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Chapter One

London, England

New Year's Eve, 1815:

Tucked in amongst the odors of wax and smoking wicks, lavender and musk, lurked the aura of anticipation. Faint, yet distinct, it hung like a scent itself in the heavy air of the Carstairs drawing room.

It became more than a smell. Sophie heard it in the sudden hushing of voices, saw it in the slight raising of eyebrows. Previously attentive gentlemen stiffened, and with polite nods faded away as if they had not been fluttering about her just moments before. Her nape prickled, and Sophie felt like she was a goat staked out in a tiger trap.

"It's Lucas," whispered her friend Minerva, her narrowed silver eyes tracking the movement behind Sophie's back.

Even the music stopped. Lords and ladies stood still in the blue and gold drawing room, their sly glances in Sophie's direction reflected in the mirrored wall.

Just as she turned, the crush parted, and before her eyes, two uniformed Guardsmen strode straight for her, Lady Carstairs's elegantly tall son, and Captain, now Viscount Deverall. Lucas.

Precise as a military tattoo, he halted and fixed his slate-dark gaze on her. Sophie thought her heart had leapt into her throat and gotten stuck.

He was Coldstream Guards to the inch, precision and perfection, all crimson and gold braid and gleaming brass; skin bronzed a soldier's hue, raven hair crisply trimmed, and eyes dark as the sea at midnight. Against her will, Sophie's gaze drew to the elegant curves of lips that once upon a time had captivated her fantasies.

Silence hung between them as the intense, dark eyes bored into her. An admiring smile slid slowly into place. Her throat went dry. She'd seen that lightly lecherous look on his face before, but never when he'd looked at her.

An amused furrow formed between his brows as he glanced back at Carstairs. "What are you waiting for, Carstairs? Must I beg you for an introduction to the lovely lady?"

The air stilled so quickly, Sophie heard her own gasp cut short. Carstairs blinked, as astonished as those in the room about them. His golden gaze flitted back and forth between Sophie and her estranged husband, mounting surprise giving way to mischief. Sophie held her breath, silently begging Carstairs to salvage the moment instead of turning it to one of his little games.

"It's Sophie," Carstairs whispered urgently in his friend's ear. "Your wife."

It was the faintest of whispers, but it rang out in the tomblike silence like church bells on Christmas morning. Sophie groaned. Six years or no, what sort of man didn't recognize his own wife?

Lucas's jaw dropped. His face paled. Winged brows arched high and powerful muscles clamped his jaw suddenly shut as the wave of comprehension swept over him. The look of admiration crumbled, leaving behind the flushed cheeks of anger. His glance darted to every corner of the room before returning to slice through her.

"Devil it." His curse hissed like steam.

Sophie wished she could sink to the floor and crawl beneath Lady Carstairs's blue Aubusson carpet, all the way to the door. He would never forgive her for this.

The arm he extended to her was nothing less than a command. "Obviously, madam," he said, "it is time we renew our acquaintance. Please do me the honor of a walk in the conservatory." Every word, so very proper, held a gravelly, dangerous tone that sent a tremor rippling through her.

Sophie shook her head. He'd never looked more dangerous, not even that awful night so long ago when she'd wondered if he would behead her for her sins. "This is not the place--"

His steel-hard eyes didn't even blink. "We can deal with our business privately or here before everyone. It matters not."

Sophie thought the blood drained from her face. Would he truly air their differences so publicly? Of course he would. He was the most outrageous scapegrace the ton had ever known.

As he grasped her arm, she glanced back at Minerva, but Minerva was no help. Sophie was his wife, and had no choice but to comply. But that didn't mean she had to grovel. Pointedly, she studied the massive hand that completely encircled her arm. Her head cocked haughtily, she focused her gaze on him. "Might we do this more properly, Lord Deverall?"

"Propriety be damned." Yet he loosed his hand.

With the paltriest smile she could manage, she slipped her hand onto his arm, allowing him to lead her through the double doors, and down the long corridor. Just before they reached the grand staircase that coiled through the center of the Carstairs mansion, he stopped and tugged her into a small chamber, shutting the door behind them. Lucas pivoted to face her, once more his black gaze boring into her. Sophie's courage crumbled like an abandoned sand castle in the rising tide.

"Well, my lady, I see you have grown up," he said, his deep voice reverberating inside her.

Sophie licked her dry lips. "It has been above five years, my lord."

"Nearly six. Time enough for a child to mature into a woman. What are you doing here?"

"Here? I was invited."

"By Lady Carstairs? Do you think I believe that? What sort of prank is this?"

"Prank? If you think it a prank, then look to your friend, who is so fond of amusing himself with trivialities. I know nothing of it." She winced. Oh, she shouldn't have said that.

"Still claiming innocence. You should know, madam, I am not in the habit of believing you."

Oh, she knew that well enough.

"Who set you to this, Sophie? How did you know I had returned?"

Sophie's mouth dropped open. "How could I have known, as you have never informed me of your whereabouts? I have known nothing, save that the First Battalion, Coldstream Guards fought in the Peninsula, and it was likely you were among them."

"You just happened to come to town at the same time I returned, and just happened to be in the home of my godmother at the moment I stepped foot in it?"

"I am not here by accident, Lord Deverall, but by invitation. And I habitually come to town for Christmas."

His beautiful eyes radiated ferocity, growing more intense by the moment. "And here you are, in Carstairs House, ingratiating yourself to that same lady. Win her support if you will, Sophie. It will gain you nothing."

An ache drove deeply into Sophie's heart. He still hated her. Her husband, and he hated her. He was not even willing to give her a chance. Shame tangled with humiliation as sudden tears formed in her eyes, held back only by stubborn pride. She blinked, blinked again, refusing to let them loose.

Sophie choked on her voice and had to force it out, squeaking like a mouse pounced upon by a hungry tabby. "As you are already caught in the snare, Lord Deverall, I cannot imagine why you think I should bother with anything else. But you do not seem to realize I am trapped as well. I have not forgotten your edict, to be wherever you are not, and since you are here, I shall take pleasure in going elsewhere as quickly as I might."

Mustering what little dignity she could find, Sophie whirled and fled through the door and down the corridor. As she passed Lady Carstairs, she tossed a fleeting smile and mumbled something or other about what a lovely crush it was. With only the barest of apologies, she darted through the guests and sped down the curved marble staircase, slippers skimming so fast she feared she would trip. Reaching the entry at last, she pushed past the footmen, and outside to the line of waiting coaches.

