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Prologue

London, 1796:

"Boy, come closer. I'm an old man, and I wish to have a look at you. Here, by the fire. Closer," rasped the man lying in a mahogany four-poster bed large enough to offer a small army respite for the evening. When he leaned forward, the blue velvet bedclothes fell away from his nightshirt-clad chest to reveal the sad state of his age. His frail body consisted of little more than skin and bone--any muscle having been stolen through the years until little remained.

"Closer, boy."

The old man coughed, and his hands curled into fists as his body convulsed with the force of his illness. A deep rumbling started in his chest and then slowly eased to a dry rasp of air. He squinted in the dim light released from a single branch of candles on the mantle and beckoned with a wave of his bony arm.

A hand clasped tightly on Robert's shoulder and prevented him from doing as the old man had requested. He raised wide eyes to the footman who'd snatched him from his warm bed in the middle of the night. The man met his gaze with an expression of tight-lipped disapproval, and his fingers bored into Robert's flesh until white fire arched down his arm. He was ashamed to admit he was frightened and bit his lip to keep from crying out in pain.

"I doubt he has had a bath in ages, Your Grace. You might wish to look at him from afar."

The old man squared his shoulders. His pale skin turned pink, and his blue eyes snapped with a vigor Robert did not expect to see in one so old. The duke pointed a slim finger at Robert's captor. "Jennings, you had best watch yourself. You have been in my employ since your birth, but you do not have my loyalty as much as I have yours. Now, bring the boy closer."

Robert's captor shoved him. Robert did his best to keep his balance before he sprawled across the duke's fancy bed sheets. The old man would rightly demand payment for the soiled linens, which would require all of his earnings until Michaelmas to do so. Without the income, his family would starve by the end of winter.

Righting himself just before disaster, Robert took a shaky breath to still his nerves and walked across the room, his bare feet padding on the cold hardwood floor. He pulled his moth-eaten nightshirt around his slim frame, shuffled around the side of the bed and waited for the old man to speak.

The duke slumped against the pillows supporting his back and eyed him critically in the dim lighting. "Robert is a noble name," he whispered.

Robert stiffened, unsure of himself. "I am happy you think so, Yer Grace."

"You resemble your mother."

His breath caught in his lungs. His mother? What sort of man was this duke, and how would he know of his mother? Why had he been brought to this place to see this man? Robert avoided the tremor of pain he saw in the duke's gaze and glanced around the room.

"Do you speak, boy?"

"Aye, Yer Grace," he whispered, his gaze transfixed on the blazing fire in the hearth next to the bed.

Robert felt the duke's eyes on him and couldn't face the pity he knew he would find in the man's gaze. No matter how close the duke looked, he would only find a poor boy standing before him. He was nothing special. He was just like everyone else at the docks except that Margaret had spent the last year educating him so he knew a thing or two and could speak like one of the gentry if he concentrated real hard. He was tired, hungry and had no more than a shilling or two jangling around in his pocket at any given moment. Why had he been brought to see a duke?

"How old are you?"

"I don't rightly know, Yer Grace."

The old man tilted his head. "I see you are a man of few words."

Robert turned in surprise and met the duke's gaze. He frowned, confused by the praise he saw in the man's eyes and heard in his voice. "I use 'em when I need 'em."

"Indeed. Tell me, boy, what do you think of my home?" the duke asked, a smile softening the wrinkles etched at the corner of his eyes.

Robert glanced at his surroundings. His gaze rested on more riches than he would ever earn in his lifetime. "What good is a dish if'n you don't aim to use it?"

The old man threw his head back and laughed. The soft rumble of amusement that echoed from deep inside the duke's chest was rather infectious. Robert smiled. The duke was a peculiar man. He was nothing like the gentry he'd glimpsed walking along the docks. He did not view the world and everything in it with a noble air. Rather, he seemed to view life much as a tradesman would.

When the duke composed himself, he met Robert's eyes with a knowing look. "What if I were to say that all of this could be yours?"

A shiver snaked down Robert's back. Had the man lost his mind in his old age or was this his idea of amusement? "Yer Grace?"

"All of this can be yours...son."

A gasp from the corner brought Robert's gaze to Jennings. The footman's face turned a deeper shade of red with each moment, and he shook his head so violently his powdered wig shifted most unattractively across his forehead. "Your son, Your Grace?" he sputtered. "A-are you certain?"

The duke turned cold eyes on his footman. "I told my brother, Charles, that I would walk through fire before he inherited my title. Thankfully, it did not come to that. We found my son and that is more than I'd hoped for. Why else would I request that you retrieve a boy from the docks?"

"I am certain I did not know, Your Grace," Jennings replied. His narrowed gaze lingered on Robert and then darted back to the duke.

The duke met Robert's gaze. A flash of pain lingered in the depths of his eyes. "It is time you know the entire story. Here, climb up on the bed and sit with me. There. When your mother and I married we were young and in love..."

The duke broke into a coughing fit that wracked his frail body. Jennings hurried to the older man's side but he waved him off with a growl. "Leave me be. I am fine."

"Your Grace--"

"Enough," the duke replied before he turned back to Robert. "Now as I was saying. My father disowned me for marrying someone of a lower class. I'd never wanted for anything and was foolish enough to believe I would find a way to maintain such a careless lifestyle. I soon learned how difficult it is to make a respectable living in this city."

"It is impossible," Robert supplied.

"Indeed," the duke said with a disgusted sniff. "When I was forced into trade, the society I'd known and trusted all my life turned its back on me. Friends I'd known since I was a child no longer spoke to me and Belinda's family did not approve of the way I handled matters. They were dark times, Robert, but your mother was insistent on making a family of our own to spite those who had claimed to love us."

"And so you 'ad a son," Robert whispered.

"Yes," the duke replied with a proud smile. "She gave birth to a strapping boy with my eyes and her smile. You. It wasn't until your third birthday that Belinda's health began to fade and then one cold winter day, she was gone."

Robert squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to stop the memories. He did not succeed. A vision of his mother kissing his brow before she lovingly tucked the blankets around him flashed through his mind. He opened his eyes. "I remember her. She used to sing to me each night."

The duke's face crumpled. Tears of anguish made salty paths down his wrinkled cheeks. "She loved you so very much. We both did."

"If you are who you claim, why do I not remember you?"

The light in the duke's eyes faded. "I am not surprised. I took an apprenticeship with a banker and spent long hours there. Belinda's parents feared you were not being taken care of properly while I was working, and I let them have you. I believed it was for your own good."

"You never visited," Robert replied bitterly.

"I thought it was best that I didn't."

Robert stared at the duke. What kind of man would abandon his child? He needed to hear more. "How then is it you are a duke?"

The old man's face tensed. "My father died five years after your mother, and I was named as his heir. I attempted to find you but your grandparents had disappeared and it took longer than I had hoped. In my search, I discovered that they had died in a fire and you were cast out into the streets. I am greatly sorry, Robert."

The old man revealed more than he realized. The duke had abandoned him so he could reunite with his father and, in turn, inherit the fortune. Obviously, the inheritance had meant more to the duke than his own child.

Unable to look into the duke's hopeful gaze, Robert turned to the fireplace. The blasted man expected him to be happy that he had finally come for him. He could hardly oblige him. Robert knew the only reason he, a homeless boy, was in that room was because the duke did not want his brother to become heir. The duke had brought him there to use him.

Robert's stomach churned with the possibility that this man was the person he'd most wanted to meet his entire life. He raised his gaze to the duke. "You are my father," he mumbled to himself, feeling the unfamiliar words on his tongue.

"Yes, and all of this will soon be yours, for I'm an old man and shall not live much longer."

The old man's face tightened in pain for a single moment before relaxing in relief. He glanced to his footman. "I am ill, Jennings. Pray get me a glass of brandy."

"Right away, Your Grace."

Robert glanced at the finery so amply displayed before him. He realized rather quickly that there could be some advantages to being used and entertained the idea of accepting the duke's offer. "I wouldn't rightly know what to do with yer 'oldin's, Yer Grace."

"You will learn, my son. I have entrusted my solicitor with all that is to be done once I am gone. Your only duty will be in learning what it means to be a duke. So, tell me, does this arrangement please you?"

Robert nodded. "Rightly so. I can buy Margaret a townhouse."

The duke reached for the glass Jennings held out on a silver tray and leaned against his pillows. His gaze darkened like a storm rumbling on the horizon. "I understand that this Margaret you speak of rescued you from the streets?"

"Yes," he replied. Margaret had saved him from a life of crime, and he loved her. "She is as close to a mother as I have ever known."

