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Chapter One

1814:

"Colonel?" A young soldier halted him as he left Wellington's well-appointed command center with several other officers. "I thought this might be urgent, sir. A courier arrived with it in the mail pouch minutes ago. It's addressed to you from London."

The staff meeting concluded, Horatio gave his report to Wellington after returning from Austria. "Thank you, sergeant." Taking the letter, he completed his short conversation with Captains Reilly and Grady, and then headed for his desk at headquarters in Fontainebleau.

Closing the door to his office, he broke the wax seal on the letter. The missive held only a few spidery written sentences, but what he read was a shock.

It announced the demise of Simon Colby and stated that Horatio inherited the title of sixth Viscount Wentworth. Horatio never heard of the man--a long forgotten relative, belonging to his mother's ancestry. He'd be wearing a title?

A dozen years in the King's service, Horatio gave unstinting duty to God, king, and country with a reckless valor that won him the rank of colonel. Influenced by years on the Iberian Peninsula, his boyish demeanor rapidly altered from brash youth into a self-possessed, tight-lipped, uncompromising warrior accustomed to giving commands that were obeyed--immediately and undisputed.

Still, dumbfounded, he thought hard and long before making up his mind to leave the service. At six and thirty, with the war ending, what was a soldier to do? He succumbed to the offer and sold his commission.

When he returned to England, he received another jolt.

Several codicils in the old viscount's will were explained when Horatio met with Simon Colby's solicitor, Cyrus Spoon. "You must marry, my lord," Spoon said, "and soon. If you don't do so within a year, you'll face forfeiture. You'll retain the title, but land, wealth, and possessions will pass to the Crown and be placed under the aegis of the Prince Regent."

More shocking to Horatio was another fact: "Since the old viscount's grandson and his wife were killed in a terrible coach accident in Cornwall, you are named guardian to his two great-grandchildren."

It wouldn't be so bad if they were boys, Horatio thought, but he was saddled with a pair of very young females.

After the conference with Spoon--Horatio looked somewhat befuddled for a man who rarely displayed his thoughts or emotions. Nevertheless, he took the staid solicitor at his word and sought to choose a wife while in London. He wasted six months without success. Frustrated, he gave up on the marriage mart. Debutantes were too young for him. He was an old man by the standards of chits coming out of the schoolroom. Horatio finally devised another means to find someone suitable for a marriage of convenience.

Cyrus Spoon was appalled when he heard what he was asked to do. "Lord Wentworth, are you absolutely certain that you want me to advertise for a wife in the London papers?" A London practitioner for years, Spoon thought he'd seen everything as his bushy, frosted brows curved over his metal-rimmed spectacles.

Horatio was adamant. "I've lost precious time, Spoon. I want the damn thing concluded. You're aware I'm under the gun to meet Colby's blasted edict."

"Yes, my lord, but--"

"Spoon, take care of it during the next few weeks, won't you? I'm sick to death of this whole marriage folderol. I'm not looking for a love match. Pick out a few from the best of the lot who apply. And be sure you make my terms clear--and in writing. I'll secure a special license so we can get the thing done without any delay. I require only a few simple things."

Horatio ticked off his list on the calloused fingers of his left hand. "My viscountess needn't worry I'll demand my conjugal rights. The lady will be respected, well-treated, and lacking nothing--a generous quarterly allowance, an elegant home, and enough servants to cater to her."

The gray-haired solicitor nodded, taking notes.

"Just see it's handled quickly, Spoon."

"Yes, my lord, as you wish."

Almost forgetting, Horatio added a thin smile. "Of course, the lady must take charge of my wards."

A confirmed bachelor, Horatio was set in his ways with no knowledge how to behave with children, especially aristocratic, young females. Horatio was wise enough to realize it.

"Yes, Lord Wentworth. I'll get right to it."

"Lastly, Spoon," Horatio said, gruffly, "I'm a military man not used to spouting poetry or words of love. Nor do I believe in clinging to unalterable marriage vows. I'll solicit my...um...affections...elsewhere. So you see, I shall require a mistress."

The solicitor's eyebrows rose skyward.

"After the wedding, of course, Spoon. This is a business agreement. I want no loose ends or any hard feelings between the lady and myself."

