Take me now' he braced his buttocks and plunged into her in one swift, powerful stroke.

It came to him only much, much later that he didn't recall breaching her maidenhead.

When Harriet spoke again, she smiled, declaring her undying love for young Alex Warner. She clung to him and pressed him to marry her with ardent, wheedling murmurs.

At two and twenty Alex hadn't thought about marriage yet. However, with the love bug biting him unexpectedly and himself engulfed in a wholly improper, clandestine tryst, Alex knew he was obliged to do the right thing. By not doing what was expected of him, he would badly blemish his family's name, title, and honor.

Harriet suddenly displayed a will of iron when it came to a wedding date. She wanted them married quickly by special license. No long engagements.

Their marriage took place in the spring of 1803. Later that year a girl, Beatrice, was born early in the eighth month of their marriage. At first, Alex chastised himself for impregnating Harriet during their initial intercourse. He should have pulled out before spilling his seed. Now, because of it, he carried a weighty burden of guilt on his conscience.

When the babe was born, she seemed very small and fragile, like her mother.

Harriet survived the child's birth but unfortunately, she steadily grew weaker and weaker during the weeks that followed. Their physician blamed it on childbed fever. At the end of the third week, the physician warned Alex that Harriet might not last the night. Grief stricken, Alex sat in a chair next to the bed, silently, solemnly, enduring a painful vigil.

He stared down at Harriet's face, pale and expressionless as the goose down pillow lying beneath her limp golden curls. Remaining there through the dark hours after midnight, he sat at her side. Now and again one of his large palms would reach out and gently take her fragile fingers in his, squeezing them tenderly, hoping for a word from her colorless lips. Time and time again, he whispered how sorry he was that his unbridled passion had taken such a toll on her dainty constitution. Deeply aggrieved and in pain, he allowed no one in Harriet's bedchamber with him, not even her parents. Nor did he permit sorrow and wrenching despair travel across his youthful countenance. He maintained a stoic countenance, his lips pressed together in an unrelenting, tight line. It was only during the waning hours of his wife's faltering handhold on life that he sat alone in the gloom, salty tears flowing from Alex's eyes and trickling down his unshaven cheeks almost unconsciously.

Finally, exhaling so quietly he barely heard the sound, Harriet choked out a soft moan. "A-A...Al...ex."

Roused from his solo anguish, Alex quickly leaned toward his wife. Her dull eyes were wide open, but she was unable to focus. "W-where...are y-you...I c-cannot see...you," she croaked, her voice splintering.

Alex bent close to her ear, after brushing a feather light kiss on her sunken, once petal-like cheek. "Dearest, hush. Don't try to talk. Conserve your strength."

"I...I can't...must...confess...."

"A priest has been here already, Harriet. Rest easy, love."

With great effort, it seemed, Harriet turned to face her husband. "N-o-o-o, Al-ex," she moaned, her words, garbled, caught in her throat. "M-must...confess..."

Her chest suddenly rose and fell alarmingly fast, her lungs straining to suck in air as she fought for every breath. Her slender form wracked by visible shivers, foam bubbled from her lips and clogged the breathing passage to her lungs. Valiantly, Harriet still struggled to continue.

"N-not y-your...child...A-Al-ex."

Alex was not sure what he heard before his wife closed her eyes and turned away from him. A soft rattle escaped from her chest and with a final 'whoosh' of bubbling breath expelled from her lips, Harriet Warner gently released her grip on life and expired.

Alex's lungs seized, the air in them forced out by a sudden and painful clenching of muscles that kept him immobilized after realization hit him. He sucked in more oxygen.

Not my child!

Eight months ago she had been so eager...hardly able to wait for him to make love to her. He never gave it a thought when she begged him, over and over, to hurry. He had thrust into her...wildly...again and again. Never taking the time to notice her maidenhead had already been breached.

Oh, sweet Jesus! She had been pregnant when I took her! That meant...

Beatrice was not his daughter!

The child had arrived earlier than expected, but the midwife told Alex when his wife's labor pains began that it was quite possible for a first child to be early a month or more. It had been a difficult birth for Harriet. The babe was small in size but seemed sturdy and in good health when she finally struggled out of her mother's womb.

Sickened by the discovery of Harriet's betrayal, his masculine pride badly damaged, an angry Alexander Warner cursed and ranted for hours after his wife died, confiding his secret to no one. He speculated as to which of his friends or acquaintances had initially taken her virginity. Was it someone he knew, someone close by, even within the Priory's environs? Or perhaps a culprit in town, like the blacksmith, or the groom from her father's stable.