The duke's lips thinned in obvious disapproval. "You must believe me when I tell you this is for your own good. You must never see her again. It would not do to have a future duke carrying on with such a woman."

Robert jumped to his feet. "Never see 'er again?!"

The duke's gaze turned thoughtful. "I sense something in you. Something that yearns for a better life. As my son, you shall have it."

At the duke's words, Robert swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. Was this what his grandfather had said all those years ago to make his father abandon him? He slowly shook his head. "I will not."

"She will always be in your heart and that will have to suffice. Margaret is much changed from the woman I knew. Not so long ago any man in London would have paid their weight in gold to gain her affections, but one indiscretion with a married man ruined her."

Robert swallowed hard. Margaret would never survive without him. She barely survived as it was. The men she entertained would take advantage of her, and he would not be there to protect her. If he accepted the duke's offer, he would be nailing Margaret's coffin closed in less than a year.

He shook his head as warm tears slipped down his cheeks, dampening the front of his nightshirt. Every particle of his being pleaded silently for the duke to rescind his words. They made Robert hate the duke as he'd hated no one before.

He squared his shoulders. He was not like his father. He would not accept riches for the price of his family. "You are askin' too much," he stated with an icy coldness he had never heard in his voice before.

The duke slammed his fist down on the silver tray Jennings had placed on the bed. The tumbler of brandy plummeted to the floor where it shattered into tiny shards of glass.

"You will because you are a Stanton. I can tell it having been in your presence this short time. You will be brave and you will succeed. You will become the Duke of Riverton, and you will carry your title well."

Robert was suddenly afraid of the man who claimed to be his father, and he wished he'd never met him. All the duke cared about was his bloody title and, by God, Robert would do everything in his power to destroy his legacy. The spark of revenge burned beneath his chest. His father would regret using him. He would see to it.

Robert could not stop the smile that curved the corners of his lips. He was not a boy that easily took orders from another. He loved Margaret like a mother and would rather spend his life cleaning chamber pots than leave her to ruin just because the duke had demanded he do so. This order, like any that would be issued in the future, would fall on deaf ears.

Robert cleared his throat. "All right, father. I will be your heir."

The duke stared at him for a moment before a slow smile brightened his face. "I knew you were a Stanton. Welcome to your new life, boy."

Two weeks later, the Duke of Riverton took his last breath and passed his legacy down to Robert, his only son and rightful heir.

Chapter One

Boston, Massachusetts:

February, 1816:

Hope Edwards raced down the long hallway that led to her bedchamber, closed the door behind her and perched on the edge of her mahogany four-poster bed. Taking a deep breath to calm her pounding heart, she opened the letter her maid had delivered only moments earlier and eagerly read its contents.

London

January 10, 1816

My dearest Hope,

I pray this letter finds you and your family in good health. I received two of your letters last week and one this morning. Your words fill my days with sunshine and my nights with pleasant dreams. You truly are a most intriguing woman.

I must ask a question of you and beg you to consider your own wishes and not those of others. Will you marry me, Hope Edwards? I would be a faithful husband and a doting father to our children.

I have enclosed the funds for your trip to London. If you choose to accept my proposal, you will travel in style. I await your response.

Yours Faithfully,

Henry

Hope lowered the crisp piece of parchment to her lap and took a shaky breath. The viscount's marriage proposal was the only incentive she needed to follow her dreams and travel to a country ripe with adventure and opportunities.

She pressed a trembling hand to her throat. She wasn't certain she possessed the courage such a trip would require. Perhaps her father had been correct all along. Perhaps Boston suited her far more than she'd ever imagined.

She glanced around her bedroom at the gold accented mirrors, painstakingly carved furniture, and large wardrobes filled with the lavish dresses she'd purchased on her trips to England, Italy and France. If she followed her dreams and traveled to London to marry, she would have no other choice than to leave everything behind. Her father, her money, and her betrothed.

She turned back to the letter and stared down at the elegant swirls of ink scrawled across the page. She'd spent so many years following her father's orders that ruling her own life was both exhilarating and frightening at the same time. And yet, she welcomed the change.

A hard knock sounded on her door and startled her from her thoughts. Blast. It was becoming increasingly difficult to find a moment alone without distraction.

She placed the letter beneath her pillow and made a mental note to move it to a safer place later that night. She would tell no one of her plans--not even her beloved maid, Matilda, who was known to reveal her secrets at the slightest provocation.

The knock came again, only louder. Anger sprouted beneath her breasts at the annoyance. She would recognize that knock anywhere, for her father had the patience of a three-year-old.

"One moment, please," she called as she rubbed her throbbing temples.

Once the pain in her head had subsided, Hope rose from her bed. She crossed the room to the large looking glass perched above her dressing table and inspected her appearance. Every hair was neatly twisted into a chignon, her cheeks were pink with a healthy flush and her expression was cheerful. Her father would be pleased with her attention to detail.

Hope dabbed a drop of lavender oil between her breasts and smoothed her hands over the delicate sky blue morning gown she wore. When she finished her preparations, she faced the door and gently clasped her hands at her waist. "You may come in, Father."

The door swung open to reveal the last person she cared to see standing in the hallway. She turned away to hide her revulsion at seeing him again so soon. Drat! Was it Thursday already? Why did he insist on visiting every week?

For the hundredth time since her father had announced the name of her betrothed, she knew he had gone completely mad. Geoffrey was not a suitable match. He was notorious for his many mistresses and love of liquor. He exhibited no guilt when he lured wives into affairs, was shockingly loud and always seemed to carry a pungent aroma about him that turned her stomach. She didn't enjoy a single moment in his company and thought she would retch at the idea of sleeping with the horrid man.

As duty required, Hope met Geoffrey at the door, rested her gloved hand on his arm and bent to peck his cheek. She retreated just before her lips met his skin, thankful that he did not pull her back for a rude fondle as he'd been prone to do in the past.

Wanting desperately to place distance between them, Hope crossed the room and sat down at her dressing table. A breeze carrying Geoffrey's scent enveloped her, thick and suffocating. She shuddered uncontrollably as he came up behind her.

"You do not seem pleased to see me," Geoffrey said, his voice deep and overwhelming.

She glared at his reflection in the looking glass. "You know better than to enter my bedchamber, Geoffrey. You should have announced your arrival downstairs and waited in the drawing room. It isn't proper to call on me without a chaperone."

Geoffrey's hard brown eyes narrowed, and he swept his hand through his thinning black hair. "You are my betrothed, my dear. I'd be visiting your bed by now if it weren't for your silly little sensibilities. As it is, I suspect all of Boston believes I am marrying you simply because recent rumors indicate you are with child."

Hope gasped at Geoffrey's cruelty and pressed her hand over the diamond necklace at her throat. The jewels immediately warmed to her touch, a striking contrast to the chill that had swept through her body with the onslaught of Geoffrey's words. He was no gentleman.

She reached forward, took a powder puff from a shelf above the table and dabbed it gently on her nose. She surprised herself with the calm and collected demeanor she presented and wondered if Geoffrey's outburst was an attempt to elicit the opposite. He enjoyed frail people and felt powerful in their company.

Hope met his gaze in the looking glass. "If you continue to insult me, I will ask you to leave."

He slammed his hand down on the table, rattling the perfume bottles that decorated the polished surface. "I shall leave when I wish and not before, my dear."

She squared her chin. She'd witnessed this side of him before and shouldn't be surprised to see it again. "I will call for my father."

"And he may or may not ask me to behave," he said, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "Once we are married, his words will have no influence. I will do whatever I wish, and as my wife, you will allow me to do so."

She swallowed hard and forced her gaze to remain on the man she loathed before all others. "I will despise the day I marry you."

His grin widened. "Now, now. You should save such sentiments for our wedding night." He winked, a lecherous look passing over his face. "I promise not to disappoint you."

Hope stared at him with a fury that almost choked her. She threw the powder puff on the table and whirled around in her chair amidst a cloud of white powder. In the past, she'd remained aloof to Geoffrey's cruelty, but today was a day of changes. She would no longer accept his abuse.

She leaned forward and pounded her index finger into his chest. "If you do not leave this instant, I will call the authorities and have you thrown out."

Geoffrey smoothed the lapels of his coat, pressed a hand to the front of his silver waistcoat and narrowed his eyes. "You wouldn't dare."

Hope knew that having him removed from the townhouse would strain his already less-than-perfect reputation, but she didn't care. She wouldn't stay in Boston long enough to face the consequences of her actions.