Horatio was bluff and his edges were rough, he knew. He had forgotten many of the polished manners he learned at Oxford. There were things other than politesse to worry about when fighting a war. "Then," he concluded his conversation with his solicitor, "when they come of age, I'll arrange suitable marriages for the young chits, send them off with substantial dowries, and be done with it. Make a notation of that too, Spoon."

He accepted a friend's invitation to visit Surrey and left Town. He had no idea who he would encounter on the way.

Chapter Two

Surrey, England, 1814:

Snorting whiffs of white steam through his nostrils, Porto, the stallion belonging to Horatio, cantered under his master. A good friend, Jonathan Kincaide had invited Horatio for a month's visit.

The lane leading toward the baron's estate was hardly more than an overgrown wagon track. Turning a sharp bend, the big bay horse danced to a sliding halt under the viscount's expert hands. A pony and cart blocked the lane.

"What the devil!" Horatio shouted from his horse's back. His deep voice rumbled like distant cannon fire. "Are you in some trouble, my good fellow?"

A scruffy-looking top hat hid his face, and a cape draped over his protruding rump made it difficult for Horatio to tell if the man was young or old, short or tall. The viscount repeated his question, "Beg your pardon, sir. Are you in need of help?"

Getting no reply, Horatio assumed the man was old and hard of hearing. He eyed the cart, believing it in fine shape. A small spotted pony stood quietly in the shafts, cocking a rear hoof, eyes half closed, dozing.

Abruptly, the person straightened and turned toward Horatio. The viscount's surprised look changed his expression rather rapidly. Trained by the military to observe, Horatio's eyes opened wide. He saw it wasn't an old man after all. Or even a young man.

It was a female.

Horatio quickly adjusted back to his normal, unflappable facade. The height of the Amazon was unusual to say the least. He realized she was taller than him by three inches. Unconsciously, he adjusted his shoulders and sat up straighter, his curiosity aroused.

The woman wasn't beautiful although her skin glowed with a shade of light bronze, the color one could acquire when spending time in sunshiny weather or a warm clime. Tiny freckles sprinkled across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. He noticed the wide-spaced, hazel eyes surrounded by thick lashes, and honed on to the generous lips.

Neither did it take long for Horatio to absorb the contours under what she wore. Funneling along the otherwise empty lane, a blustery wind swirled around her, blowing her long cape open. He watched as she took a step forward.

Skintight pantaloons clung to enticing, svelte limbs. The man's jacket and waistcoat she wore seemed ready to pop their buttons and seams. The masculine duds were too snug to fully hide her generous curves.

Unable to read his eyes, still Anabel was aware that the man's interest was piqued. She endured the stranger's open scrutiny a few moments longer, watching him as he appraised her. A ray of fast fading sunlight slashed through the tree branches haloing Horatio's shadowed face. If he wondered if she came from the village, she wasn't about to supply him with any unnecessary information.

Taciturn, demanding answers, Horatio repeated his earlier inquiries. "The pony seems fine. Is there a problem with the cart? What became of the driver? Or did you hire it to drive yourself? What's going on here?" He snapped the questions in rapid succession as if speaking to a subaltern under his command.

He heard annoyance in her voice and saw it mirrored in a glare from under her tattered hat brim, aware of his surly interrogation.

"That is what I should like to know." Anabel wrinkled her brow as she peered down the empty track in the direction of the village. She slowly turned back to scrutinize her fellow traveler.

The man was not wearing regimentals and was nattily dressed, but he looked and behaved like the military. The unsmiling, chiseled face sprouted a small, manicured moustache. It added dash to his countenance. A few strands of straight black hair straggled from under his tricorne. The rest was pulled back in a queue. Anabel wondered if he ever changed that stern expression.

Taking her time, she raked eyes over his appearance and his horse with a slow, careful examination. Adding information gleaned from the fashionable attire and the well-fed appearance of his huge, snorting equine, Anabel was now convinced the man wasn't a highwayman, rapscallion, or ruffian. More likely, he was a very well to do gentleman. Therefore, she dismissed him from her immediate concern.

"You didn't perchance, pass him on the way?" Anabel inquired, her voice low and gruff to imitate male tones while reining in any visible sign of uneasiness.

"This isn't London...Madam."

Well, that did it. I hoped to keep up the subterfuge. He's caught me out, but I'm not in need of help, nor is there reason to be so friendly.