With the hard bite of frigid air, sense came to her, and she remembered the cloak she had abandoned in her rush to escape her husband's rebuff. Let it be forgotten. She could not go back.

She scanned about and sighed with relief as she spotted her grey and cream coach with its dappled four. She rushed to it, startling the footman, who stood to attention.

"I wish to leave immediately, Johnson," she called to the coachman. "Hurry."

Johnson jumped to the box and the footman barely touched his forelock before he opened the carriage door and let down the steps. Sophie scrambled into the coach and wrapped the carriage robe around her shoulders.

"Hurry!" she called again, at the instant the coach jerked into motion. Sophie lurched backward, then bobbed forward as she balanced herself. Tears flooded her eyes as she huddled beneath the thick carriage robe and shivered.

How she had adored him once, loved secretly the most beautiful man she had ever seen, with the soul-searing infatuation only an adolescent could have. But he had not known she was alive, until her Uncle Harry had shoved a dueling pistol in his face and suggested he quickly recite his wedding vows.

For six years, she had shut away that humiliating time and gone on with her life as if she had forgotten she was married at all. Yet she had hoped he had matured and mellowed as well. She had hoped something might yet be made of this travesty called a marriage.

But nothing had changed. He still blamed her. Hated her.

* * *

Lucas stopped cold in the doorway, clutching his fists to fend off the knifelike jabs of pain in his bad knee as he warded off the shock of encountering his unrecognized wife. Which was worse? The pain or his stupidity? Devil it, he knew better than to twist his knee like that. But he'd been momentarily stunned.

Stunned! He'd walked right up to her and stood there, slavering like a country bumpkin with his first opera dancer. What a moon-faced fool she must think him!

Tiny smirks lurked in the faces of those who swept past him in the corridor, the only sign they had seen anything untoward. He'd never live this down. Good God, was that really Sophie? He could still hear her screaming like an innocent, as he stared in utter incomprehension at the skinny child who had somehow managed to get herself into Nellie's bed. It had been a trap from the beginning that Harry had set up just to nab a titled husband for his strange little half-German ward.

"Deverall, wait."

Heated rage crept up his neck again. He hobbled down the corridor, anger and pain competing furiously for his attention. Damn her. Damn Carstairs! Damn them all! "For what?" he snarled. "Have something else up your sleeve, Carstairs?"

"Come down to my study," Carstairs urged, "before Maman rings a peal over you for making a shambles of her gala."

Grumbling, Lucas hobbled after Carstairs toward the unoccupied back stairs. The chit was right about one thing: it had every mark of one of Carstairs's tricks. "Devil take it, Carstairs, why didn't you warn me?"

"Warn you, old chap?" Carstairs's golden eyes twinkled in his genial face. "Never occurred to me you wouldn't know your own wife. Knee bothering you, is it?"

"It's fine," he growled back. "You know what I mean. What happened to the skinny infant? You could have told me she's become a beauty. Could have told me several things, I'd say."

Carstairs's bronze eyebrows rose high before settling down above amber eyes. "Beauty, is she?" He shrugged, as if he hadn't the slightest notion Lucas was furious with him. "I suppose. Not my sort, of course. But surely you must have suspected she would mature in six years."

Certainly. But he'd never expected to find a siren that would turn his knees to mush. That was the last thing he needed.

"A long time to leave a wife unguarded."

Lucas studied his friend's deceptively amiable face. Carstairs did love his little games. "She's taken a lover?"

Again the elegant shrug. "Not that I've heard. But it's commonly thought a slice from a cut loaf is rarely missed. Come now, Deverall, it's well known you had no interest."

"That hardly means I invited interlopers."

But yes, he had. He'd even said as much in his parting, that he cared not a whit what she did as long as she stayed away from him. But this was hardly the chit he'd left behind, a girl so timid, Lucas had wondered if she even spoke English.

"Things have changed. I seem to have need of a wife now."

"Ah. The title and all that. Must get about the business of begetting heirs."

The pain in his knee dulled as they descended the narrow stairs and wound through the nearly deserted corridors of the east wing's first floor. Lucas concentrated on disguising his telltale limp as Carstairs canted his head, beckoning Lucas into the huge study.

Lucas followed, giving Carstairs a narrowed look. "Having already been handed a wife, or shall we say, had one shoved in my face, there's no choice in the matter. But she nearly ruined my life once. She won't have another shot at it. I'll take her back, but she won't find me dancing to her tune like those silly fops that buzz about her like bees on lavender."

Carstairs poured two small glasses of brandy from a triangular ship's decanter that had been his father's from some long-forgotten adventure. Instantly, Lucas's wariness aroused, hoping their old wildness had not again reared its ugly head.

"Curious, are you?" Carstairs smiled lightly, holding out a snifter for Lucas, and raising another within a hair's breadth of his own lips. "Never fear, my friend, I have not broken our pact. We pledged to end overindulgence, not to abstain. But nothing is quite like the aroma of a fine brandy. And you?"

Lucas breathed again and accepted the glass. "I learned my lesson. The middle of a war is a dangerous place to be cupshot."

Carstairs nodded back, his mask of congeniality darkened by some unnamed memory as he studied his brandy. "My few months at war cannot compare with your years, but I saw enough at Barossa to persuade me we made the right decision."

With a heavy sigh, Carstairs settled deeply into the leather chair and stretched out his silk-stockinged legs upon the gout stool. Lucas sat opposite him where he always had. He had missed Carstairs. Missed him, his mother, even the old earl, now more than ten years gone. Missed everything about this huge, never-changing mansion.

But he didn't have time to reminisce. He had to untangle this new coil before his bedamned wife knotted him in it. "You knew she would be here tonight, didn't you?"

"Not precisely. Of course she is acquainted with Maman."

"And any fool could have inferred the remainder. Give over, Carstairs."

"You think we planned it?" Carstairs's golden brows rose in mock offense. "I had no notion you were arriving, any more than Maman, or Sophie, for that matter. In any case, Maman would have been furious with you if you had not attended."

"And if you had told me, I would have refused."

Carstairs's usual affable smile quirked ridiculously.