He should have guessed. He sensed Harriet had a wild streak beneath that fragile façade of hers. Was it not she who approached him first when they were out riding? And was she not the one who suggested they meet secretly in the dilapidated barn?

Nevertheless, Alex was captured by her sweet, untutored kisses at the beginning. They didn't know each other well, even after they wed, but how easily she had fooled him with her innocence, disguising her immoral proclivities, and behaving so ladylike in her demeanor as a proper and chaste wife by not letting him touch her once she knew she was with child. After listening to his wife's garbled confession, Alex realized that the babe was tiny, but full term. Harriet was with child when they met--but who was the father? He would throttle the man if he knew, just to satisfy his own ego if nothing else.

Alex ordered Harriet Warner laid to rest in the Priory's graveyard with no one the wiser that the child, Beatrice, was his wife's bastard.

Mortification and humiliation damaged Alex's painful memories of his wife, embedded like poisoned darts in his flesh, although no one knew the truth. Perhaps not even the child's natural father. If he had been fooled once, though, Alex vowed he would not be fooled again. His youthful crush on Harriet died a quick death along with her demise. He kept her memory alive only to remind him that the conniving wench never told him she was with child until she lay on her deathbed. Harriet had betrayed him, and Alex would not--could not--forgive her or her bastard child. His first thought was to disclaim his parenthood, disown her. But that would turn back on him. He would be a laughingstock amongst his peers--cuckolded before marriage instead of after. So he compromised. He gave the girl his name because he had to, but vowed he would never get to know her or become fond of her.

Mrs. Emma Pritchett, nursemaid and nanny, was hired to take charge of raising Harriet's daughter. Alex hardened his heart from then on, emptied it of any emotional ties toward another man's child. Nor did he longer blame himself for his wife's pregnancy, nor her subsequent death.

Bile and bitterness festered inside him, leaving a sour taste in his mouth about the world of women and marriage. Once a charming and delightful companion when in company of the opposite gender, Alex now used women simply for his own sexual pleasure. If his partner enjoyed his attentions, all the better. Nowadays, his normal liaisons were made strictly with widows or willing, unsatisfied wives. He would never again be caught in a seemingly virginal bind. He shunned the idea of marriage. Forgiveness of any kind now stuck in his aristocratic craw.

* * *

The Marquess of Chester drove his team of matched bays along St. James Street, musing about his loose attachment to Georgianna Ponsonsby. She was possibly the most talented and passionate woman with whom he copulated. And without doubt, she was beautiful. Thank God, he did not love her--but simply fell in lust for her. He knew from the beginning that she was married, of course. But something else about her teased his brain. The beauteous countess had something up her sleeve. He could feel it. If she thought he would jump into the murky marriage market when the earl gave up the ghost, she was sadly mistaken. Then again, was he ready to give her up for someone less talented in bed?

The marquess reined his team into the drive and halted his cattle beneath the pillared portico in front of his town house. Jumping down from his curricle, he threw the ribbons to a groom and strode up the front steps with a new spring in his step.

Chapter Three

The door snapped open abruptly and the housekeeper's voice said, "Daydreaming, again?"

The Honourable Lady Clarissa Manning dragged her gaze from the view outside of her father's study window and shook her head. "Oh, Olly. I was reading this wonderful story. The hero is so dashing and handsome," she sighed wistfully. "And he loved her so much."

First as Clarissa's nursemaid and now as her father's housekeeper, Mrs. Bertha Oliver merely sniffed disparagingly at the young woman's dreamy reply. "Come along now, Miss Clary. You should be out in the fresh air instead of cooped in here reading another one of those silly romance novels."

Bustling into the room, Olly picked up a scarf that was lying on one of the faded chair cushions. A rather shabby lady's bonnet lay next to it and several books had been left to lie on the floor. A striped cat was curled up next to the bonnet.

Clarissa rested her head against a chair's back. "They're not silly, Olly." She defended the book in her hand written by the author, Fanny Burney. "I was just getting to the good part. I wish I could write a book like this."

Bertha Oliver, a rather imposing woman of middle years with a round, pleasant face and a commanding bosom, sniffed through her upturned nose a second time. "I dare say that will be most unlikely, Miss Clary."

"You know as well as I do that we need more income, Olly. If I sold a story...."

"Humph! What kind of occupation is that for a young lady. Besides, it will not bring in much to swell your father's coffers. From what I've heard, authors starve in musty garrets infested with mice and bats before they ever get their book published," she retorted.