Dressed in her father's togs since leaving Egypt, she thought herself well disguised. The day she lost her hat in London, it caused a problem because she needed to camouflage her long hair. On the way to Pompfrey Bally, she paid a penny for a battered top hat from an ostler at a posting inn. She cringed at the thought of putting it on her head but had no choice, certain the swarm of lice would cavort on her scalp until she could get rid of them.

So be it then if he knows, she thought. All will be well when I reach Marsipal's home, remove these too tight clothes, and burn this damn hat.

"I'm afraid I met no one. That is, no one other than you and that pony," he said.

"Drat! This is some fine kettle of fish. Oh well, bother it!" Anabel chewed on her plump lower lip in annoyance, sighed audibly, and said, "Might as well get on with it, I suppose." Almost casually, she turned away and walked in the direction of the pony's head. She felt the solid weight of her father's pistol resting inside the leather pouch she carried. In the middle of nowhere, her raw courage cloaked her nervousness while the stranger glared down at her. Not once did she answer his clipped questions or his offer of assistance.

Nevertheless, Horatio persisted with his interrogation, watching the Amazon pulling on the recalcitrant pony's bridle. "Are you thinking of dragging that stubborn animal along?"

Bracing her feet, Anabel yanked harder on the leather headstall. "It really is none of your business, sir," she said, grunting slightly as she mustered a sharp retort.

"Why are you still carrying that pouch and umbrella? I would advise you to get into the cart and drive the animal. It seems to me..."

"I assure you, sir, I'd rather walk. Neither do I plan on leaving my belongings or the poor pony here for someone to steal," she said.

He saw her bristling at him like a teased porcupine. He kept on badgering her with questions and advice. "And how far do you think you'll get?"

"As for that, sirrah, as far as I must." Her retort was understated and brusque. "I choose to walk because I happen to like walking," she muttered, her cool tone underscoring her prickly attitude. "Now, if you will just go on your way and leave me be, I'll be perfectly fine." She pressed the battered hat more firmly on to her head and started forward.

Seeing they were traveling in the same direction, Horatio squeezed Porto's ribs. His horse walked placidly alongside the pony.

Anabel's meandering stride was unsteady, and she wobbled between the rutted wheel tracks. The cart rumbled noisily behind her. Her nose pointed forward, not to the side. But out of the corner of one eye, she saw the stranger stayed abreast of her.

She ignored him.

Feeling lightheaded, she remembered how little she had to eat since leaving London. No wonder her nerves were raw and on edge. The cutting blade of her temper was sharp as a butcher's knife. Hungry, out of patience, she was wound as tight as a clock spring. She realized she had all but snapped the stranger's head off.

Well, it was just too bad. What if my manners are not at their best right now? I have reason to be grumpy, but it really is not his fault.

Too weary to apologize, Anabel doggedly pushed on toward her best friend at Barrister Hall. She thought she must look like a bedraggled homing pigeon, feathers ruffled, trying desperately to reach the safety of her coop. Ah, well. Another hour and she would be safe.

Squinting at the Amazon beneath his black jetting brows, Horatio cleared his throat before addressing her. "Ahem! Beg pardon, Madam. I believe the village is a few leagues back. If you expect your man to return here in under an hour--"

"I didn't say he was my man." She snapped at the stranger again, unable to contain her curt words. She had been overset, and worn out with worry for more than two months. Her nerves frazzled since she and her father landed in Egypt, and they were worse now.

"The lout deserted me here. I don't expect him back."

"Why is that?"

Anabel raised her chin haughtily, not looking at him when she replied, "We had a bit of a set to if you must know."

For some reason known only to him, he hid a half smile with his leather glove, waiting for her to go on. When she didn't continue, he simply posed another query. "Madam, the wind is blowing gustier by the minute. I don't understand why you won't drive the pony." Horatio scanned the darkening horizon. Lowering clouds scudded across the sky, off and on hiding the sun from view. "I believe you'd be wise to--"

"Wise or not, I concluded there was too much weight in the cart. Take a look at him. I dare say you will agree. The animal is too small to pull the cart with two large occupants and my baggage. Oh, how I detest people who mistreat animals. Right off, I never should have allowed it."

"I see." He didn't. "I agree but..."