"Dash it, Carstairs, of course I would! Nothing like a public display of one's laundry."

"Never saw that stop you before."

Lucas growled, but an argument was hopeless. Trouble slid off Carstairs like ice off a warming eave. "Now, what do you suggest? I haven't a hint where the chit might be staying."

"Indeed?"

He shook his head. "I thought she still lived with Harry in Somerset."

"Harry died, you know," said Carstairs, frowning at his glass. "Left everything unentailed to your lovely wife."

"Did he?" In a flash of memory, Lucas pictured Harry on a drunken midnight steeplechase through the fields of Somerset, his nightshirt flapping beneath his sloppily buttoned coat. "I had not heard. Rather young, wasn't he?"

Carstairs sipped at the glass that seemed still as full as when he had poured it. "Barely three years our senior. Bad lungs. Could solve some of your problems, Deverall. You may not like the state of your affairs. Rumor has it your brother was none too plump in the pockets when he cocked up his toes. Maman hears all those on dits, you know." His face brightened again, and his eyes, brandy-colored in the darkened study, shone. "But cheer up. Maman is useful for all sorts of things. Since she knows the lady, she also knows her direction."

* * *

Sophie watched in awed silence as the butler removed Minerva's cloak, not entirely sure if it was Hargrove or Minerva who made it seem like privilege.

Minerva's silver gaze trailed over the chaos of hastily packed trunks lining Sophie's foyer. "Whatever are you about, my dear?"

"Packing," Sophie replied, wincing, knowing Minerva thought her cowardly. "I must be gone before Lucas decides to do something. But I'm sure a bit of a pause would do me good, and Hargrove has just called for a chocolate pot. Will you join me?"

She had no need to ask. Chocolate must surely be the very foundation of their friendship. She turned to lead Minerva up the curved staircase into the blue salon.

"Indeed?" Minerva arched her brows. "You think he will expel you from town? Whyever would he do that?"

They took their habitual places in the blue India chintz chairs. Sooner than she expected, Hargrove appeared with the Meissen chocolate pot and two gilt-edged cups on a tray. Like smoke on a windless day, the beckoning scent of chocolate wafted up and tantalized Sophie's nostrils.

"He has not changed," Sophie said, filling both cups. "Wherever he is, he wishes me on the opposite side of the world. He quite detests me, Minerva, and I cannot bear it."

Minerva sipped from her cup, and the makings of a smile tugged at her lips. "I rather thought he would devour you."

Sophie smiled ruefully. "I thought I would be eaten alive, Minerva. The man believes I have ruined his life. I am not at all what he wanted in a wife."

"Really?" Minerva lifted her elegant brows. "Perhaps you underestimate yourself, my dear. You were always attractive, even when you were so very young, but time has favored you immensely. I have no doubt Deverall noticed."

Sophie knew better. If anything, Lucas was enraged to find her here. He had obviously meant to resume his debauchery, and she had made a fool of him instead. "I apologize for leaving you so abruptly last night, but I hardly knew what to do. It should not surprise you that he blamed me for the entire debacle."

"You bolted."

Sophie tried in vain to hide behind her tilted cup as heat crept into her face. "It was not that, exactly."

"Bolted," Minerva repeated. "Really, my dear, I cannot imagine what he could possibly do to you. You hold all the cards, you know."

"What do you mean?"

"You cannot see it? He is bound to learn you have become quite the toast. As he is now a peer of the realm, he surely recognizes the value of such a wife."

"Lucas? The scapegrace never cared a tuppence what others thought of him. I don't want to be his wife, anyway. I should far rather be a country spinster."

"A bit late for that, don't you think?" Minerva said, and turned in her chair, craning her neck to peer past the pale blue velvet draperies of the salon. "And a bit late for leaving."

Sophie dropped her cup to clatter to the table. She jumped up and scurried to the window in time to see Lucas mount the white stone steps outside her terrace house. Her mouth went dry.

"Hargrove!" she shouted, dashing into the hall to peer over the brass railing down to the pink marble foyer floor.

Below, Hargrove was already opening the door.

"Tell him I'm not here," she pleaded to Minerva.

"But sir!" Hargrove's fluttering voice echoed in the rounded foyer as footsteps beat a punctuated rhythm across the foyer and on the lower steps. "Sir, you can't--"

Sophie dashed back to the blue salon as if it might magically provide some safety for her.

"Give over, my dear," said Minerva, catching up to her. "There's no escape. At least face him down. Don't let him know you're afraid."

"I'm not afraid--"

"Yes, you are. Just don't show it." Minerva rested a hand on Sophie's shoulder. "And I am here beside you. Scarcely a man in the world wants to tarnish his luster before a woman who is not family. Within the clan, of course, is quite another thing. Come now, square your shoulders. Set that pretty little nose of yours in the air. That's it, high enough to look down to him."

Sophie's pulse pounded in her ears. He would make her pay, now. "He's a giant. How can I look down to a giant?"

"Just imagine it, then. Come now, you know I cannot bear it when a man gets the best of a woman."

The paired mahogany doors swung open, framing Lucas's form in dark silhouette by the skylit corridor behind him. Rapidly, Sophie recited Minerva's words in her mind as she forced her shoulders to square and lifted her chin.

Hargrove peered around Lucas's shoulder, his face wrinkled in an urgent frown. "I'm sorry, my lady, I could not--"

"Never mind, Hargrove," she said, mentally plucking little bits of courage from some obscure place and tucking them around herself. "Please continue with the packing."

With barely a glance at Minerva, Lucas fixed his gaze on Sophie, advanced on her with purposeful strides, and came to a precise halt before her. His white-gloved hand fingered the gilt basket of his sword. "Excuse your friend, madam."

Sophie glanced at Minerva, who responded with a minute lift of her chin. Swallowing down the wad of fear that felt like a rag stuffed down her throat, Sophie raised her own chin in what she hoped was some semblance of Minerva's icy disdain. "I wish her to remain. Lord Deverall, you recall Lady Barrington, Lord Barrington's widow--"

"We've met. However, our business is personal."

"Nevertheless, I wish her to stay."

He assessed Sophie with the look of a gentleman appraising a horse he considered purchasing. Or shooting. "As you wish. I see you have rented a house."

"The house is mine, Lord Deverall."