She arched her eyebrows defiantly. "Why wouldn't I?"

He stared at her for a moment and then raised his hands, palms facing out in surrender. Though it appeared that she had won the argument, she knew differently. Geoffrey's eyes were dark with hatred. "I apologize for my behavior. Perhaps a gift will mend our disagreement," he said as he reached into his pocket and retrieved a black velvet box. "Our engagement announcement was in the newspapers this morning."

Hope knew an expensive necklace would be pinned inside the rectangular box and accepted it. Geoffrey was a man who enjoyed his wealth and the notoriety it gave him. As his wife--his possession--she would have only the best gowns and jewelry, but she would never have a loving husband. She would never have any of the things she desired in life.

Geoffrey nodded, his temperament changing before her eyes. As quickly as the brutality came, it retreated. He was a man of many facets, and if it were not for the ugly rumors that followed him to each event, most of Boston society would consider him a model citizen. To her great detriment, she knew Geoffrey's true character better than anyone.

He touched her shoulder briefly before he crossed the room to the door. "Good-night, my dear. I shall call on you next week before our engagement party."

Hope nodded stiffly. She would burn in hell first. "Of course. Until then."

Once Geoffrey had closed the door, Hope tossed the velvet box on her dressing table and rose to her feet. His visit had made her future quite clear. She would rather run outside naked in the dead of winter than spend another minute in the horrible man's company.

In contrast, an image of the viscount came to mind. She had grown to care a great deal for him and knew they would make a stunning couple. Perhaps she had even grown to love him in the last year.

Hope sat down at her writing table, retrieved a piece of stationary from the top drawer and formed a reply to the viscount's proposal.

February 16, 1816

My dearest Henry,

I wholeheartedly accept your proposal of marriage and will begin the long journey to London as soon as I can make arrangements. I eagerly await a future as your wife.

Faithfully,

Hope

* * *

"Brooke House is on your right, Miss Edwards," called the coachman she'd hired upon her arrival in London.

She slid across the worn leather bench of the hackney coach and peered out the window at what would be her new home. The house took her breath away with its beauty. The sun glinted off the yellow stone and made it gleam as though it were gold. The first floor was fashioned with a series of windows separated by Ionic columns and pilasters. The second story was similar to the first except that it beheld Corinthian columns with a garland swag tying the capitals together beneath the flat balustraded roof. The house was far more enchanting than she'd ever imagined.

Moments later, she left Sara, the traveling companion she'd hired in Boston, waiting in the coach. She would notify Henry that she had arrived and continue on to procure lodging at a nearby hotel.

She climbed the stairs to the front door and sucked in a breath to still the incessant pounding of her heart. It had taken over a month to reach London and now that she had, she wished she'd never left the safe confines of her home in Boston.

Embarrassed by her cowardice, she pressed her lips into a thin line. A persistent reminder tapped the back of her head. Her only alternative was to return to Boston and marry Geoffrey Goldsmith.

She would rather die first.

Taking a deep breath, she tapped the brass knocker against its cradle and waited. Finally, she heard footsteps click upon the marble floor inside, and the latch rattled.

The door opened with a squeak that ripped along Hope's bones and made her shudder. A man with piercing gray eyes and a perfectly tidy powdered wig stood in the threshold. He swept his gaze over her clothing and pressed his lips into a thin line of impatience. "May I help you, Miss?"

"I am here to pay a call on Lord Ripley."

The butler sighed warily. "Is this regarding a financial matter?"

Hope frowned. "No."

"May I have your name?"

"Miss Hope Edwards."

"Do you have a card?"

"A card?" she asked with a squeak. Drat. No doubt the viscount would think she was a social ninny for forgetting such an important item. Perhaps she should leave and return later with the appropriate calling card in hand.

"Of course," he replied thickly. "If you'll follow me, I shall have you wait in the drawing room."

Inside, the butler gestured to an open door to her left. "Please make yourself comfortable. I shall return shortly."

Hope moved into the rather large room and chose a rosewood sofa with ornamental brass inlay in the center of the woven carpet. A nervous giggle started from the depths of her stomach and inched up her throat. In moments, she would meet her future husband for the very first time. She'd waited for this day and imagined theirs would be a glorious meeting of shy kisses and whispered promises. Her heart leapt at the idea.

She removed her bonnet and placed it next to her on the sofa. She could not imagine why the butler had not taken it from her. She found it odd that he'd found her arrival so distasteful. His behavior had been quite peculiar.

Spying a well-polished vase on the sofa table, she leaned closer and examined her appearance. She eased several stray tendrils back into her chignon, pinched her cheeks and adjusted the neckline of her gown.

She straightened as a man walked into the room. He had hair as dark as the midnight sky, ocean-blue eyes that delved beyond flesh and bone and a chiseled chin that rivaled the prince regent's in his earlier years. His gaze rested on her for a single moment before widening in surprise.

She found herself staring shamelessly into Henry's eyes. Her heart pounded against her chest with a dozen emotions she could not identify. She was finally looking into her future husband's gaze and wasn't certain how she should introduce herself. Was a peck on his cheek appropriate or should she keep her distance?

She allowed her gaze to slide from his perfectly tied silk cravat and sharp black coat to his black breeches and polished boots. She lifted her gaze back to his. The magnitude of his lazy smile scorched her to the depths of her soul. Henry was a god in human form.

Hope flicked her tongue across her lips. She'd hoped he would be appealing in appearance but nothing had prepared her for this. When he looked at her, her knees weakened, and she'd never felt such a peculiar emotion when Geoffrey was near. Of the two men, the viscount was obviously the wiser choice.

"Are you ill, Miss?"

She smiled hesitantly and rose to her feet. "I apologize."

Wrinkles of amusement deepened around his eyes. "You do not have anything to apologize for."

The intensity in his compelling gaze stole the breath from her lungs and left her at a loss for words. Good Lord. She couldn't even breathe around Henry.

* * *

Robert Stanton, the ninth Duke of Riverton, swept his gaze over the beautiful woman standing in his drawing room and searched his mind for a memory that could have involved meeting such an intriguing creature. "Have we met?" he asked with a grin.

The woman's full lips parted into a smile that caused his heart to skip a beat. Soft brown eyes fringed with long black lashes stared back at him in a face of the creamiest skin he'd ever laid eyes on. He resisted the urge to sweep his fingers through the chestnut curls that framed her face like spun silk. She was enchanting.

"I am Miss Hope Edwards."

He frowned and shook his head. He did not know this woman.

She rolled her eyes. "I've traveled from Boston to accept your proposal of marriage. You sent for me."

Robert tensed. The muscles in his body tightened until he thought they would snap with the slightest movement. He'd been called a lot of things in his lifetime but "husband" would never be one of them.

He considered hurrying the woman on her way, but knew he would only succeed in offending her by doing so. Why he should care was beyond him, but he did. "I am afraid you have the wrong man, Miss Edwards."

The light in the woman's eyes turned to stone. She squared her shoulders. "If my clothing isn't what you expected, I apologize, my lord. I understand it isn't what you are accustomed to in London, but I had nothing else to wear."

Robert offered her a smile. Her gown certainly suited the country far more than London, but it wasn't horrid. "Your gown is quite stunning, but I'm not the gentleman you're looking for."

Miss Edwards stamped the heel of her boot into the carpet. "I do not find this amusing. Am I not what you envisioned? Is my hair too dark, my eyes too large? What?"

Astonished by Miss Edwards' spirit, Robert could do nothing but stare at her. She was far more than intriguing. She exuded both seduction and innocence in the tilt of her head, the fire in her gaze. If he'd met her in any other situation, he would have pursued her relentlessly until she agreed to be his mistress. As far as he was concerned, such a prospect was still not out of the question.

He eyed her appreciatively. "I think you are stunning, Miss Edwards. If I have offended you, you must accept my apology."

She shook her head as though she were speaking to a disobedient three-year-old. "Never in all my life did I expect this reaction to my arrival. A peck on the cheek, a warm welcome..." Her eyes widened. She snapped her head in his direction. "What did you say?"

"I think you're striking. Your hair is the shade of walnuts roasting over the fire, your skin like cream, your feet so small they could fit in the palm of my hand." He narrowed his eyes as he slid his gaze down the curve of her breasts, the line of her hips. "I doubt there is a man in all of London who could resist your womanly charms."

"Then you are--"

"But I'm not the gentleman you're looking for. I am the Duke of Riverton...not Lord Ripley."