"Please, no buts. I told that nasty fellow since we had only a short distance to go, he should get out and walk, too."

Horatio couldn't believe his ears. "Are you saying that you walked while the driver you hired rode in the cart?"

Spraying moisture from his muzzle with a snuffling sound, Porto's ears actively flicked back and forward as he heard his master's voice escalating in disapproval.

"Why, that is totally preposterous!" Horatio sputtered.

"I thought I explained why I believed it was the kind thing to do. Mind you, the fellow must have weighed more than fifteen stone." She frowned in outrage. "The large brute had no conscience, no feelings, I might add."

Taking another quick glance at the stranger, Anabel realized he was muscled and brawny as the driver. Nevertheless, she gallantly continued. "Besides, he was favoring one foot."

"The driver?"

"No, the pony."

"Oh. Yes, of course. But I saw him resting--"

"And he was unsteady on his feet to begin with," she continued.

"The pony?"

"No, of course not. The driver."

Confused, Horatio saw this was not getting them anywhere.

He started over. "Would you mind telling me what happened next?"

"To tell the truth, I think the big lout had a bit too much to drink."

"The driv..."

"Of course, him!" Anabel snarled back. Was the stranger befuddled by drink as well? "He went on to tell me the animal was a born faker, so lazy that he would do anything to get out of work."

Horatio didn't inquire further.

Anabel inhaled with an audible sniff. "I am absolutely certain the man was mistaken." She rambled on, her words weighted with sympathy. "I think the poor animal was injured."

"He looked fine to me--"

"You mean to tell me you didn't notice?" One eyebrow arched, and she aimed another haughty stare at him.

Horatio held his tongue, blinked a couple of times, and shook his head. Instead, he concentrated harder, trying to follow her train of thought.

Not waiting for a second opinion, Anabel continued. "The stubborn lout wouldn't listen. I wanted him to..." She halted abruptly and raised her gaze toward the sky. "Oh, what do you call it?" She stammered, annoyed because she couldn't come up with the proper term. "I'm talking about the pony...and...and the cart, of course," she said, huffing out the words very slowly in case Horatio was deaf or dull-witted.

Or both.

"I wanted him...ahh...that's it! Unhitched," she exclaimed. "That is what I meant to say." Anabel smiled, satisfied, having captured the word for which she had searched her vocabulary. The stranger looked blank, so she spoke louder to make sure he heard this time. "The pony, sir! Perdition, you must know what I mean," she demanded, certain that exasperation must be written on her face. "I know little about the trappings of ponies and carts, but..."

Pausing, she said, "Anyway, he advised me if he were to do any walking, it would be back to the village." Anabel furiously nodded her head, and almost lost her oversized hat in the bargain.

Horatio's eyebrows rose, and she dared him to glare at her again as if she were a loony. "Of course, I refer to the driver! He assured me that Alfie would find his way home. Then he left and lumbered toward the village." She bit down harder on a full lip. "Drat the man!"

"I'm almost certain the--er--pony will arrive safe where he belongs, Madam." Horatio had watched the pony's plodding gait. The driver was right. The pony was lazy and canny enough to convince a softhearted female to take it easy on him. Being a rational male, Horatio added more advice. "Equines are born with an instinct to return where they are fed. The pony will be fine."

Getting back on track, Horatio asked rhetorically, "Do you know you are but a short distance from Barrister Hall?" Instead of waiting for an answer, he warned, "I suggest you ask for asylum there. I believe the weather is turning foul. It will be faster," he said, pointing at the cart again, "if you climb in and prod the pony to get moving."

Anabel threw Horatio a glacier-like look that might freeze water in mid-July. "I shall do what I must," was her bluff reply.

Dammit, she is obstinate, Horatio ranted silently. Whoever she is, it is just as well if I go on and let the minx do what she wants. After all, she is no part or parcel of my problem.

She forged ahead, leading the reluctant pony behind her.

Chapter Three

Horatio's eyes followed the mysterious woman's struggles with the pony cart. She was something to behold. In his mind, he had dubbed her, Lady Bountiful, since he didn't know her name. The leggy, bold, tart-mouthed wench was unlike anyone he met in London, Paris, or elsewhere on the Continent. God forbid if she were. This one would never blubber or sniffle if he raised his voice, or if his manners lapsed into impolite territory. He'd been burned by her short fuse more than once. He didn't plan to allow it to happen again.