"Yours?" His gaze swept about, weighing, measuring, valuing the entire contents of the room in that single sweep. "I do not recall a house as a part of your portion."

"It was not. It is mine by inheritance."

"From Harry, then."

Sophie kept silent. Let him find out the hard way.

Lucas picked up her china cup from the little Sheraton table and surveyed the dregs of chocolate. "You appear to be going somewhere, Sophie. Where would that be?"

Her throat closed down. She locked her hands together before her. "Willow Haven. If I had known you were coming, I would gladly have left already."

"Ah, yes. Surely you have had quite the time in town in my absence. But our circumstances have changed. Your scheme has paid off for you at last."

"My scheme?"

Holding the captive cup, Lucas sauntered to the chimneypiece, his crimson coat flexing with his broad shoulders. His gloved finger traced voluptuous carvings in the dark grey marble, then reached to the clock on the mantelpiece to run a finger over its delicate china shepherdess. "Come now, Sophie, you need not play the innocent. You played your cards well and won the hand. Now you are a viscountess. You are to be congratulated."

"I did not--"

He pivoted back, his eyes darkened, narrowed. "But now you will also have to become a wife, Sophie. A real one, not simply a gossamer creature floating about golden ballrooms."

"But I--" she squeaked. Dear heaven, her voice squeaked!

His harsh smile suddenly sweetened. "I am prepared to forgive the past, so that we can get on with this business."

He meant to forgive her? It was he who had wronged her!

The sweet smile extended, magnanimous and imperious. "However, there will be no further liaisons."

Liaisons? Bloodthirsty rage boiled up into her chest. Forgive her, would he? He thought she was as corrupt as he? Something inside Sophie cracked and broke, that last forlorn fantasy she had cherished so long, that he might someday become the prince of her dreams. He would not. He was a toad. Warts and all.

"Forgive me?" Her voice rose with her fury. "How dare you? My father was Count Otto von Scharnburg, a cousin of the Hanovers, and my mother the daughter of the ninth Earl of Willaton. I am not your inferior, and will not have my integrity impugned. Take your forgiveness elsewhere. It is not welcome here."

His eyes widened. Lucas clenched the fragile gilt-trimmed cup as if he meant to crush it, making Sophie think of a featherless baby robin, helpless in its nest. A growl rose in his throat. "And you are also my wife."

"Wife?" Sophie forced down a scream of rage. "This has never been a marriage, and I have no interest in making it one now. If a divorce were possible, I would insist on one, but as it is not, I shall simply demand a separation."

His nostrils flared and his dark eyes riveted her. He raised the cup to his lips, threw back his head and drained it of its last drop, and as his fierce gaze returned to her, his perfectly gloved hand set the delicate cup on the table without a sound.

"Now that you have a real title? Very clever, Sophie, but I think not. You connived to trap me, but you succeeded only because I chose to protect the very reputation you so freely sacrificed."

"I am amazed that you still believe that fiction. I thought surely you had sobered up by now. You were the victim of your own drunkenness, not any act of mine."

"And you still deny it?" His jaw set, iron hard. "I behaved honorably despite your deceit. I gave you my name, and now you will honor it. Whatever is yours is mine, and I have no intention of maintaining you in a separate residence."

Rage stiffened her spine and she gripped her fists in tight balls, fighting the urge to leap and claw at his arrogantly handsome face. She raised her chin perilously high and held her breath, battling to force cold composure into her voice.

"What a toad you are." Sophie whirled away and grabbed Minerva's hand, to stalk toward the salon door.

"Just where do you think you are going?"

She snapped around, and as she spotted the deepening color in his face, malicious pleasure filled her. "I have already informed you of my intentions. Come along, Minerva. Let us leave him to enjoy this house he thinks is his."

"Sophie! Come back here!"

His sharp voice sliced through her, and Sophie flinched as she raced down the corridor with Minerva, hearing the clomping of boot heels behind them on the salon's hardwood floor.

She shoved down the brass door handle of the rose salon, pushed Minerva into the room, and slammed the door. But it had no lock. He could follow them with impunity, and he had surely seen them leave the corridor.

"Magnificent," whispered Minerva, behind her. "Now what?"

What, indeed? Hardly a point in a magnificent exit when one could not get away.

"To my chamber." Sophie dashed over the floral carpet to the servant's entrance at the far side of the salon. With any luck, he would not see them enter the back staircase.

Sophie pressed her ear against the mahogany door. Not even a shuffle of noise came from the other side. She eased the brass handle down, hearing the faint click of the latch.

The door cracked open. Before them, a dark shadow filled the doorway and formed itself into a man. Midnight eyes glowered beneath winged brows as Lucas wedged himself in the door and barred the frame with massive arms.

"It appears, Sophie," Lucas said, his icy-sweet tone sending chills down her spine, "that I have caught you unprepared. You must have some time to become accustomed to your new status. I shall not press you, for now. Three days, Sophie--No, I shall be generous. You may have a week, and I shall come for you."

He bent in a mocking bow, then pivoted with military precision. The cadence of his footsteps echoed like a dire tattoo in the corridor and down the stairs.

Frozen, Sophie stood in the doorway until she heard the foyer door shut. She ran the length of the corridor back to the blue salon and the windows overlooking Berkeley Square, and reached for the pale blue velvet draperies.

"Ah! Don't touch them!" hissed Minerva. "He's certain to look up. You don't want him to catch you looking after him. Just stand back. You can see from here."

She dropped her hand and stepped back, her skin fairly itching with the urge to ease back the heavy fabric as she watched Lucas dash down the stone steps to the street. Then, just as Minerva had predicted, he whirled around and glowered, directly up to where she stood. He pivoted back, then leapt to his carriage and with a crack of the ribbons, sprang the horses.

Sophie forced herself to breathe deeply as she sank into the India chintz chair, and her pounding heart slowed. Her hand shook as she picked up the endangered china cup he had just drained, and as she stared at its emptiness, her body calmed. Fury returned.

"I rather wish you had not run," Minerva said, returning to the other chair. "It gives the impression of fear, you know."

Sophie knew. But she couldn't help it. Just a look from his glowering black eyes could set her to shivering. Angrily, she gritted her teeth, determined she wouldn't flee again.