"I suppose you are right," Clarissa sighed. "Thanks to Jacob and your vegetable garden, we're well fed. But I am desperate in need of a new gown and bonnet. Fiddlesticks! If I have to go to church in the same bonnet for the next five years, it will fall to pieces while I am singing the Sunday hymns. Then, you surely will be ashamed of me."

The housekeeper twitched her lips but didn't reply.

"Anyway," Clarissa commented, "not that there is anyone of importance that comes to church or notices what I am wearing! Everything is so dull and uneventful around here," she mumbled.

"Come now, Miss Clary," her housekeeper repeated tartly, changing the subject. "You seem a bit crabby. 'Tis fresh air you need to put the roses back in your cheeks and brighten your spirits. Why don't you take up sketching again...or gardening...like other young ladies do?"

"Who? Which young ladies? You know I have no friends my age within walking distance. I cannot even ride to Lower Cadbury because poor Flame is too old and lame to carry me that far. I need the carriage, and Father has hitched up Boliver and taken it."

Seeing she was getting the worst of the discussion, Mrs. Oliver turned and headed out of the study. "I cannot stay here gossiping all day, Miss Clary," she said, sounding grumpy, too. "I've got dinner to prepare. That hen Jacob killed is so ancient I'll have to boil her for hours in order for us to chew through her tough hide," she complained. "About time he got rid of the old biddy, anyhow. She hasn't laid a single egg in ages!" she nodded vehemently. Without waiting for a reply, Mrs. Oliver shut the door behind her and never heard Clarissa's tinkling laughter.

Clarissa had heard the noisy tiff between Mrs. Oliver and Jacob half an hour before and giggled to herself. The age and toughness of the chickens in the barnyard were an everlasting bone of contention between the two middle-aged sparring partners.

Jacob was the man who chopped wood, stoked the fires, planted and cared for the vegetable patch, and cleaned out the stable. He also milked the cow, fed the barnyard animals, and worked to keep his pet chickens alive whether they produced eggs or not. Jacob and the housekeeper fought a domestic war, nothing like the one going on in the Peninsula, but they argued daily.

"Just chop their unproductive heads off and give them to me plucked and cleaned for the stewpot if you please, Jacob," Olly often admonished.

Jacob had sought work at the vicarage a short while after Mrs. Oliver was made housekeeper for the Reverend and Mrs. Manning. Since then, the two had a running battle. Companionable adversaries, they would not know what to do with their time otherwise.

"And would ye like me to twist the stringy necks off the geese, too, Mrs. Oliver," Jacob retorted with a straight face. He was not nearly as fond of the honking geese as he was of the clucking chickens. The geese made a mess of the compost heap next to the garden. However, both women depended upon Jacob's help--now more so, ever since Clarissa's father was away with both church and government business since he also became a peer. No other man they could have hired worked as hard as Jacob for such an inconsequential wage. For the past decade, he had lived above the stables and was happy to remain employed by the vicarage.

Now pacing around her father's crowded study, Clarissa grumbled to herself after Mrs. Oliver left. Money, money, money! If money was not the root of all evil, it is surely the cause of most of our discomfort and anxiety!

She kicked one of the loose pillows lying on the rug and awakened the cat curled up on the chair. With an irritated meow, Tabitha jumped down, opened her mouth wide in a yawn, and stretched. She moseyed around until she found a different spot in the sun and lay back down. Clarissa eyed the striped feline. "It's all very well for you not to worry, Tabby. Look at you. All you have to do is look pretty and purr. I have none of your attributes to fall back on," she muttered.

Launching herself back into a chair again, Clarissa clutched a worn pillow to her chest. It seemed ridiculous to her that her father came into the family's title without a penny to rub between his fingers.

Roland Manning had gone into the church as was traditional for the youngest son of a peer. Their father was deceased, but Roland's brother, Harold, nevertheless, left home to serve in the King's army in 1805 when the French invasion of English shores seemed imminent. Then Harold died, not from battle wounds, but from a raging fever contracted in the army here in England. Reverend Roland Walter Manning became heir to the barony, what was left of it.

Unfortunately, Clarissa's grandfather left a substantial debt when he passed away. The debts were partially cleared up by the sale of the family's estate and its contents. Being both honorable and conscientious, Roland, the new Lord Bosworth, tried valiantly to make payments against what was owed in order to keep himself and his family out of debtor prison. His wife and daughter had pinched pennies from his pitiful church stipend. Such things as new gowns, or even a new bonnet, were seldom easy to come by.

Clarissa's mother, Gwendolyn, had been born to a well-to-do country squire and was never plagued by money worries until she married Roland Manning. "How could Grandfather have been so extravagant?" Clarissa asked her mother a dozen times after hearing Roland's father had decimated the Bosworth's family fortune. Gwendolyn had no answer to give.