Yes, this female was very different. She towered over those on London's marriage mart like poor Gulliver in the land of the Lilliputians.

Horatio had his problems, too. His personality didn't endow him with the polished, relaxed mien of a gentleman of Polite Society. Mothers seemed unwilling to hand their innocent daughters over to an unknown quantity, no matter his title and wealth. His powerfully built physique frightened the daylights out of young things in Almack's, along with his stern countenance. They, in turn, drove him to distraction. He had no patience with simpering and giggling.

He watched, riding beside Lady Bountiful, and noticing she was tiring.

What the devil was she doing here by herself anyway? Why was she wearing man's clothing? And what was in the leather pouch that she wouldn't allow out of her hands?

A number of questions struck him as being peculiar, a slew of them he might have asked when he realized she was of a different gender than his.

He'd never come upon a woman so impressive in size, quick-tempered, and willful. He was more than curious, wondering if she were a spinster, married, or a widow, and if she were she well bred or of a lower class.

The audible noise the viscount made while musing sounded much like Porto's loud snort. When soldiering as a randy lieutenant in the King's army, he did more than ogle women. He'd tumbled many a willing wench. He and his bawdy army friends were so sharply handsome and brave in their brand new regimentals; they were flirted with by half of London's opera dancers and the obliging muslin crowd. As he recalled, most of the demimonde had exceptionally shapely limbs and luscious figures. Much like Lady Bountiful.

Bent on a military career if Horatio's wild oats took root--he knew of none--they didn't lead to permanent entanglements. Life was short and fighting a war was too dangerous to leg shackle oneself.

Suddenly, the cape billowed and snapped in the wind around Lady Bountiful, outlining her rounded figure. Horatio's thoughts had wandered, but he took another reconnaissance. His imagination pointed out well-defined targets on the map he knew how to read. He envisioned what he might touch, hands that might be filled with silky-soft, ivory and pink mounds, sweet fruit to be kissed, nuzzled, suckled, and tasted. He could almost see a pair of lush thighs spread and waiting for him, feel them tightening around his hips. And when he slid into that slick, heavenly portal...

Horatio suppressed a wolfish leer, letting Porto stretch his neck while keeping the stallion on a loose rein.

Double damnation! What came over me?

Well-trained, the horse walked on patiently as the November wind blew raw and damp, whipping the tree branches and licking at bushes stripped of leaves that lined the lane.

The pony plodded on next to Porto.

Lids slit to protect her eyes, he saw the woman bow her head against the onslaught of tiny scraps of dirt, twigs, and dead leaves battering her cheeks. She grasped her hat brim and umbrella with one hand, having slung the handles of the leather pouch over an elbow while the burden rhythmically thumped against her thigh with every step.

Jerked from his erotic meandering, Horatio blinked away the visions. He ground his back teeth and wiped vivid pictures from behind his lids, groaning raw and deep in his throat as if a bear in pain.

Could it be me making that atrocious noise?

He quickly covered his lips and coughed.

Forced back into reality after the powerful surge of lust that coursed through him, he stifled his raunchy thoughts. Bloody hell! It was months since he felt such need for a woman--any woman. Of a sudden, need speared into his libido during those few dizzying moments. He was shaken to his tasseled Hessians.

Berating himself in silence, he wondered, Why now? Satan's hammer toes, what the devil was I thinking? I'm to be wed. It's too damned inconvenient to begin a new affair now.

Lady Bountiful's charms had tricked him down a path he should never had pursued. At his age, he shouldn't be sniffing at the first woman who stirred his lust like a green schoolboy. Besides, he didn't know who this tempting female was. She could be anybody--a well-bred hoyden out for a lark, some chit's addlepated governess, or possibly a lower class servant in disguise. He gave it a moment's conjecture. Or somebody from the local madhouse dressed like a man and spouting gibberish.

Then Horatio reminded himself he'd been promised a relaxing week of shooting and hunting with Jonathan Kincaide and a few compatriots.

I need to carouse a bit after that miserable six months in London...

How he had hated sitting and sipping tea with a bunch of giggling women, forcing himself to be charming and suitable in their estimation. It was just as well it didn't work.

Now he was vexed, blast it!

Who the devil is she?

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