"I cannot believe his arrogance. Forgive me! As if I had done anything wrong! He was the one who broke into my room, climbed into my bed and passed out atop me, and I have wished a hundred times I had not lost my head and screamed! Fie on Harry and his house parties! I tell you, Minerva, I have never seen a creature as deep in his cups as Lucas was that night!"

"Naked, too, as I recall," Minerva replied.

"Yes. Quite marvelously so, unfortunately."

Minerva refilled their cups with a steadiness Sophie could not even imagine. "What else you might have done, I do not know. But you are right, he is a toad. What will you do now?"

Sophie studied the gold scrolls on the china cup, recalling the mental image of the baby robin, so fragile in his monster hands. With a shake of her head, she set the cup down and stood. "Do? I shall not simply take up with him in his bed, you may be sure. But I don't know what I can do about it, as I am not particularly skilled in this sort of thing. I have never wished him harm, before. But how I would like to make him pay, now!"

Minerva's eyes took on that bright, intriguing gleam for which she was famous. "Would you, indeed? That is my specialty, of course. But if such things are to be truly memorable, they must come from the heart. I'm sure you will think of something."

"I should like to see his face when he learns the truth."

"About your inheritance? That would be pleasant. How do you suppose he will find out?"

Sophie brought the tips of her fingers to her lips, taking pleasure in the way a new and very wicked thought formed in her mind. "I shall not tell him, of course. I believe I shall leave that to his man of affairs."

Chapter Two

"Feme sole?"

Lucas straightened abruptly and looked up from the papers spread over the desk in his townhouse study to stare at his solicitor. He ignored the snickering cough from Carstairs who draped himself over his favorite leather chair.

Smithson cleared his throat and his narrow Adam's apple bobbed. "Um, yes, my lord. It means she has inherited from her uncle in the same manner as if she were a single woman, and retains the right to make her own decisions regarding it."

"I know what it means," Lucas retorted as he frowned at the hastily written settlement agreement Harry had shoved at him for signature six years ago. Not once since then had it occurred to him to ask what might have been in it. "But whatever was Harry thinking? Surely he knew I would not abuse the funds."

"I wouldn't know, my lord, as I am not her man of affairs, only yours. It could be a stipulation from her parents, or something of that sort. The uncle was her guardian, you know."

He had known that. But little else. He was beginning to wish he had not so thoroughly shut the chit out of his mind and life. "What of her parents, anyway? Doesn't anyone know anything about them?"

The little man sighed. "I'm afraid I cannot enlighten you. Surely you must have known something before you married her."

The polite suggestion stung. The responsibility of knowing one's wife could hardly belong to a solicitor. Lucas squirmed. The truth was, he had probably been told it all, but had been either too foxed or too furious at the time to hear it.

Carstairs cleared his throat and re-crossed his legs. "According to Maman, her mother married von Scharnburg, a German count. They died on the Continent when Lady Deverall was quite young, and she was sent back to her only English relative, the Earl of Willaton--Harry."

Lucas frowned at his friend, who only smiled back.

Smithson nodded with tight gravity. "Yes, but the language of the settlements is quite obscure, rather hastily written. Some sort of inheritance probably passed from her parents, most particularly her mother, through her ladyship's uncle. From whatever source, your wife appears to be a very wealthy woman."

"And completely independent of me," he agreed, dismay settling on him like a pall.

"Indeed, my lord. In trust. You can't touch it."

Lucas gritted his teeth. The money wasn't important, but an independent wife was more than he intended to allow.

"There are ways, of course, my lord," Smithson said. "The courts are notoriously unfair to wives. However, if you should reconcile, it could provide the solution to the debts."

Lucas frowned. "I will manage my own--What debts?"

The man cocked his head, blinking. "You did not know? But surely my letter--"

"Letter? It spoke only of Charles's death, and the title."

Smithson paled. "Oh, no, my lord, there were two letters, the first, as you have said, and the next--But perhaps it arrived after you left Paris, as it was not sent until November."

"Obviously, I did not get it. Enlighten me."

Smithson's Adam's apple bobbed like a leaf in a rushing stream. "I have had the displeasure of being contacted by a number of your brother's creditors, my lord. I have done my best to placate them, but the debts are extensive. There has been some rumble about forcing a bankruptcy on the estate, and of course I could not allow that to happen."

Lucas went deathly still. He glanced at Carstairs and back at Smithson and his nervously jumping Adam's apple. "Impossible! The estate was perfectly solvent! How could it possibly have got in such a state?"

"Um, restorations, I believe," said Smithson, gulping again.

"What?"

"There were other things, furnishings, and the like. And he was known to pay exorbitant sums to anyone who professed ability to cure his illness. But it appears he took on a major restoration of the family estate in the Classical mode."

"Classical?" Horror twisted in Lucas's gut. Was this a nightmare, like the ones he got from sleeping on frozen ground? "Devil take it, man, it's a Tudor manor! There's not a hint of the Classical about it!"

Smithson groaned as if he were personally responsible. "Um, yes, Lord Deverall. But your brother was not well in his final years. His illness, well, his mind was quite affected."

Lucas stared, stunned. Gone empty in the cockloft after all? The very thing Charles had most feared.

Lucas turned to face a dark portrait of Charles that hung on the far side of the study. But his mind pictured instead a different one that hung at Deverall Hall, of Charles as a man in his thirties, and Lucas standing beside him, then a child of ten. He could still feel Charles's reproachful gaze when Lucas's fingers had fidgeted in the fringe of the scarf draped over the chair during the relentlessly long hours of posing.

A hard ache formed in his throat as the reality finally sunk in. His brother was really gone. Poor Charles, so odd and distant. So strange and dour that Lucas had escaped to the Carstairs home whenever he could to avoid him. And Charles had died alone. Because of an argument. And stubbornness. Grief and regret felt like claws at Lucas's throat.

Lucas let out a harsh breath. "His mother was quite mad, and died of it, whatever it was, as did his great-grandmother. He was so afraid the same would happen to him, he insisted I should be his heir, as I have a different mother."

Carstairs and Smithson merely nodded.

Lucas sank back into the chair. "I suppose you should explain my situation, then."

With a swallow, Smithson carefully detailed each estate, its assets and liabilities. "I have forestalled disaster using of with available funds, including Lady Deverall's allowance, but there is much yet left to pay."