Lack of funds had plagued them soon after Roland and Gwendolyn married. Having to scrimp or do without, and never robust, the vicar's wife became more delicate after their daughter was born. Gwendolyn struggled against chronic weakness, but never fully recovered during those years.

Nature finally won the battle. When Clarissa turned seventeen, her mother seemed to fade away rather rapidly. Clarissa blamed her death on the scarcity of herbal tonics or lack of effective medicines. But in truth, these were not completely to blame. Weary of the life she had hoped for and never been able to enjoy any longer, lacking stamina, weak and tired all the time, Gwendolyn had simply given up.

Pausing to gaze out the double windows at a bright spring day, Clarissa often wondered how she and her father would have survived without Mrs. Oliver to clean, cook, run the household, and look after them after Gwendolyn died last year.

Clarissa was now obsessed by money. Increasing the family's income would swell the coffers needed to pay off her grandfather's past debts and help carry on the work of the vicarage. Unfortunately, there were few careers open to well-bred young women without money or backing--unless it was those willing to hire out as companion to some cantankerous old dowager, or accept a stultifying position as governess. Her father, a poorly paid cleric and a debt-ridden member of the peerage, Clarissa herself could not come up with any way out of their money woes.

"First of all, Miss Clary, you're too young for those positions," Mrs. Oliver had chided when they talked about it. "And secondly, the Reverend, would never hear of it."

"I know, Olly. Mama always said a governess lived a miserable life because she was stuck in Purgatory--not fitting in above stairs or below stairs. 'Twas like floating between Heaven and Hell,' Mama said."

"Miss Clarissa! Such language!" Olly scolded.

Clarissa had giggled at her own outrageous words. "I suppose it would not be a comfortable place to be left."

"Besides, you know very well that ladies do not earn wages." Mrs. Oliver sniffed again noisily.

Clarissa had no wish to teach. Neither was she anxious to marry. What other choices were there for her from which to choose? Very few. Still, she dreamed of being a published authoress, penning wonderful novels about handsome heroes and beautiful heroines like the famous Miss Fanny Burney, or perhaps, Charlotte Smith, and Mrs. Radcliffe. Better yet, she would like to live one of those romantic adventures! Ah well...perhaps, someday....

Dismissing her daydreams, she took another look outside. Clarissa saw the sun was shining through the new leaves on the maple trees lined up like soldiers beyond the garden gate.

The weather is fine, so I suppose I should walk down to the apple orchard if only to please Olly.

Clarissa paused, noticing that the housekeeper left that old bonnet on a chair. She picked it up and was about to put it on and leave the vicarage by way of the garden, when she heard a series of loud, frantic raps on the front door.

Who could that be? It was mid-day, after lunch, and not time for tea.

No one was expected at the vicarage. Her father was away conducting a funeral in a distant village and was expected to stay on for the parish's vicar who was on holiday for another week. Surmising Mrs. Oliver must be busy in the kitchen since she didn't respond, Clarissa strode down the hall and pulled open the front door.

She stared in surprise for a moment at the woman standing on the doorstep. "Jane!" She gave a squeal of delight. "Oh, Jane! How good to see you!" Warmly, she hugged her friend. "Come in, come in!"

"It is lovely to see you, too, Clarissa," Jane replied. "I hope I have not come at a bad time."

"Bad time? Silly! Of course not! I am thrilled to see you! Your visit will make my day. It's been so long since I've seen you, and I am longing to hear your news!"

Clarissa poked her nose over Jane's shoulder and spied the fancy carriage parked in the country lane. Attuned to Jane's moods, she noticed her friend seemed agitated, twisting the handles of her reticule around her fingers and fussing with them while she stood nervously in the entrance foyer. Clarissa gestured to Jane to follow her to the small, cozy parlor. "Do sit down, Jane. It is a bit early for tea, but I can ask Olly to bring you some refreshments."

When her friend had settled into a chair, Clarissa smiled down at her. "How did you get here?" Clarissa's tilted her head, glancing toward the parked carriage. "My, my that's quite a fancy rig you came in."

"Oh, Clary, no, I wish nothing to eat. Instead, I want your help."

"My help?" Clarissa repeated the words, her eyebrows lifting, obvious puzzlement crossing her face.

Jane fussed silently, removing her gloves then folding her hands together in front of her chest. Clarissa noticed her friend's knuckles looked white, clenched against the dark blue of her pelisse.

"Oh, Clarissa! I am in such dire trouble!

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