And truthfully, he was thankful for it because he pitied the man. If the many merchants that visited the house each week were any indication, Ripley had been riddled with debt, which made the man's betrothal to an American heiress all the more clever. No father in London would give his daughter to a poor man, no matter his title. The only other option would be to marry someone who would not suspect that the fine clothing and immaculately decorated houses masked an overwhelming debt. An unsuspecting American family would think a viscount was a fine catch.

Robert smiled. He'd never met Ripley but at that moment, he'd wished he had merely to congratulate him on such a splendid scheme. Obviously, it had succeeded.

With a frustrated sigh, Miss Edwards glanced at her surroundings. "This is his house."

He nodded. "It was."

Her gaze snapped back to his. "Was?"

"I purchased it last month."

Miss Edwards's bottom lip began to quiver. "Then where is Henry?"

Robert gritted his teeth. "This, my dear, is maddening."

Her brows arched in agony. "What is?"

A surge of protectiveness swelled in his chest. She seemed an innocent and deserved a compassionate response.

He reached forward and gently touched her arm. "You had best take a seat, Miss Edwards, though I'm afraid I only have a cup of very bad tea to offer you for your trouble. I'm much better at finances and have yet to employ an acceptable cook."

A soft wisp of hair fell from her chignon to frame her face. He resisted the urge to touch the silken strands, wondering if they would compare to his mistress's whisper-soft locks. Somehow, he doubted they would. In his eyes, Amelia would always stand on the highest pedestal. She was kind and gentle and didn't expect too much from him. He could give and take as much as he wanted, even if it would mean walking away from the relationship with only a day's notice. He would not have such freedom in a genuine relationship, and it suited him just fine.

Miss Edwards pulled her arm out of his grasp. "I have no right to invade your home, Your Grace. Where is Lord Ripley? If you will tell me where I can find him, I will be on my way."

Robert swallowed his annoyance. He would convey the news of the viscount's death and escort her to the door. The woman's silliness was beginning to wear him thin. "You are a stubborn woman, Miss Edwards."

Her hand shot out and slapped him across the face. He jerked, stunned by her reaction, and touched his flaming cheek. For such a tiny thing, she was more than capable of doing a great deal of harm to a man.

Miss Edwards took a step back, her eyes wide and her body trembling. She circled her hand around her neck. "I apologize," she whispered. "You must think I have lost my mind."

He grinned despite the stinging throb in his cheek. He knew he should be furious that she would dare assault him, but he found her courage exciting. "It certainly wouldn't take much more to convince me."

The moment a smile touched her lips, it retreated. She sank onto the sofa as though her legs would not support her a moment longer. "You don't understand. I left everything to marry Lord Ripley. My family...my money...everything."

At her words, Robert arched an eyebrow. She'd left her money to marry the viscount? How delightfully amusing. Obviously Ripley had not been aware of Miss Edwards's sacrifice and would have been shocked to discover the truth. It was a shame the man was dead for the ensuing scandal would have made the forthcoming season quite entertaining to be sure.

"Please tell me where I can find him," she whispered, her voice weary.

Robert knew he should send the woman away before he involved himself in her troubles, but he couldn't force the words to his lips. Truth be told, he felt sorry for her, and it had been a long time since a woman had made him feel much of anything...Amelia being the only exception.

A single tear slipped from the woman's lashes and streaked down her cheek. Robert felt as though a knife had twisted in his chest. Perhaps he could help her in some way and feel useful.

He joined her on the sofa, slipped his index finger beneath her chin and waited for her striking dark eyes to meet his. When they did, he wasn't prepared for what he saw hidden in the depths. Pain as deep as the ocean ebbed and flowed in an emptiness so penetrating it made him suck in a breath. He forced the words to his lips.

"Lord Ripley has been missing for near on three months, Miss Edwards. In London you aren't missing unless you have come to an unfortunate demise. I'm sorry. I wish I had better news for you."

Chapter Two

Hope curled her fingers in her lap until her fingernails bit through the thin yellow muslin of her dress and into the top layer of her petticoats. Was Henry so insensitive that he would send for her only to form this ridiculous fabrication? Was he watching her every move, listening to her choice in wording, and examining her appearance and personality to determine whether she would serve as a suitable wife?

When she raised her head and met his gaze, a dreadfully long time had passed.

A shadow of irritation crossed the duke's face. "I'm not the begging type, Miss Edwards. I will only ask you once more before I escort you to the door. Would you care for a cup of tea?"

Hope's mind whirled with possibilities. If he wanted to begin their relationship in deception, she would allow it. The fabrication he'd concocted gave her the opportunity to find out who Henry really was. Perhaps she'd been too quick to judge him as an honest and gentle man merely by his letters.

Hope nodded. "A cup of tea would be greatly appreciated, Your Grace."

The glint of anger faded from his gaze. "Would you be insulted if I escort you to a more comfortable sitting area? I cannot imagine why Averly brought you here. This is my least favorite of all the rooms."

"Of course."

Hope followed the duke further into the house and scanned her surroundings for a hint at the man's true character. As they continued down the hallway, she assessed his choice in decorations. The gilt armchairs and dark paintings were simple enough but sprinkled through the rooms they passed were elegant treasures she would have chosen for her own home. A crystal decanter in the study, an imported rug in the hallway, and a delicately arranged vase of flowers on a table in the library spoke of a gentler taste.

A portrait of an elderly man with penetrating blue eyes and wrinkles of wisdom at the corners of his lips caught Hope's attention. As they passed, she glanced at the nameplate beneath the painting. Viscount Hevonshire, 1755-1801. The viscount had made a fatal error. The proof she'd needed to believe he was not dead was in the existence of the painting. A man would not keep a portrait of a stranger's relatives on his wall. The viscount and the duke were one and the same.

The duke gestured to a room just beyond the library. "Unfortunately, the footmen I hired will not arrive until tomorrow. However, if you'll wait here, I will find Averly and request refreshments."

Hope nodded. "Of course."

Once he'd disappeared through a door at the end of the hallway, she entered the drawing room. It was a rather small room that held the scent of gathering dust and old perfume. The tables were bare and the mantle above the fireplace was devoid of family portraits or figurines. Perhaps he'd sold the treasures that had once adorned this room in a moment of financial hardship.

Hope glanced at the faded burgundy settee positioned in the middle of the hardwood floor. Had she left the abundance in Boston only to face poverty in London?

Shaking the troublesome thoughts from her mind, she crossed the room. She'd learned long ago that appearances were misleading and had no reason to believe the viscount's situation was any different. It was entirely possible that he'd grown tired of the decorations and was simply in the process of replacing them.

Hope chose a chair next to the settee and sat down. She was in the process of arranging her skirts when she realized she was no longer alone in the room.

She lifted her gaze to the door and saw the "duke" watching her. His lips curled into a devastating grin before he continued into the room with a silver tray holding a tea set and an arrangement of sandwiches in his hands.

As he bent over the table and placed the tray on its surface, his gaze locked with hers. "I did not mean to frighten you, Miss Edwards."

"I wasn't frightened," she snapped and then, conscious of her odd behavior, she forced a smile to her lips. "I am perfectly fine."

His stare was bold as it slowly raked over her. "Are you certain?"

Hope took a deep breath. He was trying to unnerve her. "Yes."

An ear-piercing silence engulfed her in unease. She was careful not to avert her gaze, for she knew he would see it as a sign of weakness. He was judging her character, and she was determined to remain unaffected.

Hope squared her shoulders and looked deep into his eyes. She was ready to see whatever she would find there, good or bad. She cared for Henry and would prove that she was the woman she'd revealed in her letters. She could only pray he would do the same.

Finally, he nodded and took a seat on the settee. Once he'd poured their tea, he leaned against the velvet back and extended his legs out in front of him. He gazed at her with that lazy smile again.

"Averly does not know how to make tea so I did my best. I was not expecting company."

Hope searched for a topic of conversation. The words burst from her lips before she could stop them. "Do you live alone, Your Grace?"

She bit her lip and glanced down at her hands. She'd asked an inappropriate question for a stranger, but an interesting one for a betrothed. Unfortunately, she wasn't entirely certain which category this man fit into. She had her suspicions but did not have any facts.

Embarrassed by her lack of manners, she raised her cup of tea and took a sip. The thick, bitter liquid slid down her throat like syrup and nearly gagged her. She swallowed hard and immediately set the cup back on the tray. His tea was horrid!

"I'd planned to hire a cook in the morning," he said with a grimace. He gestured to the plate of sandwhiches. "Would you care for a refreshment?"

She eyed the tiny morsels warily. What if they were as revolting as the tea? She coughed at the idea.