"My wife's allowance?" Lucas bolted upright. "You took my wife's allowance? Two thousand pounds?"

Smithson glanced about as if he sought a table to crawl under. "Actually eleven, my lord, as she has not collected any of it. But please rest assured she was in agreement."

"I don't care if she was in agreement or not! I'll not have it be said I do not properly support my wife!"

"My lord, please," said Smithson, holding out a pacifying hand. "We had little alternative. The lady assured me you and she can settle the matter later. But you could not be reached and the situation was most dire, and the lady could not bear that you might lose your family property and she do nothing about it."

Lucas stared, trying to force his gaping mouth shut. Sophie had paid his debts? With her pin money? And she had never collected any of it? What had she meant to do with it, then? Of course, she had always known she would eventually become viscountess, so perhaps she thought it in her best interest to protect his title and property. But why had she not collected what was by any account due to her?

"I see," he said, although he did not at all. "So then I owe the lady eleven thousand pounds."

"More, my lord. Something over fifty thousand."

Lucas thought he'd choke. He glanced at Carstairs and saw none of the usual bemusement in his friend's face.

He sighed. "Then pay what can be paid. I care only about Deverall Hall and Featherstone, so put everything up for sale. Return goods wherever you can. How would I be doing, then?"

The solicitor eyed him carefully. "Perhaps we might hold them off, my lord, if some sell immediately. The difficulty is that the debts have ridden along for some time, and the interest accrued is astronomical."

As the nightmare grew like a storm cloud, somehow Lucas kept on breathing. He knew how those things worked. A creditor could demand as much interest as he chose, and soon the debt could be many times the original amount. He had never thought to find himself in that fix. "And I am liable, even though the debts are not mine?"

"No, my lord, only the estate is liable for the debts. Deverall Hall is entailed to the title, so it cannot be seized, nor can your inheritance from your maternal grandfather, not being part of the Deverall estate. Naturally, personal property relating to the estate is vulnerable. But as you now hold the title and are executor, well, that muddies things."

Every last rake and pitchfork. Lucas searched the man's eyes as if he might find some solution in them, but Smithson only returned a look of deep concern.

Lucas gritted his teeth. "Do what you can, Smithson. Sell everything that isn't nailed down."

"If I might suggest, My lord?"

"By all means, Smithson." He'd listen to anything.

"There is the matter of Lady Deverall."

"What about her?"

"As I said, she is quite wealthy."

"And you also said I can't touch it."

"Yes, my lord. But surely a man of your capacity--She might be persuaded."

Lucas snarled. "And would you prefer for me to kiss it, or kick it out of her?"

Smithson's face paled. "My lord, I only meant--The ladies do find you charming, my lord."

Obviously, Smithson did not know the extent to which Lucas had already alienated his wife. "If you are a betting man, Smithson, don't put your blunt on that one."

A narrow smile crept across the solicitor's face. "However, my lord, as I have already spent a bit of time assessing your chances, might I suggest the result might be worth the risk?"

The solicitor's sly smile hinted at something more obscure. And Lucas did value the man's insight. With a thoughtful nod, he excused the little man and plopped down in the leather chair across from Carstairs. Gloomy silence enveloped them, hanging like low fog.

Carstairs crossed his very long legs and propped them back on the gout stool. He swirled the honey-colored liquid in his snifter. "Nasty little coil," he said. "Of course, it was quite well known that the bats were loose in the loft."

"I would have come home if I had known," Lucas replied, almost growling. "Unfortunately, no one saw fit to tell me."

Carstairs's vacuous smile suddenly returned and broadened. "Do not lay that upon my doorstep, old friend. I had not seen Charles in years. Not since--"

"Since he pitched me out on my ear for my unfortunate marriage. Called me a scapegrace no better than my mother, as I recall." Lucas sighed in self-disgust. "Yes, I know. I can blame no one but myself."

"So then, what are you to do? There is that rather delectable piece with whom you have that unfortunate marriage."

"That delectable piece has it firmly set in her mind to keep the title and dispense with the less formal aspects of marriage."

Carstairs choked on the brandy he had just swallowed as his high-perched bronze eyebrows rose to new heights. He threw his head back in a loud guffaw, shoulders heaving.

Lucas glowered. "Hardly funny, Carstairs."

"Never thought to see the day a female gave you your congé."

"She wanted a title, and now she's got it."

With an amused frown, Carstairs stared into the depths of his snifter. If Lucas didn't know better, he would swear his old friend was foxed, but almost none of the fine French brandy had actually been consumed. It appeared that Carstairs did not have drinking down to a fine art.

"And you, my dear chap, are still her husband."

"I hope you don't mean that the way it sounds."

"Violence? Of course not. Maman would have us both drawn and quartered and hanging on a pike. And I should have to call you out myself, should you become anything like Barrington was. But a man does have his rights."

The thought of Lady Barrington's vicious deceased husband brought the taste of bile to Lucas's throat. But the comparison did not apply. "And Sophie has her money," Lucas replied. "She can live utterly independent of me."

Carstairs leaned back, studying some obscure detail in the wainscoting. "What does she want, do you think?"

"Want? No doubt she thought she was marrying wealth and title. She was willing enough then to sacrifice her good name for it. Now she has not only the title, but wealth of her own, and she is in fact better off without me."

Lucas watched, fascinated, as his friend sniffed, swirled, studied, and sipped, yet did not sip, his brandy. Why, if he did not wish to drink it, did he make such a play of it? Yet in some strange way, he found it fitting with Carstairs's character.

"Yet she paid your debts with her pin money," Carstairs said. "That surely accounts for something. What?"

"She had to keep me afloat until I returned, or there would be only the skeleton of a title to gain."

"Then, if the title were threatened, she would act." The golden brows arched. "Yet such a lady is usually anxious to produce the necessary offspring to assure her place."

To that, Lucas let out a mirthless chuckle. "Simply a ploy to consolidate her position and control."

Carstairs shook his head. "She's afraid of you, Deverall."

"Afraid? She has the tongue of an adder! But after what she did, she should be worried, even though I've made it quite clear I am not seeking vengeance."

"Ah."

Lucas gritted his teeth. How irritating Carstairs was when he had a game afoot. "What is the meaning of 'ah', Carstairs?"

"Nothing, I suppose. As I said, a nasty coil. I wonder what you will do about it?"