Finally, hunger prevailed. She hadn't eaten anything since early that morning and was famished. Forcing thoughts of propriety from her mind, she retrieved one of the tiny morsels from the tray and bit into it. "This is delightful," she said with a sigh of relief. "If you can prepare something this delicious, you don't need a cook."

She considered rescinding the words but didn't dare risk offending him. Though he seemed fine enough at preparing such tiny delicacies, he needed to hire someone to prepare the tea, for he was clearly inept in that area.

The duke sipped from his cup, grimaced and quickly set it back on the tray. "My neighbors are delightful people. They've taken me under their wing and order their cook to supply me with dinner every other day. It's a good thing they do. I would starve without them."

"Many would say you simply need a wife, Your Grace," she replied in a teasing tone as she took another bite of her sandwich.

"I need a cook."

The duke's response brought her up short. If she wasn't mistaken, she'd detected a clear aversion to marriage in his voice. She silently wondered what had happened to him in the last month to have changed his view so drastically.

His expression softened as he reached for one of the sandwiches. "I may have the perfect solution to your predicament, Miss Edwards."

Noticing the tense, almost forced, sound in his voice, she arched her eyebrows. "What might that be?"

He winced and slipped his finger beneath his cravat. Tugging briefly, he met her gaze. "I would like to hire you."

Hope's hand hovered above the sandwiches. "You would like to hire me?"

"You said yourself that you left everything to marry Ripley. I am offering you a position at one of my estates. I'm afraid my sister has caused another governess to run off, and I am sadly in need of a replacement. I will pay you room, board and an appropriate salary. I assume, of course, that you have had the appropriate education to do so? Do you speak French?"

Hope eyed him curiously. Was this his way of keeping her close at hand until he made his decision about their marriage? If it was, he was quite clever, and she liked that in a man.

"Do you speak French?" he repeated, startling her from her thoughts.

"Of course," she replied quickly. "But I-I do not understand. Why did your sister's governess leave?"

"My sister is quite willful, I'm afraid. I let her run free far too often when she was a child, and I am receiving my penance now that she is older. Tell me, will you accept the position?" he asked, his face tight with discomfort.

She dropped her hand back to her lap. "You do not seem pleased with such an arrangement."

The duke's eyes hardened. "With the exception of servants that stayed in their area of the estate, I have lived alone since I was a boy. I am not accustomed to guests."

Hope suddenly understood how deeply the viscount cherished his seclusion and how uncomfortable he was with this situation.

She met his gaze and winced. There was something hauntingly painful in his eyes that chilled her to the bone. She had the urge to fix whatever had been broken, but quickly dismissed it as a silly notion.

"I will accept your offer, Your Grace," she answered with a sharp nod.

The duke's gaze brightened. "Splendid. Now, I don't expect this to be your chore for longer than this evening, but I don't suppose you know how to cook? I am famished, and I haven't the foggiest."

Hope stared at the duke and wondered how she should answer him. A woman of her station would be completely offended at the mention of performing such labor, but she quickly reminded herself that the position of governess now placed her among the working class. She was no longer in Boston where her father's money protected her. She was alone, and no one owed her any favors.

Hope bit her lip and wondered if she was capable of such a task. She'd never cooked a meal a day in her life, but wondered how difficult it could possibly be. From what she'd experienced as a child, a cook simply placed food in a pan and waited until it turned brown.

"I could certainly give it my best, Your Grace," she said.

"Splendid! I shall show you to the kitchen."

Hope followed him out of the drawing room and toward the back of the house. He led her into a very large room with what seemed like every utensil a cook could possibly desire hanging above the counter. She widened her eyes and realized that despite the many hours she'd spent with the cook as a child, she wasn't familiar with any of the metal contraptions.

She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. With her limited knowledge, it would take a miracle to prepare the sort of dinner the duke desired. She would do her best. Perhaps it would be enough.

"I am certain the kitchens in Boston were rightfully outfitted with only the best utensils. I apologize."

Hope grimaced. She knew all too well that even the best utensils wouldn't aid a woman who'd never cooked before. She was destined for failure. "I'm quite certain I will make do," she replied bravely.

"Splendid. I will be in my study if you need anything."

She took a deep breath and fought the hysterical giggles that forced their way up from her stomach. Blast! What had possessed her to agree to such a ridiculous offer?

Hope inspected the kitchen and found the pantry in the back of the room. She chose the items she needed for Boiled Pork and Pease Pudding, a dish she'd watched the cook make once, and set them on the counter. Cooking couldn't possibly be that difficult.

* * *

With nothing left to do at the moment but add carrots to the pan warming on the rack above the fire, Hope gathered the tiny bits into her hands. Careful to move slowly to prevent the carrots from slipping between her fingers, she hummed softly to herself and crossed the room.

Hope smelled the sweet aroma coming from the pot and grinned as a surge of excitement inched up her spine. Her father had been right all along. Cooking was a simple routine women performed naturally out of instinct. She was certain Henry er...the duke would be pleasantly surprised with his meal.

She glanced to the hearth. The smile instantly froze on her face. Red and orange flames lapped at the rim of the pot and forced thick black smoke toward the ceiling. If that wasn't enough, a burning log from her crudely made fire tumbled out onto the floor and sent coals scattering. A towel hanging over the edge of the counter promptly burst into flame.

Hope let out a blood-curdling scream and dashed across the room. Without a single thought to the forgotten carrots that crunched beneath her boots, she stormed past.

Terror gurgled in her throat. The duke's house would be destroyed, and he would send her away. She would have no other choice than to use the last of her money on a hotel room and take a position in town as a seamstress--a position she would despise above all others.

The idea of sewing hour after hour, day after day, snapped her into action. She threw open the pantry doors and scanned the tin boxes for a solution to her predicament. Finding nothing that would suffice, she turned and faced the room. She needed water. Where had she placed the blasted pail when she'd finished with it?

At a loss, Hope ran down the hallway and found the duke's study. As she pushed the heavy oak door open, her heart nearly pounded right out of her chest. Her first day in London had not gone well!

Fighting off tears, she caught sight of the duke on the other side of a large mahogany desk and squeezed the dreadful words from her mouth. "The kitchen is on fire!"

His head snapped up, and his blue eyes widened. He slowly rose from his chair. "What!?"

"The kitchen is on fire! Come quickly!"

The fear that pulsed through her veins now glinted in his eyes. "Bloody hell," he muttered as he sprang from behind the table and passed her at a run.

Whirling around on her heels, she followed him down the hall and into the kitchen. He stood in the threshold for a moment as his eyes took in the situation with wide-eyed horror. The towel was still burning, the pudding in the hearth was on fire, and a bucket of dirty towels next to the counter had also burst into flame. All in all, the sight was quite horrifying.

The duke sent a string of curses hurling into the air and began searching through the bags of ingredients on the counter. His arms jerked roughly in his haste.

Suddenly, Hope remembered where she'd place the pail of water. She retrieved it, crossed the room to the bucket of towels and set about putting the fire out. When she had succeeded, she turned to see the duke had taken care of the other towel and their next task was to handle the overabundant fire in the hearth.

Taking a deep breath, Hope closed her eyes, heaved her pail at the fire and prayed for success.

She snapped her eyes open to see a cloud of white falling through the air around them. She blinked. Snow? Inside?!

The duke frowned at her, his face tight with reproach. "Was that entirely necessary?"

She blinked. "Was what necessary? And what is this?"

He raised a powdery eyebrow at her and ran his hand through dark hair that had somehow turned white in the last few moments. "It is flour, if that is what you are referring to."

"Flour?"

"Yes, and I'm certain you are aware that flour smothers fire, which is what I was attempting to accomplish when you threw a pail of water in my face. Luckily, I was of a sound mind and stepped out of the way in time, but I am afraid that in doing so, I lost hold of the bag of flour. This disaster," he said, gesturing to the flour coated table and floor, "was the result of your horrifying aim, Miss Edwards. What do you have to say for yourself?"

She covered her mouth with her hand before he saw how humorous she found the situation. "Oh dear."

"I assure you, Miss Edwards, that I do not find this amusing."

"Certainly not," she replied seriously, though she was unable to conceal the smile that curved the corners of her lips.

Hope glanced at the hearth and saw that despite their aim, the fire had dwindled to a few wisps of curling black smoke. She sighed in relief.

She met the duke's threatening gaze and instantly sobered. "The fire is out. I am afraid I am not the cook I imagined I was."

When he didn't offer her anything but a grunt of acknowledgement, she sighed. "You must admit the whole situation is quite amusing."