"There really is only one choice, isn't there?"

Carstairs cocked his head with a knowing smile. Setting aside the barely touched brandy, he stood and straightened his waistcoat. "Indeed. So, where shall it be tonight? White's?"

Lucas stroked at his chin, remembering his earlier encounter with Sophie, the way his heart had raced. A rush of foreboding engulfed him. It was never wise to give a woman power over a man, and she above all women could not be trusted with it. But he could manage it. He simply needed to gain control of the situation.

He'd got off to a bad start with her, but that could be changed. She just needed the proper guidance of a man. He discovered the swirls in his own brandy, and how they mirrored the strategy forming in his mind. He had never in his life forced a woman, never would. Not even his own wife. Kissing, on the other hand, was something at which he excelled. "No, I think not," he replied at last. "There is the Marston affair tonight, is there not?"

Carstairs arched his brows.

"I believe I am about to become that very rare creature, the Englishman who romances his own wife."

Chapter Three

"Speak of the devil," said Minerva, her silver eyes taking on a sheen like hard metal.

They had not, in fact, been speaking of anyone. But Sophie knew exactly who Minerva meant, the moment she observed the stark fear on the faces of the lecherous dandies who suddenly changed direction or ducked behind marble columns.

She lifted her gaze to the arched entry. As she watched Lucas and Carstairs enter Lady Marston's ballroom, her rage boiled up. She stuffed it back down where she could manage it, leaving only enough to arm herself against him. "No uniform," she said dryly. "I suppose that means he has sold his colors."

"Or rediscovered Weston," Minerva replied. "Amazing what marvelous tailoring can be done on short notice."

"Could be something he had before."

"No, the cut is quite the thing. And I daresay his shoulders have broadened. A pity, if he has sold out. He did cut such a devastatingly beautiful figure in his Guards uniform. Well, hearts will melt, anyway."

"A pity those hearts cannot have him," Sophie snarled. "I would gladly relinquish my claim."

"Would you?" Minerva gave her a sidelong glance.

"Of course. I see Carstairs has parted with his as well."

"Probably not," Minerva replied with a speculative hum. "He customarily dresses formally. He is unlikely to give up his colors as long as it gives his Maman such vapors. I thought the apoplexy would surely take her when his regiment was sent to Spain, but fortunately, the engagement there was short."

Sophie nodded silently, aware of the considerable grief Carstairs brought to his mother with his headstrong ways. "But they do make a fine pair. If handsome looks could win wars, we should have needed only the two of them in uniform to defeat the entire French Army."

"Indeed. It appears the latest siege is about to begin." Minerva's face sobered completely, but a gleam in her pale eyes told Sophie her friend relished the coming encounter.

"This is one war he will not win," Sophie replied.

With his dark gaze fixed on her, Lucas crossed the ballroom. Her heart tripped faster. But this time, no. She would not let him bully her. Narrowing her eyes, she concentrated on disdain.

"Toad," she said aloud, to fortify herself.

Minerva's eyebrows raised minutely and she lifted her nose ever so slightly, the perfect picture of disdain. Sophie secretly wished she had Minerva's tall, elegant aloofness. And a long, narrow nose. Icy eyes, to chill him to the bone. When the two men, both more than a head taller than she, stood before them, Sophie put on her best imitation of Minerva's hauteur. Toad, she reminded herself again.

"My lady." Lucas took her hand, despite that she had not offered it to him, and raised it to his lips. Delicious roguery glittered in his eyes like stars against a black velvet sky.

"I have never had the pleasure of dancing with you," he said in darkly silken tones. "Might I have this dance?"

Waltz with him? Caught off guard, she retreated a step. "It is promised," she said, averting her eyes to hide the lie.

"To whom? Well, it does not matter. The fellow can wait. I have surely waited long enough." His hand clamped about hers.

"No! No, I can't." But he gripped her just tightly enough that she would have to slip her glove if she meant to escape.

Ignoring her words, he took her hand on his arm to lead her onto the gleaming marble floor, and in one elegant sweep, he swung her into the loose embrace of the waltz.

"Relax, love, I have not come to murder you."

A shiver ran up her spine. Love? Not love, never. Nor could she relax, not in his arms. And it was not murder that worried her, but fear that she would melt away, beginning where his hand rested against her waist, all the way down to her wobbly knees. She stiffened and poured all her attention into being a perfect imitation of Minerva, for no mere Sophie could stand up to his overwhelming charm.

She launched one last protest, knowing it was wasted. "You said a week, Lord Deverall."

"Indeed," he replied, and unleashed a smile as sultry as his voice. "And I will be there. But for now, we shall merely dance. You do it well, Sophie. You make the waltz a pleasure." A hot blush crept across her cheeks as Sophie veiled her eyes behind lowered lids. The last thing she had expected from him was seduction.

"How lovely you have become, Sophie." His voice was textured like raw silk. The hand that spanned her waist held her barely too close. Panic rose to her throat. She pushed back against his hand, only to meet implacable strength. Both warning and triumph mixed in his eyes, telling her that for the moment she would remain exactly where he intended for her to be. Captive. At his disposal, subject to his blatantly sensual whim.

Damn him. Very well, if he wished to play a game, she would show him how it was to be played. This strange moment could not last forever. He might hold her within his carefully constructed prison for the fraction of an hour the waltz was played, but then it would end, and he would be obliged to release her or look a besotted fool. She could manage it, perhaps even enjoy it if she could only find a way to turn it all back on him.

She forced her gaze up from the middle of his perfectly layered cravat directly into the inky darkness of his eyes and graced him with the most perfect of smiles. "How kind of you, Lord Deverall."

His eyes popped wide and he jerked, so suddenly, she feared she had trod on his toe. An almost imperceptible misstep. Sophie clamped teeth shut to stop an escaping snicker.

The midnight blue of his eyes began to smolder and tendrils of lust formed like smoke and swirled around her. "I do not think you have ever smiled at me before, Sophie."

She had. He simply had not noticed. He had noticed so little about her, in fact, that she found herself astonished every time he used her name.

"An incredibly beautiful smile. It makes you intoxicating."

"Then it must be so," she purred back at him, lacing her voice with sharp little darts. "You are, after all, quite the connoisseur of intoxicants."