He raised an eyebrow at her and ran his fingers through his hair. A cloud of white powder floated into the air. "When you realize it is your responsibility to clean up this disaster, I am certain you will think differently."

The smile faded from her lips. Henry was not acting like himself. In fact, he'd been acting strangely ever since her arrival.

Hope grimaced. Something was wrong. It was not like him to act so indifferent towards her. He was kind and thoughtful and not the secretive man he was portraying to her now. She wished he would take her into his confidence. As his betrothed, she would be supportive no matter the reason for his troubles.

His gaze locked with hers. "You don't know how to cook, do you?"

She let out a sigh and shook her head. If he wasn't fond of her because she couldn't cook then marriage be damned. After all, he was a viscount! The wife of a viscount didn't cook or do any sort of manual labor! She should have been insulted by his request. "Governesses do not cook. However, I thought I might have found myself a talent until the pot started on fire."

He crossed his arms over his broad chest. "I wish I could have been a witness to your misfortune."

Remembering the way she'd screamed like a frightened schoolgirl, she winced. So much for having a talent. "I'm certain it would have given you weeks of entertainment."

"It still may."

Robert raked his gaze down Miss Edwards's muslin traveling gown. The shadow of a nipple, hardened by the chill in the room, jutted out through the thin material and lit his veins on fire. He sucked in a breath as desire flared in his loins.

He clenched his teeth to gain control of his emotions. She was a very desirable woman and when it came down to it, he wasn't certain he could refrain from pursuing her. Perhaps offering her a position at Riverton Hall hadn't been the best of ideas.

Miss Edwards met his gaze. The corners of her lips quivered into an astounding smile that only a blind man would ignore. The urge to kiss her flickered behind his eyes and in the pit of his stomach.

Robert gritted his teeth and wondered if he could retract his offer without offending her. He would much rather taste her kisses and caress the exquisite body he knew existed beneath the yards of muslin than watch her tend to his sister. Perhaps if he could convince her to allow a short and meaningless encounter to occur between them, he would leave Amelia and accept Miss Edwards as his new mistress. The idea intrigued him more and more with each moment that passed.

Taking one last glance at her tantalizing curves, he set the bag of flour on the counter. "We won't starve. Time seems to have passed me by and my neighbor's cook will be stopping by shortly." He let his gaze fall to her breasts. He knew all too well that no man would ever label them as small. He cleared his throat. "Would you like to change before dinner?"

She raised an eyebrow and for a moment, he thought she'd read his thoughts. She nodded slowly. "Yes, please."

As if to prove his thoughts correct, she crossed her arms over her breasts, hiding them from his view. He grinned, his blood pumping a sense of challenge into his veins. He rather enjoyed bringing out a modest woman's passion and spirit...especially in bed.

"Where are your trunks?"

Her eyes widened. "Blast! I've forgotten about Sara, my traveling companion. I'm sure she has left by now. You do not suppose something has happened to my trunks, do you?"

He arched his eyebrows at her unladylike outburst. "No one in this area would dare steal from me. If your trunks did not grow feet and walk off, they're fine."

The crease between her brows faded. "I suppose you're right. There are all sorts of people in Boston and most wouldn't hesitate to steal if the opportunity presented itself. Most are of ill repute."

Robert motioned for her to follow him. "You'd best keep those beliefs to yourself. You won't find a single person in London that hasn't done something to garner your disdain."

"Including you?"

"Especially me."

She laughed, a tinkling sound slipping from her lips that was so soft and sweet it reminded him of a river trickling over rocks. "If you are attempting to frighten me, you are failing miserably. I have decided you are quite harmless."

The duke barked a mirthless laugh that made Hope's heart ache with sympathy. It was becoming quite clear that he was indeed a broken man. She wondered what had caused such bitterness. Or perhaps who had broken him.

He shook his head. "Harmless. I have harmed many of those I claimed to love. I am far from harmless."

Hope did not know what possessed her, but before she could stop herself, she spoke the words she knew he did not wish to hear. "You have created this uncaring persona for a reason I cannot imagine. I doubt there is anyone who truly knows you and that is a shame, for I imagine there is a great deal in you that is worthy of a happiness that you obviously have never known."

A long moment of silence passed, and then he turned to her. "And you have experienced the happiness you speak of?"

She smiled miserably. "No, but I have dreamed of such."

"Then your words hardly signify."

The emptiness in his gaze chilled her. Yet, she could not stop herself from being so impulsive. She cleared her throat. "A man without dreams is a man without a soul, Your Grace."

He laughed but the amusement did not reach his eyes. "My dear, I lost my soul when I was a boy. Good day."

Hope stared at his back as he walked down the hall and disappeared around a corner. She had stepped into the dragon's lair and should not be surprised to see the fire. The duke was not merely broken. He was shattered.

Chapter Three

When Hope first entered the informal dining room later that night, she stood open-mouthed for several minutes before she realized she was making a spectacle of herself and took her seat. Her father's dining room had been nice enough but the duke's was clearly fit for royalty. Three crystal chandeliers sparkled majestically in the candlelight and swung gently above an elegantly carved mahogany table that could easily seat twenty-five guests. Elaborate paintings and chiseled sculptures placed atop glorious pedestals lined the walls and blue velvet curtains covered the windows. She couldn't even imagine what the formal dining room must look like when the informal one was so beautiful.

Hope sighed. Such extravagance seemed oddly wasteful when a recluse owned it. She wondered what had possessed him to purchase such an immaculate home, for it hardly suited him.

Moments later, Hope speared a potato with her fork and watched it dangle from the end of the silver tines with a weary sigh. After having unpacked three of her trunks, she was quite exhausted. So exhausted, in fact, that her hunger had dissipated long ago, and she simply wished to retire for the evening.

She squinted down the length of the large table and watched the duke take a sip of wine from his goblet. The fact that she was at one end and he at the other made it rather impossible to carry on a conversation. She silently placed the potato into her mouth and contented herself with the monotony of her chewing.

"How do you find your meal?" the duke shouted from his seat, startling her.

The potato lodged in her throat. She scrambled for a drink of wine and swallowed. "Quite fine," she managed to answer.

"What?"

"Quite fine!"

Hope thought she heard the duke sigh but due to the distance between them she couldn't be certain.

"Wah wah wahwah," came his muffled reply.

She glanced down the table. "What?"

"I said this is ridiculous!" he replied, his words echoing off the walls.

Without another word, he rose from his chair, brought his plate and goblet down to her end of the table and took a seat to her right. "This is much better," he said, a smile chasing the frown from his handsome features.

Hope watched the duke arrange his dishes to his specifications and wondered what had caused the change in his disposition. She knew better than to ask. He would not welcome an intrusion into his affairs, and she did not wish to end the night on a sour note.

Instead, she considered a more practical subject. "The neighbor's cook is quite talented."

A faint glint of amusement entered his gaze. "Indeed. She takes great pride in her position."

"I am certain she does."

An uncomfortable silence filled the air only to be broken by the clink of silverware bumping against the delicately painted china as they dined. Finally, the duke met her gaze. "Why Lord Ripley? Was there no suitable gentlemen in Boston?"

Hope found it peculiar that Henry had forgotten the unpleasant situation her father had placed her in so quickly. Had he even read her letters? She hid her disappointment behind a forced smile. "My father accepted a gentleman's proposal without my knowledge."

"And you did not care for him?"

"I cared for him only as one would care about a horrible stench in the air," she replied vehemently.

His luminous eyes widened in astonishment. The corners of his lips curled ever so slightly and then he threw his head back and laughed, the sound deep and intoxicating.

Hope frowned at his response. "I find it strange that my torment amuses you."

The duke's laughter faded to a chuckle. "You are rich, my dear Miss Edwards. If he is as unappealing as you make him sound, I can see why you would not wish to marry such a man."

"Indeed. I only wish my father held your opinion."

"Did you share your thoughts with him?"

"At every opportunity to no avail," she replied, unable to tear her gaze from the compelling light in his eyes.

"I see," he said with an admiring smile. "I find your story to be greatly intriguing. That you, a woman, would have the courage to leave the world you have known all of your life and search for happiness elsewhere is inspiring."

She stiffened in her chair. "What do you find so inspiring? The fact that a woman is capable of more than embroidery or that one could break through the barriers of propriety and do whatever one wishes?"

"Both," he replied thinly, his gaze dark with sudden annoyance.

Hope opened her mouth to put the duke in his place but his manservant walked into the room and gestured to their empty plates with a gnarled hand. "Are you finished, Your Grace?"