His eyes acknowledged her thrust. "Of all varieties," he replied. The strength of his hand propelled her into an unexpected whirl. "Especially beautiful women."

The barest corners of her lips tipped upward. "Yes, as I recall, you have tried them all."

"Except you, Sophie. That will change."

Heat flushed her face. Now she was to be the object of his attention when before he had not even thought her worthy of notice? There could be only one reason, that he had discovered her use to him as a financial asset.

She smiled to cover the rage in her heart. She would deal back to him what he had dealt her. "I think not, Lord Deverall."

"We shall see."

The elegant sensuality that lifted the corners of his lips nearly devastated her, but she met him eye to eye.

"As you say." Sophie allowed the tip of her tongue to trace her lips.

He swallowed and his mouth parted as he studied her. Perhaps she had miscalculated, for it looked to her like this fish was on the hook. She wanted to laugh loud enough for the very clouds to hear.

Sophie relaxed into the dance. He was a magnificent dancer, but she already knew that. Once, at Willow Haven, the silly girl she had been then had sat on the steps high up near the first landing and watched, and dreamed of what it would be like to be whirled about the floor by him in the graceful waltzes she had seen so many times on the Continent.

Now she knew. Dizzying.

Again she felt that odd hesitation in his step. He frowned, then instantly caught up the rhythm again.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"No." But his smile was thin. As the last bars of the waltz closed, Lucas drew back with a properly elegant bow to her, almost a full measure too soon. He tucked her hand back onto his arm for the promenade. A certain urgency underlaid his composure. He displayed her like a battle honor as they took a turn about the room, yet something told her he couldn't wait to be done with it. Just as Lord Carstairs released Minerva with a graceful bow, Lucas returned Sophie to her place beside Minerva.

"I shall call on you tomorrow, Sophie," Lucas said.

He lifted her gloved hand to kiss her fingertips. Then before she could stop him, he turned her hand over and laid a heated kiss to her palm that sizzled all the way through her glove. Gasping, she jerked her hand away and rubbed it to erase the tingling.

Sophie fought off the quaver in her voice. "I shall not be at home tomorrow."

"Be at home."

He made an elegant bow to Minerva, pivoted, and departed, Carstairs beside him.

Sophie stared, agape. Her insides quivered like a mass of aspic on a tottering table, and she clasped her hands so tightly her wedding ring hurt her fingers. "He means to seduce me, Minerva, and he thinks I haven't even got the wit to see it coming! I knew I should have left town."

"No, no," Minerva replied calmly. "The country will never do. He could hunt you down easily. If you mean to evade him, you need the protection of society and its trappings."

Sophie sneered. "Oh, and they are so very much help. Do you not see how everyone has rushed to my aid?"

Minerva's pale grey eyes followed the departing pair of men, waiting until they were out of sight before continuing. "Of course, if that is what you expect, you will be disappointed. But the ton can be useful if you use your head. He will not make too much of a spectacle before them. This time, he needs them."

"The toad. There surely is no lower form of life."

"A snake, perhaps. But no, a snake has more character."

Sophie snorted. "I should not put anything past him. Did you not see the indecent way he kissed my hand?"

No hint of emotion dented Minerva's perfect composure. "As did everyone. But that is not the worst part."

"It could be worse?"

Minerva nodded. "They're all smiling."

* * *

The pain was like a surgeon's knife. Lucas thought he'd never make it to the coach.

Once inside, Carstairs's complacent expression altered to concern. "Perhaps you ought to have someone look at that."

Lucas winced and rubbed his throbbing knee. He could already feel the puffiness that preceded major swelling. "Submit to a surgeon? Thank you, no. By the time they finished carving off pieces, I'd have no leg left. Better to put up with the pain. I thought a waltz would not be so strenuous. But it is the twisting. Should have paid more attention."

"Ah. Then the lady smiled. A serious distraction."

It had left him breathless. "Dash it, Carstairs! Was she always so devastating, and I just didn't notice?"

Carstairs chuckled quietly. "No, my friend. I remember her. Other than those marvelous blue eyes, she was merely passably pretty, quiet, and so terribly young then. Do you not recall what you told Harry?"

"When he offered me my choice from a brace of dueling pistols? I remember. I was not about to bed an infant."

"Quite so."

"And I didn't, Carstairs, though I suppose it would not be wise to let that be known now. Amazing how well she is received, considering she was utterly ruined by her little scheme."

Carstairs nestled his angular body into the squabs. "Fortunately, it was seen as rather romantic. Didn't accumulate the sordid dust that sort of affair usually does."

"Really. How odd." Lucas had sometimes wondered how things had shaken out after he left.

Carstairs gave a small shrug, causing Lucas to suspect something of importance lay behind the man's carefully cultivated air. The man knew something.

"Out with it, Carstairs."

"Oh," Carstairs said with a simple quirking of his lips, "a little thing, really. Of course, it was quite a long time ago, and the girl was virtually unknown, as she was not yet out. And you were not thought to be a terribly important catch at the time, either, I recall, as it was still assumed your brother would produce an heir. So we thought it best at the time to do what could be done to salvage the girl's reputation."

"We?"

"All of us, really. Even Barrington went along with it, with a small bit of, shall we say, encouragement." Carstairs's nostrils flared, the way they always did at the mention of the man he detested. "It could not have benefitted anyone to have Sophie's name sullied, you know. So it was put about as a romantic taking, with an accidental encounter that unfortunately required a sudden solution, marriage, hurried because you were to depart within days. Then an unfortunate lover's spat that tragically separated the lovers on an unhappy note..."

Lucas huffed with disgust. "Played their sympathy to the high strings. Carstairs, I am appalled."

The golden eyebrows danced. "I thought it quite forward thinking of us, and now you may reap the benefits."

"Kind of you. Now I find myself married to a deceitful siren who has been made out to be something of an angel."

"A beautiful one at that."

She was that. Lucas could not remember when he had seen a lovelier woman. Worse. something about her tugged at his heartstrings, and nothing could be more dangerous than that.

"There's a challenge in her eyes." Lucas rubbed his chin. "I think the scheming chit means to dazzle me out of my wits."

With folded arms and his long legs crossed, Carstairs slouched down deeper into the leather squabs. His golden eyes gleamed in that particular way that irritated Lucas most.

"Have a care, Deverall. It just might work."

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