The silence lengthened between them as Robert glowered at her. A muscle quivered beneath the skin of his jaw, indicating that she would be wise to keep her mouth shut. Finally, he tore his gaze from hers and glanced at the old man. He placed his napkin on the table with a tight snap of his wrist. "Yes, quite. Thank you, Averly."

Averly did not seem to notice his employer's peculiar behavior and turned to her, his gray eyes tender. "And you, Miss Edwards?"

Hope forced a smile to her lips. Averly was the only servant who greeted her when they passed in the hall, and she did not wish to offend him. "I am. Thank you."

Averly collected their plates and turned back to the duke. The wrinkles on his forehead deepened in concern. "There is a visitor waiting in the drawing room, Your Grace. She is quite insistent on seeing the viscount."

Robert's mouth tightened in displeasure. "Another debt collector. That is the second one this week. Will they never leave us in peace?"

Hope was barely able to suppress her gasp of surprise. Debt collector?! Henry was in debt. Desperate to learn more about his predicament, she cleared her throat. "If you would like, I would be happy to send the woman away."

Robert's gaze met hers, and the tension in his face relaxed. "I would be delighted. Thank you."

Within moments, Hope sailed down the hall to the drawing room. Her mind whirled with the implication of Henry's obvious debt. Was he posing as the duke to divert the duns?

She frowned. And why was he allowing her to deal with such an embarrassing situation? Wouldn't he want to hide something so detrimental to their future?

She entered the drawing room to see a woman with flashing sapphire eyes sitting on the sofa. The woman nervously touched the soft auburn curls framing her face and dropped her hand to idly finger the material of her green muslin walking gown.

"May I help you?" Hope asked amicably.

The woman rose to her feet and smiled warmly. "I am Miss Stella Smith. I have traveled to London to join my betrothed, Lord Ripley. Are you his housekeeper?"

A cold tremor arched up Hope's spine, chilling her to the bone. Her mind refused to accept the woman's words. "Forgive me," she finally whispered. "I am certain I did not hear you correctly."

The woman's smile faded to stone. "I am here to see my betrothed, Lord Ripley. Please inform him that I have arrived."

Hope swallowed the lump in her throat. Her mind whirled with the woman's request. There had to be some mistake! The man she'd grown to care for would never bring two women to London on false pretenses only to choose one as his bride and leave the other stranded.

And yet, the evidence of Henry's betrayal stood before her, staring her in the eyes.

Anger and pain swelled beneath her breasts. The viscount was a cad, and she intended to tell him exactly how she felt about his deceitful ways. His ears would ring with the intensity of her words, and he would fall to his knees whining and writhing like the snake he was to beg for her forgiveness. Unfortunately for him, he would not receive it. She would walk out the door and never look back. It was the least the scoundrel deserved.

She reached forward and took the woman's hand. "If you will follow me, I shall escort you to the viscount's study."

Without waiting for an answer, Hope pulled Miss Smith down the hall behind her. The woman gasped and struggled, but Hope was a woman on a mission. If the "duke" knew what was good for him, he would run while he still had the chance.

Hope released the woman's hand, ordered her to wait in the hall and pushed the study door open so violently it crashed against the wall with a resounding bang.

The duke's head snapped up, and his gaze searched the room for the source of the intrusive noise. When his eyes found her, his lips twisted into a frown. "Who was it?"

"Miss Stella Smith."

"Oh? What establishment was she from?"

"Don't toy with me."

He arched a brow. "That certainly wasn't my intention."

A tightening in Hope's chest urged the painful words to her lips. "That woman traveled to London at your bidding to accept your marriage proposal."

His lips puckered in annoyance. "I am quite certain you are mistaken. I am betrothed to no one."

Tears stung the corners of her eyes, betraying her desperate attempt to remain indifferent to his lies. "Do you honestly intend to continue with this deception?"

He visibly stiffened. Slowly, the muscles in his jaw worked beneath the skin. "I will tell you what I have told you several times before. I am not Lord Ripley."

"The paintings in the hall are of your relatives! You did not fool me for a single moment."

The duke blinked at her incredulously. Finally, he leaned forward to ruffle through the papers on his desk and pulled one from the stack. With a sigh, he held it out to her. "This document will prove that I am the Duke of Riverton."

Hope stumbled forward on stiff legs and scanned the document. When she read the words, Lord Ripley, deceased, a horrified scream gurgled silently in her throat. She pressed her knuckles to her lips. The duke had given her the proof she'd needed. She could no longer deny that Henry was dead.

"As you can see by the deed, I purchased Brooke House from the viscount's surviving relatives last month."

A flash of mind-numbing grief ripped through Hope and nearly brought her to her knees. She reached out, gripped a corner of the desk to stop the room from swaying and concentrated on breathing past the tears that were choking her. She had to face the facts sooner or later. The man she loved was lost to her forever, and her entire well being relied solely on the mercy of a stranger. She'd left Boston for nothing. Nothing!

She bit her bottom lip to control her emotions and met the duke's tender gaze. Suddenly uncomfortable in his company, she quickly averted her eyes. In two short minutes, he'd changed from the love of her life to a stranger. "I-I apologize, Your Grace. The viscount was very dear to me. I did not want to believe..." she paused, hating the betraying catch in her voice.

"Is there anything I can do? Would you care for a cup of tea?"

"You have been very kind, and I continue to appreciate your generosity. However," she said, pausing to control the grief that caused the muscles in the back of her throat to tighten. "If you do not require my assistance this evening, I would like to be excused."

"Of course," he replied gently. "You are free to do as you wish tomorrow as well. I will manage."

"That really won't be necessary. I assure you. I will be fine in the morning," she replied, knowing full well that immersing herself in her work would help ease her grief and take her mind off the uncertainty of her future.

As he escorted her to her room, Hope found a great deal of comfort in the warmth of his hand on her elbow. She'd never experienced such concern or gentleness from a man before and found it rather easy to relax as he swept her up the stairs and down the hall to her room.

The duke squeezed her elbow gently before he released her. "If you need anything at all, I shall be in my study."

Hope waited until he closed the door, and the sound of his footsteps faded down the hall. She turned to greet the overwhelming silence with a choked sob. The emotions she'd somehow managed to contain in the study broke through the surface and wracked her body with grief.

Fighting off the tears, she crossed her room and opened one of the many trunks Averly had managed to squeeze into her room. She reached past her petticoats and searched for Henry's letters.

Finding one of the ribbon-tied packets, she sat down on her bed. As she read, tears dropped upon the page and blurred the ink until it was nearly indecipherable.

December 5, 1815

My dearest Hope,

It is hard to believe a year has passed since I received your first letter. Much has changed since then, has it not, my love? I feel privileged to have been the recipient of your letters these many months. Your cousin, Lady Dowbridge, was splendid to have suggested we correspond and I have no regrets. I pray you feel the same.

I could sense your unhappiness in your last letter and wished there were something I could do to lift your spirits. Again, my hands are tied by the distance that stands between us, and my letters arrive in Boston months after they are sent...too late to be of much help. I hope simply knowing that I am thinking of you comforts you in some way.

I do not intend to demean your father, but I do believe that the way he treats you is inexcusable. One day, you will leave his home, and he will regret all he has done. You are a strong woman, Hope. Do not let him convince you otherwise.

May the sun shine upon you today and offer you at least a moment of respite from your troubles.

Faithfully,

Henry

Hope slowly lowered the letter to her lap and allowed the pain she'd forced down in the duke's company to float to the surface. A warm tear slipped down her cheek and plunged to her skirts only to be followed by several more.

She took a calming breath of air and thought over the events of the last year, the joy of Henry's existence, and the trust his letters had nurtured. She'd grown to rely on his existence and had found the initiative, through him, to leave Boston. Without him, she would have married an abusive husband and remained oblivious to the wonderful opportunities available to a woman. He'd saved her in every way, and she owed him much more than she possessed.

She pressed Henry's letter over her heart and closed her eyes. What had happened to him? Was his death painful? Had someone murdered him?

A low, tortured sob slipped from her lips. "I miss your presence in my life, Henry. You will never be forgotten."

* * *

Robert closed Miss Edwards's door and headed down the hall to his study where three more hours of work waited for him like a beacon of tranquility amidst a raging storm. Perhaps the idea was a bit colorful, even for him, but he felt trapped by her troubles and found the routine of his work much less taxing.

He hurried down the stairs and crossed the hall to his study. He wished Margaret lived closer. She would know what to do in this situation where as he did not. He considered returning to comfort Miss Edwards but dismissed the notion immediately. Somehow, he knew his new governess was not the type to take kindly to interference.

He stormed into his study and headed for the liquor cabinet. A finger of brandy would calm his nerves and make everything much clearer--if that were possible. He'd certainly gotten himself into a fine mess, and it seemed doubtful that he would ever learn from his mistakes.

Deciding against the inconvenience of a tumbler, he pulled the bottle of brandy from the shelf and lifted the rim to his lips. The amber liquid burned a path down his throat and soothed his ragged nerves. He raised his eyebrows at the potent flavor, held the bottle out before him, inspected the label and decided it was a good batch he would request again.

With a tired sigh, he turned to his desk to see a woman leaning back seductively in his chair. The neckline of her gown dipped much too low for decorum's sake and revealed the swell of her ample breasts. The idea that someone had encroached upon his personal territory infuriated him. "What are you doing in my study?" he growled.

The woman's full lips puckered into a pout. She rested her gloved hands in her lap and narrowed her eyes suggestively. "I do believe there is something lacking in a man who does not appreciate a beautiful woman's company."

"A woman who enters a man's home uninvited is asking for trouble."

The woman's bottom lip trembled, but she did not avert her gaze. "Y-you shouldn't threaten a woman. It isn't proper."

He realized that she must be the woman who claimed to be the viscount's betrothed and raised an eyebrow. He knew her type all too well, for he'd dallied with several just like her. "I would think a woman like you wouldn't care about such meaningless opinions."

Her face relaxed. "I do on occasion."

Robert set the bottle of brandy back in the liquor cabinet and closed the door. "You are Ripley's betrothed?"

She nodded. Her gaze met his imploringly. "Did you tell that woman the truth? Is he dead?"

He doubted Miss Smith felt as deeply for the viscount as Hope obviously had, but he chose his words carefully nonetheless. "Yes. I imagine his loss must be devastating. Have you known him long?"

She shrugged. "No. I was certain he would ask for my hand if he took one look at me. After all," she said as she slid her hands over her muslin gown and down to her slim waist, "who could resist such perfection?"

Robert pressed his lips together. He knew there were few men who would scoff at such an offer, but he was not a normal man. He much preferred the company of his mistresses. "Indeed. Was the viscount aware you were traveling to London?"

She pouted. "No, he was not. And, if what you say is true, he never will. I'm stranded in London without a husband or funds." She sighed, her face animated in distress. "I cannot imagine spending my life caring for other people's laundry. My life is hopeless."

Robert couldn't help the smile that curled the corners of his lips. There were many women who married for money, but few would admit as much. Stella's honesty amused him. "I doubt you will have much trouble finding a man to suit you."

Stella's eyes widened hopefully. "Truly?"

Robert frowned at the woman's tactless excitement. She'd learned her betrothed was dead mere moments ago and was already contemplating another marriage. He cleared his throat. "Do you have lodging?"

"No," she replied. Her eyelids blinked rapidly and a thin line of tears formed on her lower lashes.

Robert resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He despised the idea of allowing another person to invade his home, but he truly felt as though he had no other choice. He would allow her to stay at the house that night and that night only. He tugged uneasily on his cravat. "You may use one of my guestrooms for the evening. In the morning, I will take you into town where you can search for a room at a boarding house."

"Your kindness is greatly appreciated, Your Grace," she replied with a sincere smile that softened her features. "I could prepare breakfast in the morning. That is, if you do not already have a cook."

He raised an eyebrow. "You are adept at such things?"

She nodded, her eyes sparkling with pride. "Very well if I may be so bold. My mother was a cook for a baron, and I inherited her recipes when she passed on."

Robert eyed the woman suspiciously. What was he agreeing to? One night or more?

He realized the specifics did not matter. "I suppose if you must be here, you may fill in as my cook. I will pay you of course."

Miss Smith grinned. "The funds will be most helpful."

* * *

"Robert, it's beautiful! The most decorative piece I have seen in years. You shouldn't have," Amelia said, her dark blue eyes sparkling with pleasure as she slipped an errant lock of raven hair behind her ear.

Robert watched his mistress inspect the quite expensive, even by his standards, diamond and sapphire necklace he'd purchased. Even though she'd indicated otherwise, he knew she'd expected such a gift. A token of appreciation was a requirement when one visited his mistress. "I'm quite glad you like it. I felt the sapphires matched the color of your eyes."

She smiled, her eyelashes fluttering prettily. "Oh, Robert. You certainly have a way with words. Whatever shall I do while you are away at Riverton? I shall have no other choice than to work on my embroidery until you return. I just know I will go mad."

"Perhaps you'll have to pay me a visit then?"

Amelia's eyes widened. "Really? Oh, Robert. I would love nothing else. Do you think the servants will mind?"

"They wouldn't dare," he growled.

"When shall I visit?"

Robert thought for a moment. Though his baser urges would have liked for her to visit immediately, he knew it was quite impossible. "I will send you an invitation. I haven't visited Riverton in over a year, and I'm certain my sister will be as incorrigible as ever. Let me deal with her first and then I will send for you."

"Send for me soon, Robert."

"I will dearest," he replied in awe of the relaxation that floated over him whenever he was in Amelia's presence. They'd been devoted friends since he was seventeen and when their bodies had blossomed into adults, so had their friendship into passion. They knew all there was to know about each other. He supposed he loved her as a friend, though he did little to show it.

At a loss to do anything else, he showed her in the only way he knew how. He smiled coyly, hooked his hands around her waist and hoisted her onto his lap. Her pink satin robe separated to allow her creamy thighs to straddle his hips, revealing that she wasn't wearing anything else. He stared down at the dusky patch of hair between her legs and felt his loins jerk to attention.

"You are quite wicked, Your Grace," she said, her eyes darkening in desire.

"And you, my dear, are stunning."

She reached down and unbuttoned his breeches with experienced hands until a wisp of cold air touched his skin. With a smile of urgency, she reached inside and brought his warm flesh out into the open. She held him gently in her hands before she began to press the length of him toward the moist opening at the juncture of her thighs.

Robert reached up and grasped Amelia's hips, stopping her from sheathing herself on him. Something was not right about this night. He did not want Amelia as he had in the past. He wanted Hope and though he knew it was not completely beneath him to lie with Amelia anyway, he couldn't. He would betray Hope but mostly, he would betray himself.

He lifted Amelia and set her gently on the settee next to him. "I am sorry, Amelia."

"Is something wrong?" she asked, her face etched with worry.

He quickly righted his clothing and stood. "I am ill. Nothing more."

A flicker of pain flashed in Amelia's gaze, but she quickly hid the emotion behind a smile and rose from the settee.

Robert nodded and crossed the room to the front door to wait for her. He knew Amelia would not ask him to stay. They were both aware of their roles in society and in each other's lives. They were intelligent enough to refrain from expecting more than an occasional romp between the sheets and it suited them both. Their relationship was simply a pleasant diversion in an otherwise hectic lifestyle.

Amelia brought him his greatcoat and kissed his cheek. "Until next time, then."

Moments later, he climbed into his coach and leaned against the back of the leather bench as it rolled down the cobbled street. The next time he visited Amelia, or she him, it would only be as friends. His goals were now set a little higher to a certain woman with intriguing brown eyes and a personality to match.

A gun fired somewhere near the vicinity of the coach, startling Robert from his thoughts. A flicker of foreboding coursed through him and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He heard feminine voices growing in hysteria outside while men calmly shouted orders in the background, and he wondered if he should stop the coach to offer his assistance. At this rate, the people would create a mob of panic.

He reached up to pull the cord that would signal his coachman to stop, but the gun fired again, stilling his hand in mid-air. He blinked in shock and watched as a bullet passed through the bench across from him and pierced his seat mere inches from his chest. Fear and anger made a knot in his stomach as he stared at the frayed hole in the leather. If he'd sat two inches to the left, he would have been killed.

As the coach came to an instant halt, Robert bolted to his feet, pushed the door open and stepped down into the street where his coachman was already joining the patrons lining the street.

Simon turned as he approached, his lips forming a grim line. "No one saw who was firing the gun, Yer Grace. Perhaps it was an accident."

Robert watched his coachman fiddle with the lapels of his coat and knew how much the near-death experience had shaken the older man. After all, the bullet had barely missed him as well. He glanced down the street and sighed. "The man is probably long gone. Let's go home, Simon."

He reluctantly climbed back inside his coach and stared at the bullet hole with a heavy heart. The gunshot could have been an accident but a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach indicated otherwise.

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